Steve threw the last log onto the flatbed of the good ol’ truck, a thing that had seen more rust than oil changes in its life.

“That should be the last of it,” he announced from the back, closing the tailgate and giving it a solid slap to make sure it held. “Start her up, Buck.”

Bucky turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck answered with a loud rumble before sputtering out. He tried again, resulting in another shake that rattled the cab, and then… nothing.

Steve came up to the driver’s window, resting an arm on the sill as he wiped sweat from his face with a dirty towel.

“Lucy’s not startin’?”

“Does she ever?” Bucky sneered, turning the key once more as the truck grumbled in protest. “I thought you were supposed to look her over last night.”

“I was—then I got a call to round up some loose, wild chickens. After that I got sidetracked, and, uh…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, guilty. “I fell asleep.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”

“Hey,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder roughly through the window. “While I was being productive last night, maybe you could’ve spent that time fixing her up instead of jerking off.”

Bucky shoved the door open without warning, forcing Steve to stumble aside. He gave him a sharp side-eye glare.

“I was not jerking off,” he muttered, heading for the front of the truck and popping the hood to peer into the engine.

Steve barked out a laugh as he stepped up beside him, clamping a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. The walls are paper thin, you know?”

“Shut up,” Bucky mumbled with a flushed face. He reached down, jiggled the loose battery cable, then tightened the clamp with a huff.

“All right,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans. “Try it now.”

“You sure that’ll—”

“Just get in the damn truck, Steve.”

With a shrug, Steve climbed back into the cab and turned the key. The engine coughed in front of Bucky, then rumbled to life, making the whole truck shaky but steadily idle.

Steve grinned out the open window. “Well, would you look at that. It’s our lucky day.”

“And we don’t get much of those,” Bucky agreed, not wasting a second as he slammed the hood shut and jogged around to the passenger side, yanking the door open.

“Don’t admire her too much now,” he warned, climbing in. “Start drivin’ before it gives out and we have to push this damn thing ourselves again.”

The truck rattled its way down the dirt road, tires crunching over gravel as the town came into view—if you could even call it that. The ‘town’ had a handful of weather-beaten buildings, a leaning water tower, and more livestock than people. Chickens scattered as Steve eased off the gas, the engine making a suspiciously loud noise that couldn’t even be ignored if they turned the radio up higher.

Fury’s place sat at the center of it all. A squat, sturdy building that had once been a general store several years ago, then a post office, and now served as whatever the town needed it to be. Meetings, supplies, paperwork.

Basically, everything important that no one else wanted to deal with.

A faded sign out front still read “COMMUNITY OFFICE,” though half the letters were missing.

“Made it,” Steve said, turning the engine off as he glanced at Bucky with a smile. “Told you Lucy had one more trip in her.”

“One,” Bucky huffed, hopping out. “Don’t get greedy.”

They climbed onto the flatbed and started unloading, tossing logs into a neat pile beside the building. The door creaked open halfway through, and Fury stepped out, cane in one hand. His good eye flicked over the truck, the wood, then the two of them.

“You’re late,” he said calmly.

Steve lifted his head as he tossed another log. “Truck trouble.”

Fury snorted. “That truck is trouble.” He eyed the woodpile with approval, though. “Still—this’ll last us through winter if rationed right. The town owes you.”

Bucky threw another log. “Town’s been owing us a while.”

Fury shifted his weight, tapping the end of his cane against one of the logs. “When you’re done,” he said, already turning back toward the door, “I’m gonna need you boys to come inside and sign the delivery papers. Wood tally, fuel credit, the usual nonsense.”

They both gave each other a look. Anything involving paperwork, pencils, and pens was well outside their familiar territory. Their comfort zone was muscles, strength, and work done with their bare hands.

The boys were… really good with their hands.

They finished stacking the last of the logs in relative silence, the only sounds being the dull thud of wood and the distant lowing of cattle.

Steve hopped down from the flatbed and dusted off his hands. “You ready, Buck?”

“Ready to skim the papers and not read a word of it?” Bucky wiped his hands on the dirty towel before tossing it through the open passenger window. “Sure.”

Inside, the building was way cooler, the air was filled with the smell of old paper, dust, and faint bitter coffee. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with binders, ledgers, and boxes labeled in Fury’s neat handwriting. A single desk sat near the back, buried under forms.

The two men lingered by the front door, leaving a trail of dirt and mud beneath their boots as their eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the dim interior.

“Come here, boys,” Fury called, circling around his desk.

Steve stepped forward—but Bucky stopped short, his attention snagging on something off to the side of the office.

“Uh,” Bucky raised a finger to point, not even trying to hide it. “Who the hell is that? She lost?”

There you sat, prim and composed, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper folded neatly in your hands. Your clothes were clean, your shoes never touched by dirt, and the two suitcases at your feet looked like they cost more than what Steve and Bucky made in a day.

You looked like you had stepped off the wrong bus, yet decided to stay anyway.

Steve turned at Bucky’s voice, nearly breaking his neck to get a better look. His gaze trailed from your face down to your legs, the way you subtly bounced your foot as you were absorbed in whatever dull headline held your attention.

Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip, and Bucky’s breath hitched.

“Damn…” he muttered.

“No.” Fury emerged from behind the desk, glancing between the three of you. “She’s right where she’s supposed to be.”

You finally looked up when Fury tapped the side of your bench with his cane. Lifting your head, you pulled the earbud from your ear.

“Nick?”

“These are Rogers and Barnes,” Fury said. “They run the livestock operations on the outskirts.” Then he turned back to the two men. “And this is—” he paused, nodding to you, “—a family friend from the city, a couple hours away. She’s here for a research project.”

Steve stepped closer, raising a brow. “Research?”

You folded the newspaper and tucked it under your arm before standing. “Animal productivity,” you explained. “Sustainability in isolated farming communities. Breeding patterns, yield consistency, that sort of thing.”

Both of the boys tilted their head in sync, and Fury shook his own, looking at you. “You’re speaking a whole different language to these cave animals.”

Bucky crossed his arms, ignoring the jab. “And you picked this place?”

“I insisted she come here,” Fury said, raising a brow at him. “Why are you making it sound like this place is bad?”

Steve shrugged. “Well—”

“Don’t answer that,” Fury cut in with a sigh, waving a hand as he turned back to his desk. “Sign these. And once you’re done—” his gaze flicked to your suitcases, “—help her get settled in the farmhouse out back.”

“The farmhouse?” Bucky met Fury at the desk, planting both hands on the edge as he leaned over him. “You’re not stickin’ a girl like that in some dirty farmhouse, Fury.”

It seemed like every farmer you’d met so far was loud and painfully straightforward. You glanced down at yourself—your clothes, so different from the muted dresses the handful of elderly women wore around town. Since stepping off the bus, you’d been surrounded by the smell of manure, too much testosterone, and a growing sense of self-consciousness.

Fury looked up at Bucky with his good eye. “I already told her about our very limited lodging options.” He turned to you for backup. “And she was okay with it. Right?”

You were not okay with it.

You were used to a queen-sized bed in your comfortable city apartment, right in the heart of everything. Not a farmhouse.

“Yup,” you said anyway, forcing a nod and a smile.

For research. Right?

Bucky scoffed and clamped a hand down on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer hard enough that Steve nearly stumbled.

“You know, We’ve got Sarah’s old house right next to our farm—the one that’s been collectin’ dust,” Bucky said, giving Steve a firm slap on the back to rope him in. “What do you say, Stevie? Take us a few hours to clean it up, pull the mattress outta the closet, get it all nice and tidy for our little friend here.”

All three men turned to look at you, and you suddenly felt very small beneath their attention—especially under Steve and Bucky’s eyes.

“I… wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said gently, scratching at your temple. “I’m not sure how Sarah would feel if I just moved in—”

“Sarah—God rest her—wouldn’t want an impressionable young woman like you sleepin’ in a cold, dirty farmhouse,” Bucky cut in, flashing Steve a grin.

Steve let out a slow, patient breath through his nose. “I suppose you’re right. My mother wouldn’t want that.”

Bucky turned back to you, a charming smile tugging at his mouth. “How about it, pretty girl?”

You glanced at Fury, searching his face. He was the only person you trusted here, and as long as he trusted them, that would have to be enough.

Fury let out a quiet, weary sigh and gave you a small shrug. “They look like troublemakers,” he said, “but they’re the ones keeping this town running.”

He pointed at Steve while looking at you. “You can trust this one.” Then his finger moved slowly to Bucky. “But be careful with this one.”

“Hah. Hah,” Bucky replied dryly as he crossed the room, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He bent down, grabbed one of your suitcases, and tossed it toward Steve, who barely caught it off guard.

Bucky picked up the other bag and flashed you a smile.

“Our truck’s right outside. Come on.”

With one strong hand gripping the strap of your suitcase, his other hand—surprisingly respectful—settled at your lower back as he guided you towards the front door.

On the way out, he gave Steve a look, nodding once to signal him to follow.

“You two better take good care of her,” Fury called after them. “She’s a family friend. Remember that.”

Steve paused, glancing back at Fury with a sigh.

“Yeah, noted,” he muttered as he stepped outside with the luggage, following you and Bucky.

Fury waved you off, then turned back to the desk, eyeing the untouched stack of paperwork still waiting for signatures.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered.

Outside, Steve and Bucky tossed the luggage into the flatbed haphazardly. The heavy thud of your expensive bags made you flinch, especially knowing your laptop and notebooks were inside.

Bucky swung the passenger door open wide and motioned you over with a hand. “Come on in,” he said. “Lucy don’t bite.”

“Lucy?” you huffed a small laugh, hesitating as you stepped closer. Leaning inside, you saw the floorboards caked with dirt and mud; one step in and your shoes would be ruined in an instant. “Uh, I don’t think there’s room for me—”

“Sure there is,” Bucky interrupted.

Without warning, his rough hands found your hips and lifted you easily, setting you down on the passenger seat. “Scoot over,” he said. “You’re gonna have to be the middle man.”

Before you could even say anything, Bucky planted one heavy boot inside the cab and hopped inside, rocking the truck and forcing you to scramble over as he slammed the door shut. You barely had time to find your balance before Steve opened the driver’s door and climbed in, settling behind the wheel with a huff.

Now, you found yourself wedged between two broad, very dirty men who smelt like sweat and sun.

And suddenly, the cab felt very, very warm.

“Let’s see if she’ll turn,” Steve muttered, twisting the key in the ignition.

“What do you mean, let’s see?” you asked warily, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “And does this thing have air-conditioning?”

Steve pressed his lips together. “Air-conditioning would be the very thing that puts Lucy in the ground.” He tried again—the engine sputtered, then died. “She’s a little rough around the edges, but… she should come around.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused on your hands folded in your lap, realizing what you had gotten yourself into. You were in the middle of pretty much nowhere, with spotty service, no sleep, wedged into a truck with two men you had never even met, headed for a house where who knew what kind of bugs were waiting for you.

“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself, voice shaky.

Steve glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly. “Hey—don’t panic. She’ll start. Just gotta—” he turned the key again, then once more. The engine finally roared to life, rattling violently as the truck shook beneath you.

“There we go.”

Bucky rested his arm out the window, flashing Steve a grin over your head. “Our lucky day, you said?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth tugged into a smirk as he shifted into drive. “Don’t get greedy.”

As Steve pulled onto the road, the truck rattled and shook over every rock and rut. You reached for the seatbelt, tugging at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Seatbelts don’t work, sweetheart,” Steve said, glancing over at you with a reassuring smile before returning his focus to the road. “Just try to hold on tight.”

That did very little to calm you.

That was a safety hazard and straight up illegal.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, shoulders rigid. Your eyes switched between the flaws of the old truck— to the web of cracks in the window, to the dust on the dash—and the unfamiliar stretch of land rolling past. The farther you got from town, the quieter it became. Fewer houses, fewer people—just fields and fences stretching on forever.

Bucky could feel how tense you were from the faint brush of your shoulder against his.

“You alright?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about jumpin’ out and runnin’.”

You looked up at him and forced a laugh, though it came out thin and brittle. “I’m fine. Just… adjusting, I think.”

“A lot different than city life, huh?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “This is… very different.”

“Well,” Steve said, resting one hand on the window sill and the other on the wheel, “since we’ve got a bit of a drive, why don’t you tell us more about this research project of yours?”

“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You studyin’ cows or somethin’?”

“Not just cows,” you said. “Basically, when communities are geographically isolated, access to veterinary care, supplemental feed, and modern equipment becomes limited. That can unintentionally alter breeding cycles. Livestock may breed earlier or later in the season, fertility rates can fluctuate, and stress levels directly affect overall yield.”

Bucky scratched at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Breeding…”

Steve glared at him over your head.

You just kept going, oblivious as your hands lifted slightly as you explained, slipping deeper into familiar academic territory.

“I’m also comparing seasonal fertility rates,” you said. “In places like this, breeding windows tend to be less controlled, which can lead to overlap between generations. That affects herd structure, genetic diversity, and long-term productivity.”

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes still on the road ahead. “Uncontrolled breedin’, huh.”

“Buck,” Steve warned.

“What? I’m not doin’ anything.”

You glanced between them, finally catching the smirk tugging at Bucky’s mouth as he fought back a laugh and the disapproving look on Steve’s face, despite the smile he was clearly trying to hide by staring out the window.

For fuck’s sake.

You were realizing now that Dirty Man One and Dirty Man Two were trying to crack inappropriate sex jokes.

“Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You men are disgusting.”

“Hey! Don’t lump me in with him,” Steve said quickly. “I’m the one tryin’ to get him to settle down.”

The rest of the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Both of them asked about your school and your research, and every time you answered in more detail, you noticed their slightly dazed and confused expressions. Steve tended to ask the more in-depth questions, genuinely curious, while Bucky nodded along like he understood every word.

The truck bounced and swayed over ruts, rocks, and packed dirt as Steve turned into a long, wide driveway. Ahead stood a large farmhouse, with a smaller cabin-like building off to the side.

Farther to the left sat another structure.

A very, very small one.

Too small to be a house, but just big enough to be a storage shed.

“Here we are,” Steve announced as the truck rumbled to a stop and the engine cut out.

You raised a finger, pointing to the small shed. “Is that—”

Before you could finish the question, both men opened their doors and hopped out of the truck without a word. They grabbed your luggage—now smudged with grime and dirt—and started carrying it to the shed.

You scrambled out of the truck, nearly stumbling as your feet hit the ground, and hurried after them.

“Wait—hey!” you called, jogging to keep up as they headed straight for the shed. “T-that’s not where I’m staying, is it?”

Bucky glanced back over his shoulder, adjusting his grip on one of your suitcases. “That little building over there? Yeah. That’s it.”

Steve slowed a little, giving you a little apologetic look as you caught up. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promised. “My mom used it as a guest place for a bit. Solid roof, no leaks—”

“And a whole lot better than the farmhouse Fury was gonna stick you in,” Bucky added.

You looked at the structure again as you walked —weathered wood, a single small window, and a door that had clearly seen better decades. Your pace faltered.

“Guys,” you said flatly. “That is a shed.”

Bucky stopped in front of it and set the luggage down, turning to face you with a grin.

“Technically,” he said, “it’s a converted shed.” He lifted a hand just in time to catch the key Steve tossed his way.

“We fixed it up, mostly.” Steve looked down at your expression, the way your teeth caught your bottom lip and the weary, beady eyes you’ve been wearing ever since they picked you up in their truck.

Without thinking, he rested a protective hand at your back, drawing your attention.

“I know this is different from the city life you’re used to,” he said gently. “But I promise, it just needs a few touch-ups. You’ll get comfortable in no time.”

The way Steve looked at you eased the tension in your chest. His smile was warm, his voice patient and kind. And if Fury said this was the one you could trust, then so be it.

“Thank you, Steve.”

The other one, on the other hand…

Bucky unlocked the door with a huff. Dust immediately billowed out, making him cough as he waved a hand in front of his face. He glanced back at you and Steve.

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “There’s no bathroom in here.”

Perfect.

Bucky nudged the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside, his heavy work boots creaking against the frail wooden floorboards. Steve followed, setting your luggage just inside the doorway.

You hesitated at the doorframe before stepping in after them.

The place was ridiculously tiny. One narrow room with a low ceiling, a single window coated in dust, furniture and cabinets that looked like it could barely hold up. It smelled like old wood, hay, oil and something faintly metallic—you didn’t know what.

Back in the city, you had white walls, clean linens, and the oddly relaxing hum of traffic outside your window. Here, you had stained wallpaper peeling at the edges and bawking chickens.

For your research project, you reminded yourself. You chose this.

Bucky looked around with his hands on his hips. “It’s small,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s the perfect size for a girl like you.”

He smiled, and you weren’t entirely sure how you were supposed to take that.

When he noticed your silence, the smile slipped just a bit. “You okay?”

You snapped out of it, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah, I just…” You exhaled, rubbing your arms. “I think I really need a shower. If that’s—uh—even possible.”

“Oh,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Sure. But you’re not doin’ that here.”

You gave Steve a look, almost like a silent plea for backup, but he only shrugged in response as Bucky continued, smirk firmly in place.

“C’mon. Our place is right next door. Real bathroom. Hot water.”

You shifted on your feet, eyeing them both suspiciously. “And the door,” you asked carefully, “it locks?”

The two men exchanged a silent look, and immediately, you regretted asking. Here they were—offering you a ride, a place to stay they’d fix up just for you, even letting you use their shower—and you’d gone and asked if the lock worked, as if you were accusing them of being some kind of creeps.

But then they blinked at each other and burst into laughter.

Bucky let out a sharp bark, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he grinned. “It locks.”

Steve wiped at his face, trying to rein it in. “You know, you’ve got men out here showerin’ in their front lawns with a bucket of water and a bar of soap,” he added. “But I get it. Can’t blame you for askin’. City instincts.”

Your face immediately burned with embarassment. You’ve delt with your fair share of annoying men in the city, but it was something about being surrounded by farmer men that made the teasing feel ten times more insufferating.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, crossing your arms. “Very funny.”

Still smiling, Steve wiped at the corner of his eye and motioned toward the door. “Come on. Follow us—we’ll show you where you can wash up.”

After you quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes out of your luggage, they led the way across the yard, Steve out front and Bucky hanging back just enough to make sure you were keeping up. The dirt path had been worn smooth by years of boots and tires, and on either side of it the farm stretched out in every direction.

Cows clustered near the fence line, tails swishing lazily. A pair of horses lifted their heads as you passed, ears flicking toward you with mild curiosity. Chickens roamed freely, darting around your feet like they owned the place. Everything felt alive— busy and loud in ways that reminded you of the city, though it couldn’t have been more different.

The farm loomed closer as you approached—big, solid, and weathered, with hay bales stacked nearby and buckets of feed scattered around the yard.

Walking past, you reached the house itself. It was a small, one-story, cabin-like structure built from dark wood. The door creaked as Steve pushed it open, and the scent inside was a stark contrast to the earthy, animal smells outside.

From the doorway, you could smell the soap, clean laundry, and coffee. You were met with heavy wooden furniture. Worn floors. Tools leaned neatly against one wall. A pair of muddy boots sat by the door.

Very manly was the only way you could describe it.

Steve stepped aside to let you in. “Watch your step.”

As you stepped in, dodging the muddy boots, the house felt sturdy and lived-in. Not polished, but definitely cared for.

Bucky shut the door behind you with his heel and jerked his head down the narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s this way.”

You followed, your gaze drifting over the details as you walked by. Family photos tacked messily to the wall—they didn’t look alike at all, had different lastnames, so siblings seemed unlikely, yet there were dozens of pictures of them together from childhood. A calendar hung nearby, crowded with notes about feed deliveries and vet visits, all scrawled in incomprehensible, sloppy boy handwriting.

Bucky paused and pointed at one of the photos—a younger version of him and Steve standing side by side with crooked smiles.

“Handsome, ain’t he?” he asked, tapping at himself.

You couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve seen better.”

Steve snorted while Bucky rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. He stopped at the last door and pushed it open with his knuckle.

“Here we go.”

The bathroom was small but clean. White tile lined the walls, a deep tub sat beneath a real showerhead, and shelves held neatly folded towels alongside mismatched bottles of soap. A narrow window above the sink let in a stripe of late-afternoon light, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.

“Hot water takes a minute,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall. “Gotta let it run first.”

You looked between the two men, clutching your folded clothes to your chest. “Thank you—both of you. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve said with a casual wave of his hand. “A friend of Fury’s is a friend of ours.”

Bucky pushed himself off the wall and stepped aside, giving you room to enter. “Steve and I will clean up the shed while you’re in here. By the time you’re done, it should be ready with the mattress and all.”

Your smile softened as you glanced at him. “You guys are great. Seriously, I couldn’t be—”

“Just make sure you shout us out in that research paper,” Bucky cut in with a grin, resting his hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to let the water run. Enjoy your shower, pretty girl.”

The door shut softly behind you.

And on the other side, Steve immediately whacked the back of Bucky’s head.

“Pretty girl? Pretty girl?” Steve whisper-yelled. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his head as they headed down the hall towards the front door. “What? She is pretty, Steve. And don’t act like you’re any better. ‘Sweetheart’? Really?”

“I’m trying to be respectful, Buck,” Steve sighed as he pushed the front door open.

“And I was being respectful,” Bucky clicked his tongue. “You know how rare it is for a beautfiul woman like that to be around here. Gotta make a good first impression.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Get your head out of your ass. A girl like that would want nothing to do with dirty men like us.”

“Oh—come on, Steve,” Bucky whined, following after him like a bug in the air, “why you gotta be so hopeless, man?”

“Not hopeless,” Steve corrected, pushing the shed door open. “Realistic.”

Bucky scoffed as he followed him inside, heading straight for the closet. He hauled out the folded air mattress and the old hand pump, dropping them onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Still—doesn’t hurt to imagine, you know?”

Steve grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner and started clearing dust and debris. “Imagine what, exactly?”

Bucky grinned, eyes drifting back to the window that faced the house for a second before he caught himself.

“I dunno. Coming home after a long day, boots covered in dirt, back sore as hell—and there she is. Clean, soft, talkin’ about all that smart stuff she knows. Maybe dinner’s on the stove, or she’s sittin’ at the front there with a book, lookin’ all pretty.”

Steve snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Have not,” Bucky said, laying the mattress out where Steve had just swept and starting to pump air into it. “Tell me you wouldn’t want that—a gorgeous girl like that walkin’ around the house, keepin’ it warm and cozy—barefoot and all.”

Steve went quiet as he lifted an old bed frame and leaned it against the wall. He didn’t answer right away, but the faint pink creeping up his ears gave him away at the thought.

“…I guess,” he admitted slowly, “it’d be nice to have someone to come home to.”

Bucky’s grin turned smug instantly. “Ah. There it is.”

“She’s here for research,” Steve reminded him firmly, snapping himself back to reality. “Not to get hitched to a couple of guys who spend all day haulin’ logs and tendin’ cattle.”

“But picture this, Stevie—” Bucky glanced up as he crouched on the floor, steadily pumping air into the mattress. “You work yourself half to death,” he went on, muscles flexing. “We both do. Up before the sun, down after it sets. Muscles sore, hands cracked, brain fried.” He slowed, leaning his weight against the pump. “Wouldn’t kill us to have someone who… helps take the edge off.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, turning to try and hide the blush on his cheeks. “You’re gross, man.”

“Look—” Bucky sighed as he stood, “we haven’t had a woman like that around here in a long time. And she’s not just any woman—she’s smart.” He shook his head, scoffing lightly. “A man’s allowed to dream about comin’ home to somethin’ nice. Maybe even havin’ a smooth pair of legs wrapped nice and tight around—”

His voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of you through the window.

You stood on the front porch, barefoot, a towel draped around your shoulders as water dripped from your hair. You were dressed in something light and easy—a dress. Nothing fancy, but far more comfortable than what you’d worn when they first met you.

… And somehow, far more domestic.

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze, his breath hitching once he saw you. Bucky swallowed hard. Neither of them spoke.

Then, they finally looked at each other, faces warm, wearing the same boyish, awed grin—just like the ones frozen in those crooked childhood photos on the wall.

“Pretty,” they both murmured at the exact same time.

They watched as you lifted a hand to shield your eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun as you scanned the yard. You took a few steps down the porch, bare feet tip-toeing around the dirt as you tried to squint at the shed.

Bucky straightened immediately, dropping the pump as it hit the wooden floors with a loud thud. “She’s lookin’ for us.”

Steve was already moving, setting the broom aside so quickly it wobbled, then clattered against the wall before falling to the floor. “Well—don’t just stand there!”

They headed for the door at the same time, bumping shoulders as they squeezed past each other, neither willing to give ground. When you spotted them walking toward you with Steve taking the lead and Bucky half a step behind, clearly trying to edge ahead, a small smile spread across your face.

“Oh—there you two are. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to—” you sighed in relief, gesturing vaguely at the farm around you. “—wander.”

Bucky let out a short chuckle, rocking back on his heels as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You can wander all you’d like, darlin’,” he said. “What’s ours is yours.”

The nickname threw you off guard. You felt your face warm, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun as you tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Back in the city, men didn’t really talk like that unless they were intoxicated at a bar and trying to get in your pants.

But this felt different. Maybe it was just that gentleman, charming, farmer boy thing.

“Oh,” you said, a little breathless. “That’s—uh… really sweet. Thank you, Bucky.”

Steve gave Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye—a careful look. Bucky, meanwhile, looked far too pleased with himself.

“Just don’t go wanderin’ too far, baby,” Steve added quickly, stepping up onto the porch beside you. “Some of the fences are old, and the horses don’t always respect personal place.”

If you hadn’t been flustered before, you definitely were now.

You didn’t get called things like darlin’ or baby very often, and even when you did, the words had never affected you like this. Not the way they sounded coming from two devastatingly handsome, accommodating men with soft southern accents.

“I—okay,” you said quickly, nodding as you snapped yourself out of it, though the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “I’ll be careful.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he glanced at Steve, then back at you, his own lips twitching like he was biting back a comment.

“We’ve fixed up the shed for you,” Bucky said instead, propping one leg on the porch step and resting a hand on the railing. “Mattress is ready if you wanna rest. You wanna take a look?”

Your attention drifted past the shed, toward the open fields, the fencing, and the animals moving lazily across the land.

“Actually,” you trailed, removing the towel from your shoulders, “would it be okay if I checked out the animals first?”

Bucky tilted his head. “Animals?”

“For my research,” you clarified quickly. “I’d really like to get an initial survey while there’s still daylight. Just some baseline observations—livestock condition, spacing, behavior. I won’t get in the way.”

Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky—a look you’d noticed they shared often since you arrived.

Then Steve smiled back at you. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just—” he gestured vaguely to the fences, “—stay where we can see you. Okay?”

“Don’t worry,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’m not planning on getting lost.”

As you turned back to the house, already half a step up the porch with the intention of grabbing your shoes, something caught the corner of your eye. Your gaze snapped to the far end of the pasture, where a small cluster of animals had gathered. A few cows wandered lazily nearby, but it was two chickens in particular that caught your attention.

A hen crouched low to the ground, wings spread slightly, tail lifted—while a rooster mounted her from behind.

Your eyes went wide.

“Oh—wait, wait, wait!”

Shoes forgotten entirely, you pivoted on your heel and hurried back down the porch steps, already digging your phone out of your dress pocket. “This is perfect timing! Hold this—please—”

Behind you, Steve barely had time to react before the towel was tossed his way, landing squarely over his head.

“Hey—” he started, but you were already jogging barefoot across the dirt, eyes locked on the breeding chickens.

Your hair breezed through wind and they got a good whiff of the pleasant scent before you ran off. Despite using the same shampoo as them, it smelled surprisingly soft and very feminine. A smell they weren’t used to, but one they’d easily grow fond of.

You slowed as you got closer, steadying your hands, snapping a few quick photos as discreetly as possible, and crouching slightly to keep from startling them. Your lips moved as you narrated under your breath.

“Estrus behavior visible… herd proximity unchanged… minimal disruption…”

Bucky stared after you, incredulous, before letting out a low whistle. He nudged Steve in the arm just as Steve pulled the towel off his face.

“What’d I tell you?” Bucky murmured with a crooked grin. “Barefoot—” he nodded inside the house, still warm and humid from your shower, “—and already keepin’ the house warm.”

“Alright. Enough gawking,” Steve warned, though his eyes were still still fixed on you. “Just ’cause we’ve got a pretty girl livin’ with us now doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that while you stare even harder.”

For the rest of the afternoon, until the sun laid low and the sky began to darken, the two men worked diligently around the farm. And despite Steve’s warnings not to gawk, their eyes found you anyway—again and again.

You crouched near the animals, scribbling notes into your journal, occasionally lifting an expensive-looking camera—one in far better condition than their own damn truck—to snap photos of the cattle. And even after they’d warned you about the fences, you climbed up onto the railings anyway, the wood creaking beneath your toes as you leaned forward, determined to get the perfect shot of the horses.

Wood was getting stacked, hay bales tossed aside, tools scattered and gathered again as needed.

Still, every so often, Steve would glance up from his work to try and look at you, but only to catch Bucky leaning against the farmhouse doorway, eyes trailing shamelessly in your direction.

“Whatcha starin’ at, Buck?” Steve grinned as he tied off a rope around a hay bale.

Bucky didn’t look away from you. His smile softened as he watched the way you held the camera carefully, how your toes balanced on the fence rail, the breeze tugging gently at your hair and dress.

“Just admirin’ the view.”

Steve’s gaze followed his, and he let out a low groan as he stood up. “She’s gonna fall off that fence if she keeps leanin’ over like that.”

“And we’ll be there to catch her,” Bucky replied with a grin, pushing off the doorframe to help with the bales.

You had no idea you were being watched so closely.

Unbeknownst to them, you had been sneaking glances of your own towards the farm. Their white tank tops—streaked with dirt and darkened with sweat—clung to their muscular bodies. Broad arms and strong backs flexed and tensed every time they lifted something heavy. Each hay bale toss came with a grit of teeth, a scrunched brow, and a low, rough groan.

And afterward, they would both exhale deeply, chests rising as they wiped sweat from their foreheads with thick forearms.

They were both strong, capable men—reeking of masculinity, so sure with their hands with what came from years of real work.

Men you’d never meet in the city.

Night had fully settled in now, the sky stretched dark blue and wide, scattered with bright stars. From where you stood, you watched Steve and Bucky just outside the house, pumping water through the pipes as they rinsed off their hands and faces.

Water trickled from their chins, disappearing into the deep lines of their firm chests beneath worn tank tops. They wiped their faces with towels, murmured something to each other—and then both turned your way.

Two sets of eyes found yours that stared at them shamelessly.

You immediately looked down at your camera screen, pretending to be fixated on the chickens you photographed as you tried to play it cool.

Then you heard footsteps, two sets of heavy footsteps treading through the grass and dirt and closer to you.

Fuck.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve approached, crossing his arms while he looked down at you. “We were gonna grab some food in a bit. You hungry?”

“Oh,” you hummed, your stomach already answering with a rumble. “Yeah. I could eat.”

“Every Friday night, the town heads down to the bar,” Steve continued. “More of a saloon, really. Beer, cheap whiskey, food. Sometimes there’s live music if Gary brings his guitar—or the jukebox, if it decides to work.”

“And line dancin’,” Bucky added. “Bad line dancin’.”

“I’m not sure if you have that kind of thing in the city,” Steve went on, resting a hand against the fence as he hovered over you, “but if you wanna tag along for a bite, you’re more than welcome.”

You closed your journal and slipped the camera strap from around your neck, standing with a small groan as you stretched. You were here for research, yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what the town had to offer beyond livestock and open fields.

“That sounds fun,” you said, smiling. “I’ll come. I just need to rinse up real quick and I’ll be right out.”

Your gaze dropped to your feet, dirt caked between your toes, bits of grass still clinging to your skin. Then you glanced down at your clothes.

“Is… what I’m wearing okay?” you asked, a little self-conscious as you smoothed the fabric down.

Steve’s eyes dropped before he could stop them, taking in the way the dress fit you—how it followed and hugged your curves, how the neckline framed your chest just right. Realizing how intensely he was staring, he snapped his gaze back up to your face. His jaw tightened as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Yeah,” he nodded quickly, standing up straight. Then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s— it’s fine. You’re fine.”

Bucky, on the other hand, took your question as an invitation to check you out shamelessly. His eyes roamed over you—appreciating your chest and legs. Liking what he saw, his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, teeth catching it afterward.

“Real pretty, doll,” he said lowly. “Wearin’ a dress like that around here… almost makes me wanna keep you to ourselves.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping the silver moonlight didn’t betray the flush on your cheeks or the way your lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

“You two are unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you stepped past them towards the house.

Halfway to the porch, you called back over your shoulder, your voice playful. “Do you flirt with every woman who crosses your path, or am I just lucky?”

Bucky’s mouth snapped open—a smart-ass remark already locked and loaded—but Steve cut him off instantly, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Hey now! Don’t look at me. It’s him. He’s the problem.”

The sound of your light, airy laugh drifted back to them—a sound so soft and gentle, it seemed to knock the air right out of their lungs.

“I’ll be back in a minute!” you called with a wave, jogging up the porch steps and disappearing inside.

“Don’t take too long!” Bucky shouted after you. “Or else all the food will be gone by the time we get there.”

As the screen door clicked shut and you vanished from sight, their laughter trailed off. The silence of the countryside came back, broken only by the faint chirps of crickets in the distance.

Steve let out a heavy exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…We gotta get a grip,” he muttered.

“I’m being serious, Stevie,” Bucky said, giving his friend’s arm a sharp nudge.

His flirtatious smirk was gone, now replaced with a protective look that Steve had only seen him give to their horses.

“I mean—look at her. If she shows up at the bar looking like that, every bastard in the county is going to be breathing down her neck.” He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the door where you had just been.

“…Yeah,” Steve huffed quietly. “I know.” His gaze stayed on the house, tracking your silhouette as it moved past the lit windows.

“Hell, half the men in this town would get worked up just seein’ a lady show a bit of ankle,” Steve added dryly. “I still can’t believe Fury told her to come to this dump.”

Bucky let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Listen to us—soundin’ real territorial all of a sudden.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, his palm rasping against his stubble. “It’s just—she’s our responsibility while she’s here. Fury trusted us to look out for her. That’s all it is.”

“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “That’s all.”

They stood in the yard, watching you move past the glow of the house windows.

In the long silence, they both realized how dead wrong they were. Truthfully, they weren’t all that much better compared to the sleazy, overworked men in town.

When they first laid eyes on you, they immediately wanted to keep you to themselves. And despite only having you here for a couple of hours, they were going to make sure to keep it that way.

Steve started talking lowly to Bucky, quiet enough to make sure you couldn’t hear—even though you were already inside.

“We stick close tonight. No one bothers her. No one gets handsy. And if anyone does—” Steve stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “—we shut it down. Calmly.” He emphasized.

“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Calmly.”

“That means we don’t start fights, Buck.”

“Hey—I don’t believe in startin’ fights,” he mumbled, crossing his arms defensively. “Just… finishin’ ‘em.”

“Alright, enough loitering. Let’s start up Lucy.” Steve slapped a firm hand on Bucky’s back, nudging him towards the truck.

Bucky mumbled grumpily but trailed behind anyway, yanking the hood latch and propping it open while Steve climbed into the driver’s seat. The keys jingled as Steve turned the ignition.

The truck clicked, chugged, whined, and gave them nothing.

He tried again. Another cough, a weak sputter—and then silence.

“… You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steve muttered, giving Bucky a flat look through the windshield.

Bucky leaned over the engine bay, bracing one hand on the frame. “Don’t look at me like that. She was runnin’ fine earlier.”

“Well, she’s got real bad timing,” Steve shot back sassily, twisting the key once more, like sheer will might help. The engine answered with a pathetic hiccup and died again. “We can’t invite her out and then tell her the truck’s dead.”

“I didn’t invite her,” Bucky said, poking at a hose. “You did.”

“Oh, don’t start.”

Bucky adjusted a loose wire, fingers blackening with grease. “Try it now.”

Steve turned the key, and still… nothing.

Steve leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. “Unbelievable. First night she’s here, and we’re about to tell her we can’t even get her into town.”

“Relax,” Bucky said, though his jaw was tight. “Lucy’s temperamental. Always has been.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and bent closer to look inside the engine. “Could be the starter. Or the battery. Or—”

The screen door slammed shut, and both men froze at the sound.

You stepped back out, shoes on this time, hair neatly fixed, looking entirely too put together for a place like this. You jogged towards the truck, a smile already on your face.

“Hey!” you called brightly. “You guys ready?”

Steve’s head snapped up so fast he nearly cracked his neck. Bucky straightened, narrowly missing the hood as he stood.

“Yeah—uh—we’re ready,” Steve said quickly, turning the key again. “C’mon…” he muttered under his breath.

Then the engine finally roared back to life, loud and rumbling, sounding like music to their ears. Both men looked at each other in disbelief.

Bucky slowly lowered the hood and gave it an affectionate pat. “Atta girl,” he murmured. Then he glanced at Steve, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Our good luck charm, ain’t she?”

Steve shook his head, trying to hide his own smile. “Yeah. She is.”

And you couldn’t tell if they were talking about the truck—or you.

Lucy rattled beneath you like she was held together by sheer luck alone.

The ride into town was loud and bumpy, the streets dark and lit only by the truck’s dusty high beams and the occasional window light from passing houses.

The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the cab, drifting in the scent of dust, grass, and something smoky from farther ahead. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed now that the truck had decided to cooperate, while Bucky leaned back in his seat, elbow hooked out the window.

Town came into view slowly—a handful of buildings clustered under string lights and old streetlamps. It looked far more beautiful than it had in the broad daylight when you first arrived. The bar stood near the center, a squat wooden building with a faded sign swinging above the door. Even before Steve cut the engine, the twang of banjos and guitars met your ears.

“Well,” Steve said, hopping out and extending a hand to help you down. “We made it.”

The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted with the sounds of loud music, laughter, and the smell of cigarettes.

Glasses clinked, boots thudded and scraped against the old floorboards. A few men with weathered faces leaned against the bar with their sleeves rolled up, while a group of elderly women sat at a corner table with playing cards spread out before them. Someone whooped near the jukebox, and a few people were already on the floor, dancing and sweating.

One pair of eyes landed on you, then several.

Soon enough, nearly everyone in the damn bar was staring.

Conversation grew a little quieter. Curious, surprised, and a few openly appreciative glances lingered on you longer than they should’ve. You crossed your arms defensively on instinct, suddenly very aware of yourself.

And both of your boys noticed.

Steve stepped up beside you, resting a protective hand on your lower back that somehow managed to soothe you. Bucky moved to your other side quietly, his broad shoulders subtly boxing you in as he glared at everyone else in the room.

Most of the crowd looked away and returned to their drinks, but the younger men kept their eyes fixed on you.

“Don’t mind them,” Bucky murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Town don’t get many new faces. Especially not pretty ones.”

Before you could respond, someone at the bar shouted, “Rogers! Barnes! Thought that was Lucy I heard coughin’ her way into town!”

Steve laughed, lifting his other hand in greeting. “You know she wouldn’t miss a Friday.”

The elderly men at the bar chuckled, and one of them leaned back on his stool to get a better look at you. “Well, don’t just stand there hoggin’ her, Rogers,” he called out. “Come on over and introduce us to your new friend.”

You hesitated, your eyes darting between Steve and Bucky. Despite the protective hand on your back, Steve’s expression remained calm and gentle, clearly intent on not starting any trouble. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to fight anyone who even dared to look your way.

“They’re alright,” Steve reassured you quietly. “Promise. Half the fellas at the bar are married.”

Then a burst of laughter exploded from a table near the back where a group of women sat hunched over cards and half-empty glasses—clearly the wives in question. One of them slapped the table. “That’s because you earned it, Marie!” another shouted back. “Now stop yellin’ and play your damn hand!”

You couldn’t help but smile.

Steve gave you a gentle nudge. “C’mon. Let’s say hello.”

They led you toward the bar, Steve’s hand relaxed and guiding at your back while Bucky stalked half a step behind you, mugging everyone who looked your way. The older men adjusted their stools, flashing friendly smiles as they made space for you.

“This is Frank,” Steve said by way of introduction, and you reached out to shake his hand.

“So,” Frank raised a brow, looking between the three of you. “Who’s the young lady?”

You returned his greeting with a polite smile. “I’m a family friend of Fury’s. I’m here for a research project.”

“Ohhh, Fury’s girl?” the bartender whistled, wiping down a glass. “Well, hell—someone warn the whole town not to lay a finger on this one.”

A few men barked a laugh, the scent of beer wafting from their breath, as Frank waved a finger between Bucky and Steve.

“Specially you two,” he said, looking at you. “These guys are the ones causin’ most of the trouble around here. Fury actually trusted you with them?”

“Hey, we’re perfect gentlemen,” Steve countered. “Ain’t that right, Buck?”

“Right,” Bucky muttered, his arms crossed as he glared at someone across the bar. “Gentlemen.”

You shrugged lightly, smiling. “They’ve been nothing but nice. They even fixed up a shed for me to stay in.”

“A shed?” one man barked, spit nearly flying. You took a subtle step back. “Rogers, Barnes—you stick a girl in a shed and call it hospitality?”

“Don’t sully my ma’s house like that,” Steve joked, reaching over the counter to grab himself a beer.

“Y’know, when Sarah was alive, she didn’t call it much of a house, either,” Frank added, stifling his cigarette in the ashtray as a cloud of smoke drifted toward you.

Steve reached over the counter again, this time snagging two more bottles and sliding cash to the bartender with a nod of thanks.

“Alright, alright,” he said good-naturedly. “Before you all start fillin’ our girl’s ears with nonsense, we’re gonna grab a table.”

Bucky tipped his chin to the back corner. “There’s an empty one over there.”

Steve nodded in that direction, gesturing for you to lead the way.

“Oh, so she’s your girl now!” the men teased, their laughter following you. As the three of you walked away, they called out their goodbyes. “It was nice meetin’ you, sweetheart!”

You looked over your shoulder, giving them a quick wave.

“And it was nice talkin’ to you too, Barnes!” Frank shouted sarcastically. Bucky didn’t even look back, simply raising a hand in a dismissive wave as he guided you to the booth.

Bucky stood aside, letting you take the inside seat of the booth. As you slid in, the cushions felt worn and soft—broken in by years of Friday nights exactly like this one. Once you were settled and had set your beer set on the table, Bucky slid in right next to you.

“I’ll grab us somethin’ to eat,” Steve said, standing at the edge of the table and scanning the chalkboard menu. “Place may be small and reeks of cigarettes, but they do grill a mean burger.”

You smiled up at him. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

Steve turned back toward the bar, weaving his way through the crowd. It was just you and Bucky now, surrounded by the loud music and people nearly tripping over themselves. You took it all in with curious eyes while Bucky leaned back against the booth, his arm draped lazily across the top of the seat behind you, beer resting casually in his hand.

“So,” Bucky huffed after taking a sip. “How’re you likin’ the small-town nightlife? Real glitz and glamour out here.”

Your eyes continued scanning the room—the scuffed, dirty floors, the dartboard with three crooked darts still stuck in it, and some burly men arm wrestling in the opposite corner.

“Oh, yeah,” you agreed sarcastically. “Definitely glitz and glamour. We do this all the time back in the city.”

“Yeah?” he laughed softly. “Definitely just like the champagne-and-rooftop parties you have every night. Uh-huh, got it.” He smiled at you before taking another swig of his beer.

You watched the lines crinkle attractively at the corners of his tired eyes—evidence of long days and too little rest. His tongue swept across his bottom lip to catch a stray drop, and the simple motion made your stomach flip, your pulse ticking up a notch.

You took a quick sip from your own bottle to hide your reaction, then cleared your throat.

“Anyway,” you started lightly, “what’s with everyone telling me that you two are trouble?”

Bucky let out a playful scoff. “That’s just old-timer slander. We’re model citizens.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “Right. So innocent that every person I’ve met has warned me about you two,” you added dryly.

“Absolutely,” he said, lifting his beer in a small toast. “Wouldn’t hurt a damn fly, darlin’.”

“Does that explain why you’ve been scowling at every man in here like you’re ready to fight since we walked through the doors?” you taunted.

He set his beer on the table and leaned in closer; you could catch the scent of it on his breath. “Look around you, sweetheart,” he rasped.

You did. The room was full of weathered faces, grease-stained flannel shirts, and men who had clearly seen better days. Most of the women were gathered at the cards table—all silver hair and loud, gravelly laughter.

“See any other woman as young and beautiful as you?” he asked. His eyes trailed over your face, down to your jawline and your neck while you were too busy scanning the bar to notice. “Stevie and I are just protectin’ you, that’s all.”

Protecting you?

Your face warmed, and the second you turned your gaze back to him, you found he was already watching you, leaning in dangerously close.

“That so?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his.

“That’s so,” he repeated lowly. You watched as his gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips.

In the city, independence was everything; women were expected to take care of themselves. But here, it felt like those modern rules had been stripped away in favor of the old ways. It was traditional—strong, capable men protecting and providing while the women held down the home. It was a lifestyle that didn’t—couldn’t— exist in the city where everyone was always on the clock.

Just then, Steve approached, setting down plates piled with burgers, fries, and ribs. He had a wide grin on his face. “Eat up, princess.”

As you looked at the food and then back at the two of them, you realized that maybe you didn’t mind being taken care of—especially by them.

You all dug in, the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries making your stomach rumble. Bucky took a massive bite of his burger, already smearing sauce across his chin. He glanced over at you, smirking while he chewed.

“Bet you don’t eat this kind of slop back in the city, do ya?” he teased, nodding at your hands as you tried to steady a burger the size of your head. “Probably don’t even know how to eat with your hands.”

You rolled your eyes. “I do know how to eat with my hands,” you said, adjusting your grip. “I’m just eating with manners—something you two should try learning.”

“Hey, don’t be afraid of a little mess,” Bucky said, swiping a finger over a barbecue rib until it was coated in sauce. “That’s part of the fun.”

Steve gave him a disapproving look across the table. “Buck, no—”

But Steve’s warning went in one ear and out the other. Before you could react, Bucky reached over and swiped a thick line of barbecue sauce right over your lips and chin.

“Hey—!” You recoiled, pressing your lips tight to keep his finger from slipping into your mouth. Bucky sat back in his seat, letting out a roar of laughter at your reaction.

“Oh my god, Bucky! You are trouble!”

You reached for a napkin, but Steve snatched it away before you could grab it, snickering along with his friend.

“Steve, you too?!” you frowned dramatically, dropping your burger back onto the plate. You stood up, reaching across the booth to grab it, but Steve held it further back, laughing at your sad attempt. “How could you do this to me? You literally told Bucky no!”

“I know, I know,” he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “But look at you—you look so damn cute, sweetheart.”

With a groan, you leaned over the table, stretching just far enough to snatch the napkins right out of Steve’s hands. You immediately started dabbing at the mess on your chin.

“Jesus,” you said, shaking your head playfully. “Nick was right about you two.”

All three of you were still recovering from the laughter when two large shadows fell over the table, blocking the warm overhead light.

“Well, well,” a slurred voice drawled, catching the guys' attention. “Ain’t this a pretty picture.”

Bucky looked up, and it was like a dark cloud loomed over him; his smile was instantly replaced by a hard, dangerous frown. “Get lost, Mike.”

‘Mike’ didn’t even glance at Bucky. Instead, his bleary gaze raked over you, slow and hazy in a way that made your skin prick uncomfortably. You sank back into your seat, subtly trying to hide yourself behind Bucky’s frame.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Mike said, leaning his hands on the edge of the booth, trying to keep himself from toppling over. You could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath from across the table. “Didn’t know Buck was harborin’ such a pretty little secret. Take a look at this prize, Dave.”

His buddy, ‘Dave’, snickered beside him, resting a lazy arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Oh, what a pretty thing you are. City girl, right? You bored with these two yet? You know, we could show you a real good time.”

Steve shot you a careful look. “Just ignore them—”

“I’m good where I am, thanks,” you answered sternly, the words out before you could even register Steve’s warning.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I said get lost.”

They ignored him again.

Mike tilted his head at you, a lopsided, ugly smirk on his face as he adjusted his footing, nearly stumbling. “You’re probably gettin’ real tired of being stuck with these two nobodies,” he scoffed. “Why don’tcha hang out with real men like us?”

That was when Bucky’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist on the table.

Steve reached out, his fingers brushing Bucky’s forearm as a warning. “Buck.” Then, he faced the men, his voice calm and level. “Alright. That’s enough. She’s with us. Go stick with your arm wrestling and leave us be.”

Dave laughed—a mean, loud sound—and reached over to give Bucky a mocking nudge on the shoulder. “Yeah, listen to your boy-toy, Barnes. Like the loyal dog you are.”

Steve’s brow twitched. “What the hell did you just say to him?”

You rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, leaning in with a worried look. “Bucky, I think we should just go—”

But before you could finish the sentence, Steve moved in one quick, explosive motion—his boots hit the floor hard as he lunged out of the booth. A blur of movement followed as his fist cracked straight across Dave’s jaw. The brutal, clean punch of skin-against-skin echoed through the bar, followed by a startled gasps of people who stood nearby.

Mike blinked in shock, watching his friend drop, then let out a roar and swung at Steve. The punch caught Steve high on the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side.

People jumped out of their chairs, wood scraping against floorboards as they shouted and lifted their drinks. “Fight, fight, fight!”

“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, quickly getting up. You nudged Bucky in the shoulder hard. “Bucky, grab Steve and let’s get out of here—!”

But Bucky was already standing, and he had absolutely no intention of ending it.

His blue eyes were filled with fury as he closed the distance to Mike. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around just to deliver a devastating blow straight to his face—then another immediately to his gut, sending Mike doubling over.

“Fuckin’ Barnes!” Mike wheezed.

A circle formed around them almost instantly, leaving you trapped inside the booth with no escape. People cheered, laughing and whooping as if this were a Friday night show rather than a real fight.

“Knock ’em silly, Rogers!”

“Your punches are gettin’ sloppy, Barnes!”

Your heart thumped fast in your chest as punches flew in a blur and blood splattered the floor. You twisted in your seat, scanning the room desperately for anyone who might step in—a security guard, a bouncer, any responsible grown-up.

The bartender just threw his head back and laughed, wiping the counter with a rag. “Ah, hell,” he called over the noise, sounding more amused than concerned. “Didn’t think it’d only take two drinks tonight.”

A few men near the bar raised their glasses, toasting to the chaos.

“Hey! Can someone stop them?!” you tried again, but no one heard you. Or, more likely, no one cared.

A couple of the older women at the card table barely glanced up from their game, still laughing among themselves.

“They’ll walk it off,” a guy at a nearby table said casually, taking a slow sip of his beer.

“Barnes always did have a temper,” one of the elderly women added from the card table, her voice sounding almost fond of the memory.

You watched in horror as Bucky and Mike stumbled into a nearby table, knocking it over and sending beers flying as they exchanged heavy blows. Next to them, Steve had Dave in a chokehold while Dave repeatedly drove his elbow into Steve’s gut, making him recoil with every hit.

The bartender noticed you trying to push your way out of the booth, your hands waving in frantic, useless circles as you tried to get him to stop the madness.

“Don’t try to fix it, city girl!” he called out, his booming voice carrying over the crowd. “They’ll be done when they’re done!”

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. Just then, the room erupted into cheers as Steve delivered a massive hook to Dave’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Dave groaned, spitting blood onto the floorboards as he tried to push himself back up.

Steve stood over him, chest heaving as he adjusted his stance. “You done?”

Dave wiped his mouth. “Not even close.”

“Good,” Steve huffed, raising his fists again. “I could do this all day.”

Oh.

Despite the panic, a snort escaped you at how ridiculously corny that was. Yet for some reason, the line seemed to amp up the crowd even more—as if he were a pro wrestler and that was his legendary signature catchphrase.

“That’s it, Rogers!”

“Yeah! Show ’em!”

“Knock his teeth out!”

As you looked between the men, your shoulders eased just slightly. You realized Mike and Dave were in far worse condition than Bucky and Steve.

They weren’t losing.

They were in complete control, moving like they’d fought like this a plenty of times before. It was as if this bar floor had been their training ground since they were kids.

With a defeated sigh, you tipped your beer back and took several long swallows, emptying the bottle in one go. The cheap alcohol hit your system, mixing with the leftover adrenaline and replacing your earlier panic with a sudden, sharp spark of excitement.

You slammed the empty bottle down on the table, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted over the roar of the crowd.

“Kick his ass, Steve!”

A few heads turned—some giving you surprised glances—while other men cheered along with you.

“Come on, Buck—you can do better than that!” you yelled.

Bucky blinked at you, a surprised smile ghosting over his bloodied face before he used your voice as fuel to keep going.

Steve ducked a sloppy swing from Dave, landing a clean hook that snapped the man’s head to the side. Dave staggered backward, fighting to stay upright as the crowd erupted. Meanwhile, Bucky had Mike pinned against the floor, each punch making the wood rattle and creak.

You watched, breath caught in your throat. You were worried about their safety, but God—they were good at this.

And they looked good doing it.

Their hair was damp with sweat, trailing over their faces as they grunted and delivered heavy blows. You couldn’t help but notice the way their muscles flexed or the way the veins stood out on their large, powerful hands.

The brawl continued until more tables were upended and bottles shattered, glass spraying everywhere as the locals scrambled to avoid the crossfire.

Finally, the bartender slapped his rag onto the counter with a sharp, fed-up sigh.

“Alright! That’s enough!”

Steve grabbed Dave by the shirt, his fist cocked back, while Bucky buried another punch into Mike’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. The bartender’s patience finally snapped for good.

“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”

The room finally fell quiet.

He jabbed a finger towards the entrance. “Barnes. Rogers. OUT. And take Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum with you before you bleed all over my damn floor.”

By the time you all made it back to the farm, the night air had cooled significantly, the crickets still humming lazily just as they had before you left. Lucy rumbled to a stop, and the three of you climbed out in silence.

As you approached the house, the porch light flickered on with a weak, twitching buzz.

In the dim yellow glow, you finally saw the extent of the damage.

Steve’s cheekbone was already swelling, a dark bruise blooming beneath the skin, while dried blood traced a path from his split lip to his chin. His knuckles were raw and scraped open. Bucky didn’t look much better—one brow was split, a smear of red trailing down his temple, and dust was ground so deeply into his clothes it looked like he’d rolled through every inch of the town’s dirt.

“Well,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’ll turn in. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Bucky added, brushing dirt off his shirt like that would somehow fix anything. “Let us know if you need anythin’, doll. We’ll keep the door unlocked for you.”

They both turned to the door, but your voice made them stop.

“No,” you said sternly.

They both looked back, Steve tilting his head in confusion. “No?”

“You guys are not going to bed like that.” You gestured wildly between their bruised faces. “You’re both bleeding. You’re filthy. And—God, both of your knuckles look like ground meat.”

Bucky glanced down at his fists and mumbled, “It’s not that bad…”

“It is,” you insisted.

He shrugged. “Fine. We’ll rinse off with some cold water and soap. Done.”

“Not done,” you corrected sharply. “You’ll wake up with infections and crusted in blood. You guys were rolling all over a floor covered in God-knows-what.”

They exchanged a glance, not really knowing what to say. You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Inside. Now,” you ordered.

Steve opened his mouth, holding up a hand. “Honey, we’re fine. You should get some rest—”

You ignored him, pointing firmly past him toward the house. “Go.”

Inside, you guided them to the kitchen table like scolded schoolboys. Steve sat down, his posture stiff and awkward, while Bucky leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He was trying to play it cool, though he clearly had no idea what to do with himself.

It had been years since they were in this position—not since they were kids and Steve’s mom was patching them up after a rough day of playing in the dirt and getting into scrapes. Back then, they’d have wide grins on their faces as she kissed their "boo-boos" goodbye.

But now, as grown men with a beautiful woman in their home tending to them, they were both as stiff as a load of bricks.

They watched in silence as you filled a bowl with warm water, found a clean cloth, and grabbed the small first-aid tin they pointed out in one of the cabinents.

You sat down in front of Steve. “Alright,” you murmured, dipping the cloth and wringing it out. “You’re first.”

You pulled your chair closer, tucking yourself between his knees as you gently tilted his face toward the warm overhead light. The bruise across his cheekbone looked even worse up close. When you pressed the damp cloth to his skin, he flinched.

“Sorry,” you whispered, softening your touch.

“S’okay,” he murmured back. “It feels nice.”

Bucky watched from the counter, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t quite place the feeling in his chest; all he knew was that he wanted the same focused attention Steve was getting.

So, when you said, “Bucky, come here. I’ll do you next,” his feet moved without hesitation.

He grabbed a chair and dragged it right up behind you—perhaps a little too close in his eagerness. He settled in as he impatiently waited his turn, sandwiching you between the two of them.

“Both of you,” you said, setting the bowl down and picking up the gauze. “Watch me. That way, when someone’s not here to take care of you, you can take care of each other the next time you get into a bar fight.”

You took Steve’s hand, and he shuddered at the contact. As you carefully wrapped his split knuckles, your fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, making him swallow hard.

You could feel Bucky’s presence right behind you. He leaned over your shoulder, watching your hands work. Seeing how softly you cared for Steve hit him with a deep sense of longing he couldn’t hide anymore. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against your back, his rough hand finding your waist to give it a gentle, needy squeeze.

“I… need attention, too,” Bucky mumbled.

You finished wrapping Steve’s hand, snipping the excess gauze with a pair of scissors. A soft chuckle escaped you at Bucky’s blunt admission.

“Well,” you teased. “Maybe if you two hadn’t started a fight, you wouldn’t be in such desperate need of my attention.”

“We had to defend you, baby,” Bucky sighed. His hands palmed your waist, making you gasp softly.

For Bucky, there was something grounding about your proximity—the way you felt under his hands was relieving for him after the chaos of a long day.

“They were lookin’ at you with bad intentions, sweetheart,” Steve added, leaning in even closer as his eyes bored into yours. “We were just tryna protect you.”

You picked the towel back up, looking deep into Steve’s gaze. He was staring at you so intensely that it made the air feel thin. If you leaned in just an inch further, you could have kissed him.

And judging by the way his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, he was thinking the exact same thing.

“I’ve been stared at and talked about by plenty of nasty men in the city,” you explained softly, wringing the towel over the bowl. “But not once did anyone defend me the way you two did. You’ve both done so much for me since I got here, and I don’t know how to pay you back.” You lifted the damp cloth. “This is the least I can do.”

“You being here, taking care of us… that’s more than enough,” Bucky rasped.

You turned in your chair to face him, your brow furrowing as you took in his split skin. When you dabbed the towel gently against the cut, he hissed.

“You might need a butterfly bandage for your brow.” You frowned.

Despite the sting, Bucky let out a rough chuckle. “You’re speakin’ a different language, darlin’.”

You rummaged through the tin and, to your surprise, managed to find one. You held up the bandage; it was still in its wrapping, though the edges were a bit frayed.

“How long has this been in here?” you asked.

Steve shrugged. “I dunno. We don’t really use the kit. Not since my ma passed.”

“It should be fine,” you shrugged. “Better than nothing.” Because of Bucky’s height, even with him sitting, you had to stand up to get a clear look at the wound.

“Hold still,” you whispered, reaching out to push a few long, dark locks of hair out of his face.

Bucky’s hands didn’t stay still, they continued to roam around your waist, originally with the intention to steady you as you stood over him, but his touch was growing bolder.

He let out a low shudder as your fingers trailed over his forehead, smoothing his hair out of the way. The sensation of being taken care of by you finally broke through him as his palms slid from your sides toward the small of your back, pulling you just an inch closer.

Bucky looked up at you, his eyes dark and heavy—and it had nothing to do with the exhaustion of the day.

“You feel so warm underneath my hands, baby,” Bucky rasped, his thumbs grazing the hem of your shirt. “I like this sight. You takin’ care of us. Ain’t that right, Stevie?”

You felt the floorboards creak as Steve rose from his chair. A second later, his presence loomed behind you, solid and warm. You were completely trapped between them now—Bucky’s hands at your waist and Steve’s shadow falling over your back.

Steve leaned in, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending a shiver straight down your spine that made your hands tremble as you held the bandage.

“You’re right, Buck,” Steve murmured against the smooth skin of your neck, resting his hands on your hips. “I like this. Very much.”

You stood frozen as Steve’s nose brushed against the sensitive spot behind your ear while Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his thumbs tracing slow, and smooth circles over your hips.

“You guys…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper—breathless and trembling. You tried to focus on Bucky, your fingers shaking as you finally pressed the butterfly bandage over the split in his brow.

He leaned his face into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a long, heavy exhale.

“Shhh,” Bucky murmured, his voice vibrating. He shifted his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the palm of your hand. “Just stay here, baby. Let us hold you. We’ve had a long day.”

Behind you, Steve’s hands slid fully around to your front, his large palms splaying across your stomach as he pulled your back against his broad chest. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke.

“Buck’s right,” Steve rumbled, his arms acting like a warm, heavy anchor. “Just for a minute. Stay right here.”

The silence of the night outside amplified the low, gravelly tones of their voices. They both spoke as if you weren’t there—or as if you were a prize— talking over and around you while their hands continued their slow, possessive exploration of your body.

“Fuck, she’s so soft, Stevie,” Bucky groaned.

His eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against your stomach as his hands slid lower, his calloused palms molding to the curve of your backside. “I didn’t think skin could be this soft.”

“Smells so good, too,” Steve murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating through your spine. He took a deep, shaky breath as his stubble grazed your neck. “Like vanilla… something sweet.”

Bucky let out a dark, huffed laugh, his grip tightening to let you know he wasn’t letting go. “What’d I say? A pretty girl taking care of us… ain’t this the dream? Makes you wanna keep her all to ourselves.”

Your breath hitched and your gaze dropped, looking down at Bucky as he sat between your legs. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you could feel the heat of his body, but it was the sight of his heavy denim that made your heart skip a beat.

The friction of your bodies pressed together had clearly taken its toll because a prominent, hard bulge was straining against the fly of his jeans, mere inches from your legs.

Before you could even process the sight, you felt Steve shift behind you. He leaned his weight into your back, his large hands firmly placed on your hips. Then, he gave a subtle and slow rock of his hips, pressing his own growing hardness firmly against you from behind.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Steve whispered against your ear, his deep voice making your legs tremble. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s just… you guys are—” you swallowed nervously, embarrassment rushing to your face. “Hard.”

Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand coming down to palm himself through his jeans.

“Do you want us to stop, baby? We can stop—” he groaned, palming himself even harder as he looked at you with hungry eyes. “We’re good boys. We’ll stop if you want us to. We can behave. Right, Stevie?”

Steve was behind you, getting bolder with his movements as he rocked his hips deeper against the curve of your ass.

“Yes,” he grunted. “We’re good. Very good boys.”

Their hands continued roaming over your body eagerly. Bucky’s breath grew heavier as he touched himself through his pants, and the feel of Steve’s rock-hard erection pressing against you while he planted soft kisses on your neck was enough to make your head spin.

The whole kitchen reeked of lust, like there was spell in the air that only made you want them more and more.

“D-don’t stop,” you breathed, your eyes hazy with desire. “This is the least I can do to pay you guys back, right?”

Steve let out a sharp sigh and Bucky groaned so deeply—it was practically a growl.

Bucky pushed himself off his chair, his movements powerful and sudden as he crowded into your space. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before his mouth crashed onto yours.

His kiss wasn’t gentle or patient; it was hungry and demanding, and you could taste the faint, bitter tang of the beer from earlier. His tongue swept against yours, a low, possessive sound vibrating in his throat as his hands moved from your waist to cup your face, his calloused thumbs brushing over your burning cheeks.

Now that Bucky was standing, Steve was able to press even closer, his large body a solid wall of heat against your back. His hands, now wrapped in the gauze from your careful work, slid upward from your hips.

One hand splayed across your stomach, bunching the fabric of your dress beneath his fingers as he pulled you firmly against his hips, rocking into you. Meanwhile, his other hand moved higher, his fingers groping your tits through the thin material.

Steve buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. “So good,” he murmured against your skin. “You fit so perfectly between us, sweetheart.”

You were drowning between them—lost in the friction of Bucky’s tongue and the way Steve’s hands explored your curves from behind. Your senses were completely overwhelmed. Every time Bucky tilted your head to deepen the kiss, Steve would find a new patch of skin on your neck to mark with his lips, leaving you gasping into Bucky’s mouth.

“Shit, baby,” Bucky groaned against your lips.

His hand slid down your arm, his fingers locking firmly with yours. He guided your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm directly over the hard, straining heat of his denim. You could feel him twitch beneath your fingertips.

“Touch us, baby,” Bucky groaned, rocking his hips into your hand, his voice desperate. “Don’t be shy now. You wanted to take care of us, didn’t you?”

The friction of your palm against him made his eyes roll back for a second. Steve let out a low, approving growl against your neck. He reached around, his own hand covering yours, adding his strength to the movement as he pressed your hand even firmer against Bucky.

“That’s it,” Steve encouraged, his breath hitching as he watched your hand work. “Look at how tiny your hand looks against him. You like that, don’t you? Feeling so small and helpless between us?”

Bucky’s head fell back, his jaw tight as he fought for air. “God, Stevie…” he moaned. “Help her—guide her hand against me—fuck, just like that…”

Steve’s hand tightened over yours, his movements guiding the friction of your palm against Bucky’s heat. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear; his voice was a gravelly, commanding rumble.

“Get on your knees and take care of my best friend, would ya?”

“O…okay…”

You sank to the floor, the wood cool and hard against your skin as you settled between Bucky’s boots. He let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately finding your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back so he could look down at you with raw, uncontrollable hunger.

But you weren’t alone on the floor for long. You felt the floorboards groan as Steve knelt directly behind you, his massive frame shielding you from the rest of the room. His large hands slid under the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric upward until it was bunched around your waist, leaving your skin bare to the kitchen air.

As you reached for Bucky’s belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the heavy leather, you felt Steve’s hand slide between your thighs. His thumb dragged across your clothed clit with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your back arch and your head drop onto Bucky’s lap.

“Focus, sweetheart,” Steve taunted from behind you with a low, condescending laugh. His other hand came around to cup breasts—teasing your nipple through your dress, holding you steady as his thumb continued to work you. “Take it off him. He’s been waiting all day.”

With a sharp tug, you finally eased Bucky’s jeans down. When he finally sprang free, the sight made the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp. He was thick and heavy, his skin taut and pulsing with a heat you could feel even before you touched him.

Bucky let out a low groan at the sensation of being exposed, his hands tightening in your hair. He seemed to preen under your shocked gaze, his hips giving a small, instinctive twitch towards your face.

Steve chuckled darkly behind you. His hand was still buried between your thighs, and as his thumb made another slow, heavy pass over you, he felt the sudden, hot gush of moisture through your panties that coated his fingers.

“Fuck, Bucky. Look at that. It’s like she got even wetter just seeing how big you are.”

Bucky reached down, his fingers trembling as he cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Is that right, darlin’?” he chuckled, his thumb catching on your bottom lip. “You like what you see?”

“Think you can fit me in your tiny little mouth, baby?” Bucky challenged. You watched as his cock throbbed, the tip already leaking and eager to be inside your mouth.

You swallowed hard. You weren’t sure if you could; you had spent a handful of nights with men in the city, but none of them were of… this size.

“I don’t know,” you admitted embarrassingly, your hand coming up to circle his shaft. “But I’ll try—”

Growing impatient, he pressed the head of his cock against the seal of your lips, the warmth making your heart beat faster.

“It’s okay,” Bucky reassured, breathing hard above you as he began pushing past your lips. “Steve will help you. Ain’t that right, Steve?”

You weren’t sure what he meant by having Steve help you, but he didn’t give you much room to think or ask anyway. He probed his length more firmly against your lips, forcing you to open up. You began taking in as much of his thick length as you could manage, your tongue swirling around the broad head as you started to bob your head rhythmically.

“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” Bucky hissed.

His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his knuckles white as he held you in place. Behind you, Steve became even more relentless. You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them aside until he could slide two fingers deep into your slick heat.

“God—you’re accepting me so easily, baby. Bet you’ve been wantin’ this from the moment we picked you up, huh?” Steve whispered, kissing your ear as he continued to work his fingers inside you.

“Jesus—Steve, I wish you could feel how warm her fuckin’ mouth is,” Bucky moaned, tossing his head back while giving you shallow, sharp thrusts. “This—this is incredible…”

The dual sensation was a sensory overload of pleasure—the feeling of Bucky stretching your mouth while Steve’s fingers curled inside you, hitting your sweet spot with every rhythmic movement of his hand.

“More… more…” Bucky groaned, his voice breaking as he tilted his hips up to meet you halfway. He was desperate, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

“You hear that, baby? He wants more,” Steve said.

He wasn’t just watching anymore.

His desire to see his best friend satisfied was overriding his patience.

You let out a small, muffled whimper of protest against Bucky’s shaft, your eyes watering as you reached your limit, but Steve didn’t let you pull away. He placed his large, heavy palm on the back of your head and…

… firmly pushed you down against Bucky’s cock.

Your eyes went wide as you took Bucky deeper than you thought possible, his length hitting the very back of your throat. He let out a sound that was half of a groan and a sob—a loud, desperate moan that echoed through the kitchen. He bucked his hips upward, losing all composure as he finally found the depth he’d been craving.

“Fuck—oh my god,” Bucky gasped, his eyes rolling back. “Just like that—keep her head down, Stevie—shit. Feels too damn good!”

The kitchen was filled with the lewd sounds of his ragged, uncontrolled breathing and the wet slide of your mouth working over him. Steve’s fingers were moving just as frantically inside you now, his rhythm matching the desperate pace of Bucky’s thrusts.

“That’s it, sweetheart, take it all,” Steve growled from behind you. “Keep your eyes open. Look at him. You’ve got him falling apart. Give him everything.”

Bucky’s eyes were blown wide, staring down at you with overwhelming lust.

“Fuck, Steve… she’s perfect. Her mouth—so tight… so warm,” he gasped, his voice cracking. He began to thrust more wildly, his hips snapping forward as he searched for that final bit of release.

“I’m gonna—fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. Don’t you dare stop. Steve, hold her head. She’s gonna swallow every drop for me.”

“Do it, Buck,” Steve encouraged, his thumb hitting your clit with a press that sent sparks through your vision. “Fill her mouth up. Show her how much we needed this.”

Bucky finally snapped.

He bucked his hips hard against your face, his entire body shuddering as he began to pulse deep in your mouth. You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as you felt the hot, heavy waves of his release hitting the back of your throat, making you choke around his shaft.

“Christ—God, her mouth is so warm… shit, Steve. You hear her chokin’ around me? She can barely swallow it down!”

“She’s fluttering all over my fingers too, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s gonna cum—I can feel it.”

Bucky finally pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy pop, his release dribbling down your chin as you fought for breath. Your head was dizzy from how brutally he had used your mouth and how deeply Steve was fingering you.

“Steve,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—please. Don’t stop—!”

But Steve didn’t give you the release you were begging for.

He abruptly curled his fingers and pulled them out of you with a sharp, wet sound that left you feeling cold and aching. You let out a cry of frustration, your hips twitching involuntarily to the space where his hand had just been.

Steve stood up, the floorboards creaking under his massive weight. He didn’t look satisfied. If anything, watching Bucky use you had only made him look more predatory. His hands went straight to his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it impatiently.

“You don’t cum until you please the both of us first, darlin’,” Steve commanded.

“Steve, please,” you whined, turning around so that your hands tugged at his jeans. “I was so close.” You looked at Bucky next, frowning. “Bucky?”

“He ain’t gonna help you, baby,” Steve said. “On the table,” he ordered, nodding to the sturdy wooden surface where the medical supplies had been scattered. “Get up there and show us how much you want it. Lay on your back for me.”

Bucky was still catching his breath, leaning against the counter with a dazed, satisfied smirk.

“You heard him, baby,” he rasped, his voice still rough from his climax. “Better be a good girl and please him well.”

With your face burning in embarrassment and two sets of eyes watching your every move, you crawled onto the table, your panties soaked and dripping between your thighs. You slowly settled down on your back, with Steve standing before you and Bucky making his way to the other side.

Steve stepped up, reaching down and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, stripping them down your legs and tossing them onto the kitchen floor.

As soon as you were bare, he stepped into the space between your thighs, the heavy, scorching weight of his cock poking against your entrance. He was even longer than Bucky—not quite as thick, perhaps, but still more than big enough to stretch you to your absolute limit.

“Look at you,” Steve murmured, staring at you with hazy eyes as he stroked his length. “Look how ready you are for me.”

Bucky stepped closer, jeans still around his ankles, as he gripped his own half-hard length. He jerked himself off with slow, heavy pumps, his gaze fixed on Steve as he prepared to take you. With his free hand, Bucky grabbed the hem of your dress and hiked it all the way up to your neck, exposing your breasts to the cool air and their burning gazes.

“So pretty,” Bucky whispered in awe, as if he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He leaned over, his fingers gently playing with your nipples as you whimpered and squirmed on the table, caught between the two of them.

Your heels dug into the wood of the table as you arched your back, the friction of Steve’s heat against your entrance making you whine. You were desperate for the fullness, your body burning with an unfinished ache that Steve was intentionally prolonging.

“Please,” you whimpered, your hands reaching out to grab Steve’s muscular forearms. “Steve, please... I need it.”

“Jesus,” Bucky rasped, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and hunger. “She’s so damn cute when she’s begging like this. Make it last, okay? I want to see our girl come apart nice and slow.”

“I’ll try,” Steve managed, his voice strained. He slowly pushed the broad head of his cock past your folds, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp before he pulled back, teasing the very edge of your sanity.

“Steve—please! Stop with the teasing, I can’t—” you begged, “I can’t take it anymore.”

Steve’s jaw clenched tight as he hissed through his teeth. “I know, baby girl. I know.”

Deep down, he wasn’t intentionally trying to tease you. The feel of your wet tightness already clamping down on him made him remember how long it had been since he’d fucked anything other than his own hand.

And it meant that, despite Bucky’s request, he likely wouldn’t be lasting nearly as long as he wanted to.

He slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, each inch making you gasp and arch your back off the table as you tried to adjust to his size.

“F-fuck, Steve!” you moaned.

Finally, he bottomed out completely inside you, his massive weight pressing you down into the sturdy wood of the table. Every time he slammed his hips forward, the medical supplies rattled and the table groaned under the force.

“Fuck, too tight,” he hissed.

His big arms circled your frame, holding you tightly as he began fucking you with a desperate, frantic hunger.

“God, you’re so tight,” Steve repeated, “so fucking warm.”

Bucky was right there, leaning over the side of the table to catch every detail. The sight of Steve losing his usual composure—seeing his best friend’s broad back muscles tensing and rippling as he drove into you—had Bucky’s cock snapping back to full attention for a second round.

He jerked himself off faster, his eyes darting between your flushed face and the place where Steve was disappearing inside you.

“Tell me how tight she is, Steve,” Bucky urged.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s squeezin’ me so good—it’s just like you said… a nice, smooth pair of legs wrapped tight around my waist. Fuck—it’s going to be so hard to pull out.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened at Steve’s words, the blue turning to a stormy midnight black. His cock was twitching and pulsing in his hand, slick with his own pre-cum and the lingering wetness from your mouth as he watched Steve’s massive body hammer into yours.

“Pump her full, Steve,” Bucky growled. “Breed her. Fill her up so damn deep she can’t think about anything or anyone else—until she thinks only about us.”

“B-breed…?” you whimpered, your eyes rolling back.

Your head spun at the words. The thought of Steve’s cum filling you— of that thick, heavy seed flooding your core while Bucky watched—sent a violent jolt of overwhelming pleasure through your body.

You felt your walls contract, clamping down on Steve’s length—milking him so hard that it made him choke on his own breath.

“B-Buck…” Steve gasped, his pace becoming erratic. He was losing the fight for control. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he felt your climax beginning to roll over him. “She’s so close… God, I’m gonna—”

“Cum inside her,” Bucky urged, leaning in close until his breath hitched against your ear. “Fill her up and make her our girl, Stevie. Pump her so full she’ll never want anyone else.”

The command from Bucky was the final blow to Steve’s restraint.

With a low, hungry roar that vibrated against your chest, Steve bucked. He rocked his hips into you one last time, pinning you to the table with his full weight as he bottomed out.

“Christ, take it, sweetheart! Oh—fuck, take it—”

His body went rigid as he began to pour himself into you. You felt the hot, thick jets of his release hit the very back of your womb. It felt like he was never going to stop—years of pent-up sexual frustration finally rearing its head.

Your mind fractured. The internal pressure of him, combined with the mental image of being bred, sent you over the edge.

“Oh my god, Steve! I’m—I’m gonna cum—!” you screamed into the crook of his neck, your walls seizing and pulsing in a violent, uneven rhythm that milked him for every last drop.

“Fuck—yes—take it all, baby,” Steve groaned, his voice jagged as he shuddered against you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.

Bucky stood before you, panting as he watched the liquid evidence of Steve’s climax begin to seep out and coat your thighs. Seeing you stretched and filled by his best friend was too much; with his own cock already hard again, he was more than ready for round two.

And this time, he wanted to be the one inside.

Steve slowly pulled out of you, the sound of the wet, suctioning release loud against the heavy breathing between the three of you. You let out a broken gasp, your body feeling hollow and sensitive as the cool air hit where his heat had just been. A thick trail of his release began to spill over your thighs, coating the wooden table beneath you.

Steve leaned down, his eyes a bit softer than they were before, reaching out to hook his arms under yours to help you up. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned—”

“Move aside, Steve.”

Bucky’s voice was like a whip crack.

He stomped over, his boots heavy on the floor, and physically brushed Steve’s hands away from you. There was no gentleness left in him now; his jaw was set, and his eyes were fixed on the mess Steve had left behind.

“Bucky?” you asked softly, trying to catch your breath. “Are you okay—?”

“I’m not done with her,” Bucky growled.

Before you could reply, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over. Your face was pressed down into the hard, cool wood of the table, your cheek flat against the surface as he forced your ass up high.

“B-Buck—!”

Without warning, Bucky lined himself up against your puffy slit, and in one aggressive motion, he buried himself deep in your overstimulated heat. You let out a muffled shriek against the table as he began to fuck you doggy-style, one hand pinning your head down while his other gripped your waist tightly.

“Fuck!” Bucky barked, biting his lip. “She is tight, Steve. Fuckin’ hell… like a tight, warm and wet fist wrapped around my cock.”

“Bucky—haaah, I… It’s too much—fuck—oh!”

The friction was almost too much to bear. You were a babbling, overstimulated mess, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas against the wood of the table.

With every heavy, bottoming-out thrust, you could feel Bucky physically pushing Steve’s cum deeper into your core. It was a strange, overwhelming sensation—the feeling of being claimed by one man while the other’s mark was forced even further inside you.

Steve stood by the side of the table, his chest still heaving as he watched. He looked genuinely surprised, a small, breathless huff of laughter escaping him as he watched Bucky go to work. “Christ, Buck... you're still going? Fuck. You’re ruinin’ her.”

Bucky only grunted like an animal in response as he gripped your waist tighter, rocking his hips even harder.

You were a drooling, slutty mess on the table, and the pathetic sight made Steve smile softly at you in sympathy. He reached out, his large hand stroking your sweat-dampened hair away from your face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple while Bucky hammered into your hips from behind.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his voice a soothing balm against Bucky’s relentless pace. “Just let him in, darlin’. Such a good girl, taking him so deep for us. Just breathe through it for me.”

“Stevie,” you whined, your voice pitching higher. “He’s so th—thick… he’s stretching me so much…”

“I know, baby,” Steve murmured. You weren’t sure if his words were meant to soothe you, but his tone was shifting, becoming almost condescending—as if your overstimulated state was exactly where he wanted you.

He watched with a possessive sheen in his eyes as Bucky’s hips continued to batter against you. “Cum inside her, Bucky. Fill her up.”

Bucky let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh between the loud creaks of the table. “Shit, Stevie… you want me to knock her up too?”

Steve just kept stroking your hair, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “It’s just like you said—a pretty girl like her staying home and takin’ care of us. Don’t you want that, Buck? To see her round, glowin’, and barefoot? Somethin’ about keepin’ the house warm?”

The rhythm of Bucky’s thrusts faltered for a split second before becoming twice as violent. A low, needy sound escaped him.

“Fuck… I want that so bad. More than anythin’. Shit.”

Bucky leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, his voice sending tingles down your spine. “I’m going to breed her. She’s stayin’ here with us, Stevie. We’re makin’ her ours for good.”

The thought should’ve terrified you, but as you lay there pinned between them, lost in a haze of pure, unadulterated lust, the idea only turned you on even more. Your only concern now was whether you could even contain Bucky’s release inside you.

“I—I don’t think I can,” you babbled against the table, your words slipping out between broken gasps. “…take it… take Bucky’s cum… I—”

Steve didn’t let your panic spiral. He leaned down further, his large, warm hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head so he could look you in the eye.

“Yes, you can, sweetheart,” Steve cooed. “You’re made for this. You’re made for us. Just relax those pretty muscles and let him in.”

He then pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking your cheekbone even as Bucky’s pace turned frantic.

“Look at her, Buck,” Steve whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “She’s worried she can’t hold it all. Tell her what you’re gonna do.”

Bucky let out a choked, desperate sound, his fingers digging into your hips. “I’m gonna fill her to the brim,” he rasped, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “I’m gonna fill her so full she’ll leak all over the table.”

Another needy moan tore from his chest. “G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”

At Bucky’s nasty words, your walls spasmed, clenching around him as your second orgasm finally shattered. You let out a high, broken cry against the table, your vision sparking white as you came right along with him—completely spent, completely undone.

With a final, sloppy, and shaky thrust, Bucky fucked into you one last time. He groaned your name as his body locked up. You felt the first hot stream of his release hit you, and your eyes went wide as he began to pump himself empty.

He held you pinned to the table, his weight crushing you down, ensuring that every drop of his heat was forced deep into the space Steve had already claimed. “Yes, yes—that’s it…!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve praised, his voice thick with pride. He watched the way your body jolted with every pulse of Bucky’s climax. “Takin’ it all, keepin’ it all inside for us. Such a good, fertile little thing.”

Bucky stayed heavy against you for a long time, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.

Slowly, he eventually began to pull out. You let out a small, needy whimper at the loss of his heat, your body feeling heavy and thoroughly used. A thick, creamy mixture of both men began to spill out of you, making a mess of your inner thighs and dripping onto the dark wood of the table. He hooked his arm under your waist and gently pulled you back against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

“Look at that,” Bucky rasped, his voice rough with post-coital bliss as he looked down at the mess they had made of you. He pressed a firm, possessive kiss to the top of your head. “You’re ours now, pretty girl. Every inch of you.”

Steve moved in from the side, his expression soft as he watched the two of you. He leaned down and wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Our best girl,” Steve echoed softly, his large hand coming to rest over your stomach, splaying wide and possessive.

“We’re gonna take such good care of you. You’re never going anywhere else.”

I am so sorry about the massive wordcount. I got carried away at the end w/ all of the smut 🚬 anyways, credits to @earthsmightiestbenders for helping me come up with this massive filth of a line:

“G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”

The ones about ghost ships, sea beasts, and specially women with scales who sang men to madness. His crew swapped those stories often—late at night, rum-soaked and wide-eyed, tossing salt over their shoulders and glancing nervously toward the dark waves just past the firelight.

"No such thing as mermaids, John." He took another swing of rum. 

“They say they got eyes like lantern fire.” another chimed in.

Bucky snorted. “They say a lot of things. Usually when they’ve had too much to drink.”

“And tits that’d make even you fall to your knees,” someone else added with a laugh.

That got a smirk out of him. Sharp and cold. “I’ve been brought to my knees before,” he said, rising from the table. “Wasn’t by a fish.”

Still, the stories kept coming. That mermaids would flash their tits just long enough to crash your ship on the rocks. That they'd pull you under with a kiss. That no man who touched them ever came back.

“Must be one hell of a lay,” he muttered one night, tossing a bone overboard as the crew gathered around lanterns, whispering like boys. “If she’s even got the parts for it. Gills and all.”

“You don’t believe in mermaids, then?”

Bucky looked up, expression bone dry. “I believe in storms, disease, and mutiny. Haven’t met a fish I’d risk my life for yet.”

He stood, stretched, rolled his neck with a low pop.

“If you boys want to get off thinking about imaginary sea pussy, be my guest. I’ll be on deck making sure we don’t die.”

The laughter that followed was familiar, easy. But behind it, some of the men still glanced toward the waves like they expected to see something rise out of them.

The fog came in before nightfall and by the time Bucky was pacing aimlessly, it was thick already.

It slithered across the water like it had a mind of its own—low and white, unnaturally thick for this part of the sea. It blurred the horizon. Smothered the sky. Turned the sun into a dull smear of gold that slowly bled into grey.

By the time the first lanterns were lit, The Howling Tide was deep inside it.

And Bucky hated it.

He stood on the creaky dark wood, gloved hands gripping the wheel, watching the mist close around them like a curtain. The sails groaned. The compass needle spun lazy circles in its case.

The water was too quiet. No birds. No breeze. No swell beneath the hull. Just silence.

The kind that pressed in against your ears and made your heart beat too loud. “Cap’n,” came a voice behind him.

Bucky turned. It was Steve, his quartermaster—broad-shouldered, superstitious, and the second best on the ship.

He jerked his chin toward the fog. “This is bad water.”

Bucky said nothing in response. Another voice chimed in—young Bob, wide-eyed and nervous, hands white on the rope he was coiling.

“Could be ghost current. My cousin said ships vanish in fog like this. Like they hit nothin’ but never come out.” Bucky’s jaw ticked.

He didn’t believe in ghost stories. Not really. But he did believe in feeling. And the sea felt wrong.

“Trim the foresail,” he ordered, voice quiet but sharp. “Slow our heading.”

Steve hesitated. “You think we’re drifting?”

“I think I want eyes on the water. And silence from anyone who doesn’t want to be thrown overboard.” Bob nodded fast, muttering apologies, scurrying off.

Steve gave him a long look. “You smell it too,” he said. Not a question.

Bucky didn’t answer. But yes, he did. The fog smelled… sweet. Like honey left out too long. When night fell completely, he couldn’t see more than ten feet off the bow.

He looked down at the golden compass in his hand, a present from his father, and watched the needle not know where to point. Not fast and frenzied, just lazy. Like it was drunk. 

Below the fog, barely above the surface, you watched them interact, muffled gravelly voices worming their way into your brain, and only one stood out. They referred to him as Captain. 

You liked this one. Liked the tension in his shoulders, the edge in his tone, the way the other men fell silent when he looked at them too long. You liked the way he moved—confident, coiled like a predator, but never wasting a step.

And gods above, you liked how angry he sounded.

So serious. So stubborn. So sure that the ocean was his to tame.

You observed the men like you were peeking out of your bedroom window, you had been circling the ship for a few miles, watched them get drunk, trade horrible jokes, and even worse stories about women, fights, and the lore the human world thought it knew about your kind. 

You tilted your head, fingers brushing your bare chest as you let yourself float higher on your back, just enough for moonlight to catch the swell of your breasts, water dripping off your nipples as your hair floated around you like a halo, and the shimmer of your wet skin.

He didn’t look down. “Pretty thing,” you hummed under your breath. “All that rage, and nowhere to put it.” Your tongue darted across your lip. Your tail swayed with slow interest. “I bet you taste so good.”

You giggled, soft and close as breath. Up above, he flinched and turned sharply, basrely seeing your sillouette through the fog.

Bucky was taken aback by the image, rubbing his eyes to try to see more clearly, and when he opened them again the water was still. Nothing there.

But his heart started beating faster.

He stumbled back from the rail, breathing hard. Muttered something sharp under his breath and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Not real,” he growled. “Not real, not real—too much rum, not enough rest."

That night Bucky's dream felt so real, he could smell it.

He could smell the salt, the freshly inked rag paper that gave him direction, the cotton on his sheets, and the sweetness that was so undoubtedly you.

The night sky roared with a storm, harsh drops of water hitting the window of the captain's cabin with every gust of wind.

He had his back to the wooden headboard and the lantern on his bedside table in the far corner of the room was the only source of light, bouncing off of your skin and helping his eyes trace the curve of your breasts, the peak of your nipples, and the way your juicy lips held an 'O' shape when he thrusted up to meet your rhythm.

"Bucky, oh my—" You head lolled back in ecstasy as he had a hand splayed on your back to keep you upright Abs! flush with his chest.

God, what a view you were

Skin damp with sweat, whining so sweetly into his ear, begging for his cock like you were made for it. Made for him.

"Y'sound so sweet, sugar." He licked his thumb and brought it between the two of you, to rub your clit as you rode him. "Let 'em all hear you come f'me, mmm?"

You whimpered, nodding and whining a few 'yeah' and 'please's back at him. "Let the whole crew hear you, baby, c'mon."

Bucky woke up being thrown out of bed by the motion of the ship, yells of the crew outside the cabin almost as loud as the noise of the rain. He scrambled to his feet to try to reach for the door, but the ship moved again and capsized this time.

He was thrown off balance, hitting his head on his dresser, and everything went dark.

He woke up with his head throbbing.

If it was the water, or the dresser, or the rum, he did not know. And his mouth was dry, he could taste sea salt on the corner of his lips when his tongue came out to wet it.

He felt the cool stone on his back, his clothes still damp with ocean water, and when he rolled his neck he realized his wrists were chained above his head.

That sobered him up quick.

His arms were stretched taut above his head, wrists bound in chains that rattled when he tried to twist out of them. The sound echoed through the cavern—low and hollow and wet.

“What the fuck—” he breathed.

Bucky looked around the grotto, the ceiling above him glistened like the inside of a seashell. The walls rippled with moisture and strange reflected light.

Pale stone. Cracked coral. Pools of seawater lining the edges. There were barnacles growing where bricks should’ve been.

This wasn’t his ship.

It wasn’t even any ship.

His vision blurred for a moment, still heavy with the edges of a dream — he gritted his teeth and shook his head hard.

He’d been asleep. Had to have been. This was a dream. Or a joke. Or—

“STEVE?” he shouted, voice hoarse and echoing. “BOB?!” Silence. “Anyone?!”

His own voice was the only answer, bouncing back at him. Mocking. Smaller.

He yanked at the chains again, muscles flexing hard as he tried to find give—but the rusted links didn’t budge. The cuff was tight enough to scrape skin.

“This isn’t funny!” he muttered.

The mossy glow of the walls painted his skin in ghost-light green and gold, slick with seawater and sweat. His damp shirt clung to the sharp lines of his chest, half-open, revealing the slow rhythm of his pulse.

And then he felt it.

Almost imperceptible, a slight shift in the water, so delicate it didn't even disturb the surface, but he knew he wasn't alone anymore.

The water didn’t even splash when you surfaced. It rippled like silk, hushing around you as your hair spread out behind you like seaweed caught on the current.

Your face was mostly hidden, lips and chin still submerged, but those eyes — god, those eyes — watched him like a creature who had waited too long and grown too hungry.

The moonlight bounced off of the water and reflected off of your eyes, giving him the impression they were the most beautiful and pale blue-ish silver he'd ever seen.

Your lashes were wet. Your expression unreadable. Your stillness more terrifying than if you'd lunged at him with teeth bared.

Bucky, however, had absolutely no clue who — or what — you were.

As you let more of your face and neck be exposed above the surface, he started to talk.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low, gentling it the way he did with frightened animals. “You—uh—you shouldn’t be down here. Dangerous place. Lots of rocks. Tide comes in quick.”

No response.

He tried a little smile. The one that got him into trouble in taverns. “You alright? You lost?”

Still nothing.

He cleared his throat. “Listen… sweetheart—” he winced inwardly, realizing how stupid it sounded. “I’m Captain Barnes. My crew—well, they’re probably worried sick about me. If you could just… come over here, maybe find a key or something, I’d be real grateful.”

You blinked slowly.

He gave a dry laugh. “I swear, I’m not usually the type to get tied up. Unless… well, unless the lady asks nicely.”

A pause.

Then your head tilted, just a little.

Encouraged, he smiled more genuinely this time. “You got a name? Or are you the mysterious silent type?”

Still no answer. But you floated a little closer, and Bucky’s eyes flicked to the surface of the water. 

“I bet you’re cold,” he said, gentler now, lacing it with just enough sweetness. “C’mon, angel. Be a sweetheart. Help me out of here and I’ll owe you one. A drink. Dinner. Hell, name it.”

Nothing.

But your mouth curled slightly—just a hint of a smirk. He narrowed his eyes. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

You blinked again. Then slowly, slowly, you started to move toward him. That’s when he noticed the ripple of something long behind you. Something not quite right.

He frowned.

“What was that?” he asked, voice suddenly rough. The water shimmered, revealing a fleeting flash of scales. His blood ran cold. “…What the fuck was that?”

Then he saw it fully—the curve of your tail, sleek and gleaming, vanishing again beneath the black water.

He went still.

And then everything clicked.

The chains. The grotto. The silence. And you. Bucky's eyes widened.

“No.” He jerked against the cuffs. “No fucking way.” You gave a little giggle. Light and bright as seafoam. Like his horror was a joke to you. “You—you did this.”

You only smiled. “You’re one of them,” he hissed, heart hammering. “A fucking mermaid.” You cocked your head again, innocent.

“You’re even prettier up close,” you said, circling lazily through the moon pool. “That’s the thing about human men. You all look rough from far away. But you—”

You floated higher, your arms folding over the rock at the edge, tail swaying behind you like a lazy ribbon. Your voice dropped to a purr.

“—you’re delicious.”

"You chained me here!" And there it was. He sounded angry, fiery. Mad at you and at himself for not being able to break free from the chains clicking at every movement he made.

You shrugged, the water rippling around your shoulders. “Well... You nearly drowned. I didn’t want to have to save you twice. It’s exhausting dragging around all that muscle.”

“You know,” you said airily, “it’s really quite rude to repeat false information about someone who’s literally within earshot.”

He blinked. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

You floated closer, tail glimmering just below the surface. “You know. ‘Fish waist down,’ ‘nothing but scales,’ all that nonsense. Hilarious, really. I mean—do you want to check?”

Your hand reached up and you ran your index finger up the length of the underside of his foot, tickling him. A giggle escapes your lips when he jerks away.

You propped yourself up on your hands, coming out of the moon pool and resting by him, the end of your tail still dipping onto the ocean water.

“Is this what you do?” he bites. “Lure sailors with your tits and your pretty lies and keep them in your cave until they go insane?” You giggle. Actually giggle. 

He goes silent, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting that. 

“What,” you smile, “you think this is something I do often? No, Captain.” You bite your lip, tracing your index finger down his chest. “You’re my first.” You whisper it like it’s a dirty little secret only he gets to know. 

“I’m honored,” he deadpans, narrowing his eyes at you. “Truly.”

You played with the hem of his pants, enjoying the way he couldn't decide between recoiling and stating at your tits a little too much. 

He shifted, chains clinking above his head. “If this is your idea of flirting,” he muttered, voice low, “you might want to work on your delivery.”

"I think... delivery is just fine." You pointed at his crotch with your eyes, he groaned when he noticed you were talking about his hard on.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered, rolling his hips subtly like he could somehow will it away. The chains above him rattled again as his biceps flexed, but all that strength did nothing against enchanted iron.

You tilted your head, lashes fluttering. “Oh, Captain. Don’t act like that’s my fault.”

He glared at you. “You’re half-naked and rubbing on me.”

“You’re fully hard and chained up.” You smiled sweetly. “Seems like you’re the one with the problem.”

He swallowed thickly. “You’re not even human.”

“Mmm, but I feel awfully human from the waist up,” you purred, leaning forward until your breasts brushed his chest, warm skin meeting cold saltwater sheen.

You brought your lips close to his ear. “And I can assure you…” you whispered, one hand drifting lower, “the important parts below are very compatible.”

You kissed just under his ear, then his jaw, and nipped on the skin there, making him grunt. Your lips found his in a chaste kiss that would be the only tell you'd never done that before.

When you pulled away you stared into his blue eyes, biting your lip, and as if the dazed look on his face was invitation, you went back for more, hungrier this time.

Like you wanted to burn the shape of his mouth into your own. Like you needed to know the taste of him to survive.

And when your hand slid over his ribs, up to his throat—just enough pressure to make him tilt his head back—you smiled against his lips.

“I like when you sound like that,” you whispered, dragging your mouth along the corner of his jaw.

His head thunked softly against the rock wall behind him. He shut his eyes, swallowing hard, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek.

“You’re a monster.” he muttered.

You hummed sweetly. “Mmm, yeah,” you said, nuzzling into the skin between his shoulder and neck. “But I’m a pretty cute one.”

His eyes flew open again when you sucked a mark into the skin just beneath his ear—no hesitation this time. Just hunger. Bold and messy and new.

Your lips brushed over the strong column of his neck, pausing where his pulse hammered beneath your kiss. Each time your mouth touched him, his breath stuttered, chest rising hard under your palms.

“Careful,” he muttered, voice already rough, already gone. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You smiled against his skin and kept going.

Down over his collarbone, across the broad plane of his chest—warm, solid, alive. You kissed him like you were mapping him, like you wanted to remember exactly how he felt beneath your mouth. He groaned softly when you lingered there, when your tongue traced the faint scars and salt-slick skin, when your hands steadied him as if you were the anchor now.

Your lips drifted lower, unhurried. Teasing. Intentional.

You kissed down his abdomen, felt the way his muscles jumped beneath your touch, the way he tensed as you got closer—closer to where his need was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. He sucked in a sharp breath, chains clinking faintly above him as if his body knew what was coming even if his mind couldn’t keep up.

Your palm pressed down gently over the thick ridge of him. “Oh.”

He inhaled sharply, hips twitching despite himself.

“…Are all humans this big?” you asked with a faux-innocent tilt of your head. “Or is this a captain thing?”

You let out a breathy giggle and palmed him through his pants. Bucky groaned through gritted teeth, and you pressed your hand down harder, feeling the length of him. 

"You can talk, y'know… I won't bite." Another giggle and you undid the front of his pants. "Too hard." Pulling it apart just enough to let you see the tuft of hair at the base of him. 

"You're a demon." He tried to look away but couldn't pry his eyes off of where water stood still in drops on your tits. 

"You have a thing for demons, then?" You teased, pulling him out of the fabric that barely constricted him. 

Your mouth watered at the sight. Thick, long, perfectly pink, and hard. You pumped his length a couple of times and Bucky bit back a whine. 

"Didn't know they looked like this up close."

"You're disgusting." He barked back.

You hummed, letting your head fall lower, licking a strip up the underside of him, pressing your tongue against the angry vein, "And you're tasty."

You didn't let Bucky get another word in, just closed your lips around him and moaned at the salty taste of him. He lets his head fall back onto the stone, squeezing his eyes shut, desperately trying to pretend he's not enjoying it at least a little bit.

“Fucking hell.”

You take more of him into your mouth, inch by inch, until the head hits the back of your throat. Then you pull back, eyes locked to his, letting your tongue flick the slit at the tip.

The wicked smile on your face would be enough to undo any man, but he wouldn't look at you. 

You stroke the base of his cock with your hand as you suck the tip again, letting your saliva drip down to meet your fingers, slow and obscene. As you do it again, this time bobbing your head just a little his hips twitch and his breath catches.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “I forgot what it feels like to be touched like this.”

You hummed around him again, flattening your tongue along the underside as you sank down deeper, your tail flicked behind you lazily, keeping you perfectly balanced between his legs as you suck him off like you were made to do it.

You swallowed him deeper this time. Gripped the base tighter. Let your eyes flutter shut as you worked him in slow, devastating strokes.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—”

He was a mess now. Long gone was the restraint of one Moaning openly. Hips twitching despite the chains.

“Oh my—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

He thrashes against the chains, but he can’t go anywhere, and he doesn’t want to. You’re too deep. Too wet. Too perfect. Your mouth slides over him like something holy. Your tongue swirls under the head like you’ve known him your whole life.

He tried to breathe deep and failed. “Shit—don’t stop—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

You don’t.

You suck harder. Stroke faster. Moan around him until the sound rings in his skull like a song he’ll never forget. “I can’t—shit—I’m—I’m gonna—”

You reach up with one hand and cup his balls—just the right amount of pressure—and that’s it.

He comes with a full-body sob—loud, raw, helpless—his back arching off the stone as he spills into your mouth. It just keeps coming, thick, hot, endless.

You took all of it.

You let him out of your mouth with a soft pop, drool and cum dripping from the corners of your mouth.

"I was right." You collected it from one corner with your thumb and sucked the digit clean. "You taste really good."

Bucky gulped. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

You only shrugged in response. "Just…" you sighed. "you."

You licked, and kissed, and bit your way up his torso. "I followed your ship for a while, you know…" Another kiss, right under his pec this time. "Saw you order those men around, work yourself to the bone…" another not so gentle lovebite to his chest.

"Heard you try to cum so hard when you forgot your window open…" You licked your way to his neck. "No pretty girl to help you out…" You kissed right under his jaw, and your voice got lower, almost mocking, imitating the sailors. "No women on the ship! It's bad luck!" You laughed softly. 

Bucky's mouth went dry. He felt like prey, knowing he'd been stalked for only you and God knows how long. 

"What'd you think of? Mmm?" You pressed your breasts to his chest, pebbled nipples ticking his skin. "Did you think of pretty tits, kneeling in front of you, waiting to be painted white?"

Your hand enveloped him again, "Y'think of a warm pussy to stuff your cock in? Mmm?" One stroke, then another, still wet with your spit. "Over and over again until she couldn't remember which way was up?"

"You're insane—" He tried to speak, but your thumb rubbing over the slit on the head of his shaft cut his sentence short. 

"Technically, I'm not a woman." You mused, pretending to think innocently. "I wouldn't bring you bad luck, would I?"

“I’m gonna kill you,” he mutters. “The second I get out of these—”

“You’re not going anywhere, silly." You pecked his lips softly. "You're my keepsake. Forever."

The next kiss was much less chaste, Bucky still pretending to resist, albeit less than before. "You should’ve let the sea take me.” 

"Mmmm, no. I think I'd rather keep a pretty thing like you all to myself." His tongue licked into your mouth, tasting himself, making him groan and making you sigh. 

"I promise I'm just as warm…" And up and down your hand kept going, you bit his lower lip and tugged on it.

Your hand parted from his length, and a muffled, disapproving sound came from deep in his chest. You turned, your back now to his chest, grinding your lower half to his bared length. 

You used your hands on his thighs as leverage, biting your lip at the feel of his size.

In your mouth it was one thing, but feeling the girth and length so close to where you needed it? A whole other ball game. 

You reached back and grabbed his length, lining it up with your pussy, and sinking down on it, inch by devastingly thick inch. "Fuck me—"

You let out a breathy laugh at his words, "You're doing a wonderful— oh!— job at that, Captain."

You rocked your hips back and forth and Bucky groaned, hips straining ever so slightly, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar. 

"Just let yourself feel good…" Your right hand came back to tangle in his hair. "I promise I'll take care of you."

The cave echoed with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting, his low moans growing rougher by the minute.

“Faster,” he begged, bruising your hips as he thrusts up into you, deeper. You felt his nose nuzzle your hair and the side of your head and you smiled to yourself.

Bucky let out a low, ragged groan, his voice dipping into something darker, sweeter. “You keep doing that,” he muttered against the curve of your shoulder, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You giggled—soft, amused, teasing. “Oh, I like you just fine, Captain.” Your hips shifted again. "So big inside of me." You squeezed around him on purpose. 

The moment stretched—tight as a drawn bowstring.

Your movements slowed, became deliberate, reverent, like you were listening for something only the two of you could hear. The grotto seemed to hum around you, water glowing faintly as if the sea itself had leaned in closer.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured, voice stripped bare of bravado. “Please.”

The word landed heavy between you.

You smiled—soft this time, almost tender—and pressed closer, grounding him, anchoring him. His forehead rested on the back of your head, and you wanted nothing more than to free his arms so you could feel his hands all over you. 

"Never wanted to ruin you, Captain." 

“I’m already ruined,” he growls. “Might as well — fuck, enjoy the wreckage.”

But silly little pirate, he couldn't be freed yet.

You whispered to him then, low and steady, like a promise, a spell you were casting on his soul, to damn it forever to be close to you for eternity.

“That’s it,” you said. “I’ve got you.”

“Please, let me—let me come inside you—”

Finally. All the restraint and whatever honor he had, in your posession to be devoured. 

"Give it to me, Captain." You rocked your hips harder. "Please, I want it all…"

His body finally gave in—shoulders sagging against the stone, chains clinking once as if even they were surrendering. 

He spilled inside of you with a sound that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a laugh—just relief. Just release. Like he’d been holding back a tide his whole life and finally let it crash.

You followed him there, breath hitching, a quiet gasp escaping you as the warmth between you peaked and then spilled into something gentler, softer. 

Your hands curled into his legs, grounding yourself in the feel of his body beneath your palms. For a moment, there was nothing but the two of you—salt and skin and shared breath.

Bucky felt dizzy. Like he was drunk, and high, and dreaming all at once. 

When it passed, you stayed. Pressed close. His breath fanning by your cheek as you let your head fall back on his shoulder. Listening to his heart slow.

He kissed your cheeks and the side of your jaw, and let out a shaky exhale and laughed quietly. “Well,” he said hoarsely. “Guess I was wrong.”

You looked up at him, eyes bright. “About what?”

He met your gaze, blue still stormy, but warm now. Open.

“…Mermaids.”

this was actually a lot of fun to write since I don't usually write reader being this much of a top, and I hope the... anatomy part wasn't too confusing. my girl was putting in work! anyway don't forget to tell me what you think! it's what keeps me going like tinker bell when people believe in her!

You were perplexed to find out that you were the only person there, holding onto your skates and looking for a familiar redhead or America's golden boy, and coming up short. You were punctual, but typically, so were they. You checked your phone again, but there were no messages to indicate cancellations or lateness. Well, it was busy at this time of year. It was entirely possible that they'd gotten held up with the throngs of people dotted everywhere, last minute shoppers and holiday enthusiasts alike.

A sigh escaped you as you looked forlornly at the rink. You weren't very steady on your feet, the team's resident klutz, but you still wanted to have fun. Originally, you were planning to rely on Natasha's easy grace, ingrained in her from years of ballet, and Wanda's magic to keep you upright, but now you imagined yourself clinging to the edge of the rink as you tried not to bump into anyone or go ass over tea kettle.

In the space of a heartbeat, searching the surrounding area once more with waning hope, you did see a distinct figure in the crowd. Hands in his pockets, a gruff set to his jaw, was Bucky, cutting through the masses. He'd spotted you before you'd seen him, and he stopped in front of you a moment later. Snowflakes had gathered on his hair, residual from the last trickle of snowfall, but they were starting to melt now. They clung onto your own lashes, and you hoped mascara wasn't going to end up in twin tracks down your cheeks.

You rocked on your heels before him, clapping your mittened hands together in an attempt to be peppy. As you did, he opened his mouth, and you could just predict that he was going to say that you should both just forget it and go home, if no one else was going to bother coming.

"We don't know if the others are going to show up or not. Some of them might be late!" The excuse sounded thin even to your ears, but you still wanted to enjoy your evening, get into the holiday spirit, and try something new. You'd been needing a new hobby anyway, and despite your nerves, maybe this would be the one. You could hear excited shrieks from little kids zooming around on the ice, and you wanted to feel some of that joy wash over you, too.

With the barest movement of his shoulders that must have been a shrug, he didn't argue.

Ten minutes later, you were easing yourself onto the rink, one of your hands gripping the side, your knees knocking together as you tried to keep your balance. You'd never been the most poised person on the team, but you wanted to see if you could get to any semblance of being able to carry your weight by the end of the night.

Bucky stood with his arms crossed, letting people pass him to and from the rink, watching your slow crawl around the perimeter, before he sighed and slipped a bladed foot onto the ice.

You, for your part, were trying to be brave enough to take your hand off its white-knuckled grip on the side, but you weren't quite there yet. "It's like riding a bike…" you muttered to yourself. "Like I'm doing it without training wheels."

The sound of skates cutting through the ice nearby had your head snapping up, worried someone was going to crash into you. But no, it was only Bucky, drawing up in front of you, perfectly balanced. "Are you really having fun? This," he gestured to you cowering against the wall, "doesn't look like fun."

"Trying out a new hobby is always fun, Bucky. Even if you aren't good at it." you said defensively.

Then your attention shifted to his easy stance. He was skating backwards, slow and measured, as you slid forward with careful not-quite-steps. "Have you skated before?"

"You know this rink was established in 1936, right? I've been here once or twice."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh. no, I didn't think—I know you're doing this to humour me, Bucky. Being here when no one else showed up. I didn't think skating was your style."

"It's not. Not really. But it's not the worst thing in the world, either." He took in your posture, the way you were half hunched into yourself as you tried not to wobble. Then he sighed. "Do you want me to teach you a little bit? Just enough so that you can stand on your own. I'm not gonna have you doing anything crazy."

He loosed a breath at the shine in your eyes. "Really? You'd do that?"

"Yeah. It's not a big deal."

But it was, to you. You never asked Bucky for help. It wasn't about pride, it was about not wanting to bother him. While you'd happily ask for pointers or assistance from the rest of the team when you needed it, you had never wanted to take up his time. "Okay. What do I do first?"

"Well, you're gonna let go of the wall."

In response, you held on tighter. "No, I can't. I'll definitely fall down."

Bucky shook his head. "No, you won't."

He skated in a wide, lazy half circle until he was standing beside you, going the same direction. "Just put your arm through mine. I'll at least keep you upright instead of folded in half."

"But if I slip, I might take you with me!" you protested.

He gave you a little smile. "I'm more solid than that. Don't worry so much."

His hand was in his pocket, but he jutted his elbow out, allowing for you to slide your arm through his. Your mitten skimmed the wall, hesitant, but you did as he said and let go. He started to move forward and you jerked along with him, your free hand coming to grip at his bicep. "Slow! Go slow!"

You'd never heard the laugh that escaped him before, light and airy, like he didn't have a care in the world. "I am going slow. I think old people can move faster than this." he teased.

It took twenty minutes before you could skate by his side at a decent speed. You were still some of the slowest people on the rink, circling the edge of it and staying out of the way, but your legs weren't so locked up, and you weren't pinning his arm around yours anymore, though you were still loosely linked.

"You wanna try the next step?" he asked, his free hand coming up absently to tuck the end of your scarf back into the collar of your coat.

"What's the next step?" A note of suspicion entered your voice, as though you believed he was about to fling you across the center of the ice in some death-defying figure-skating move only seen on TV.

"We're gonna move away from the wall. I don't want you to use it as a crutch. Don't worry, I'll still be next to you, okay?"

He sounded so sincere, like he believed you could do it, if you just got out of your own head and trusted his words. You dipped your head in a nod, looking down at the tips of your skates. "Don't look at your feet. You'll definitely psyche yourself out." he said.

And then he was pulling his arm out of yours. "Hey, woah, wait! What are you doing?" you exclaimed, immediately teetering as you tried to grab him back.

His smile was easy, and you caught the white of his teeth, a pearly gleam. He held out a gloved hand to you. "It'll be easier for me to lead you like this."

You looked between his hand and his face, the idea slow to click. Oh. "Um, okay," you said, uncertainly.

Your hand found his, the black leather stark against the mustard yellow of your mitten. Then he was skating backwards again, smoothly coaxing you from the wall, his eyes on yours. You were sure he was trying to keep eye contact with you to prevent you from looking down. You had no idea how he was anticipating whether or not people were in his path. Super soldier reflexes, perhaps. "There, you got it, see? You're a natural when you're not overthinking it."

Natural was sugar coating it. Heavily. But you'd figured out how exactly to move your legs, to glide a little like he did. You stayed away from the middle of the rink, but he had you weaving around and between people before long, alternating between guiding you with his back to the rest of the rink, and skating by your side.

Every time you felt yourself wobble, your hand tightening around his in fear, he tugged you in a way that had you fixing your stance, like an owner pulling their dog's leash. He corrected you that easily, without having to say anything out loud, just righting your body with his own, guiding you like a partner.

And then you realized, you were having fun. With Bucky. You had been all bluster before, saying that you thought it would be a good time. Without the promise of Nat and Wanda to keep you standing, you'd been dreading it, though you hadn't wanted to let him know that. But here you both were, side by side, skating with seeming ease. It was almost cozy. The air puffed out of your mouth in white clouds as you went, concentrating less and less with each pass. The less you focused on skating, the less challenging it became. But with it came with an increasing focus on something else. Rather, someone else.

Bucky. Immovable and steady next to you, just like he'd claimed.

The way he moved, paired with what he'd let slip earlier, had you picturing a time decades in the past. Bucky, before all that happened to him. Making Steve tag along, still his slight and skinny shadow. Skating right up to pretty girls and saying, "You look like you need a little help, doll. Let me teach you!Promise I'll catch you before you fall!" with a wink, and it made your heart clench in your chest. You wondered where he'd learned to skate, if he'd practiced tirelessly or had just been naturally good at it. But now he was here with you, and any bravado he may have had once was gone, a relic of time lost. Anything that was left was genuine.

"Do you want to try something else?" Bucky's voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you glanced up at him.

"As long as you're not expecting much. I'm not going to attempt to skate backwards like you."

"I promise it's not that. Just trust me a little, okay?"

You nodded and allowed him to guide you towards the center of the rink. He stopped in front of you, and you looked at the little shavings of ice that countless skates had made in haphazard lines. "This will be easier than you think it will. Just don't get in your own head about it." he said.

And then he was bringing arm up, your hands still interlinked, and he was slowly spinning you. It started carefully, measured enough that you didn't lose your balance, but every time you made it back to facing him, he spun you again, faster and faster, until you felt a little bit like a whirling top. But you were giggling, feeling the thrill of it, knowing that he wouldn't let you topple. When you came to a stop, your hands flew up to his chest to steady yourself, and you felt yourself flush, both from the cold and from being suddenly so close. "Sorry," you mumbled, though you didn't move.

"It's okay." His voice was soft. His gaze was steady on yours, attentive. He didn't comment on your flustered state, didn't move away, just stayed still and let you take the lead.

You were starting to feel the warmth of his body through your mittens, from how long you'd been spaced out. The realization had you snapping out of it. "I, uh—do you want to get some hot chocolate? I think I'm all skated out for one day."

"Sure. It's getting a bit late, anyway. Lead the way?"

It was a test, you thought, to see how well you could skate without being pulled along. Your hand found his, and you started to move, tugging him behind you as you went. You still weren't the most graceful, but you weren't toppling over, and you successfully dodged any oncoming skaters until you got to the exit.

When you'd both switched to your boots instead of your skates, Bucky tied all the laces together in a loose knot and carried them for you, following you silently to the hot chocolate stand. The line was shorter now than it had been at the start of the evening, and five minutes later your hands were cupping the paper cup as steam wafted from the lid.

You walked a little ways, side by side, the sleeve of your coat brushing against his. The quiet was companionable, comfortable. For a moment, you imagined how the night would have been if the others had shown up. Sam definitely would have ended up on his ass, and probably would have dragged at least one person with him. You imagined that you would have been clinging to the girls half the night, or else colliding with Steve at every chance, because you highly doubted you would have knocked him over, big as he was. You didn't know where Bucky would have fit in with the rest of the team. He probably would have stuck to the sidelines. He didn't exactly love the group outings, you knew. When you'd last done karaoke, he'd sat in the corner and stared into his drink rather than participate.

But you found that you'd enjoyed your time with him. He'd been the definition of chivalrous, you thought, humouring you and spending the entire time teaching you how to hold your own on the ice. He didn't have to do that, you thought. He could have been more firm, told you that he was going to head home rather than spend a few hours alone with you. But he'd stayed, and it meant more to you than you could have imagined. "Bucky?"

His head tilted in your direction, his eyes catching yours. The blue of them was so striking that you almost forgot what you were going to say. "I… I had a lot of fun. Thank you for sticking with me tonight. You didn't have to." You broke eye contact, suddenly shy, and sipped from your cup, trying not to yelp as the liquid burned your tongue.

When you dared to look at him again, you almost tripped over your feet, because he was still staring in your direction, his mouth forming a soft half smile. It felt… intimate. Something you weren't used to feeling with Bucky, of all people. You were suddenly warm all over, and it had nothing to do with the drink. "I had fun, too. And I told you not to worry about it. You're a quick learner. I bet next time you won't need any help."

"But if there was a next time, you'd—you'd be there too, right?" you asked, the words rushed.

He looked surprised for a second, before his expression melted into something that made you want to strip off your mittens and plunge your hands into the snow. "Yeah. yeah, I'd be there."

You sipped your hot chocolate again, at a loss for words and fighting a goofy smile. "Oh, wait, you've got some—here." Suddenly you were holding your cup and his, and he'd pulled his glove off. His thumb swiped at your top lip, the tiniest smear of cream coming away from your mouth. He wiped his hand on his pants while you silently combusted.

"Got it." he said, somewhat absently.

But he was still looking at your mouth, which made you look at his. "Are you sure?" Your voice came out breathless.

"Yeah, I'm sure. You're clean."

But then… you heard the thunk of the skates hitting the pavement a moment before you registered the leather of his gloved hand on one of your cheeks, and the warmth of his palm on the other. And then he was kissing you, mouth soft against yours, and you felt yourself going boneless, almost forgetting that you were holding two scalding hot drinks as you leaned into him. Your eyes fluttered closed, your mind completely occupied by Bucky tilting your face up for a better angle, your lips parting against his.

You felt like you were on fire, from the inside out, holding onto the cups for dear life even as you considered throwing them down onto the street to fling your arms around his neck. When he pulled back from you, your eyes were still closed for a second, two, before they opened and settled on his. The way he was staring at you made you feel like your heart was competing on the Olympics team for gymnastics, the way it tumbled and flipped. Your smile was instinctual, his thumbs stroking at your cheeks like you were fragile glass.

You were dimly aware of people weaving around you, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as you were, but you didn't care. It was like someone had shaken a snowglobe and you were right at its center, white flakes settling on Bucky's hair and yours, your breaths coming out in puffs. He kissed you again, too quick for you to reciprocate, before one of his hands dropped, plucking his cup from your grasp. He sipped from it without taking his eyes off of you. "It's probably a good thing that we were the only two that made it out here tonight, don't you think?" His voice was very casual. Far too casual.

Your brain struggled to catch up. "I—um, yeah…?"

And then, when you saw the mischievous glint in his eyes, it clicked. "Wait… Did you tell everyone else not to come?"

He couldn't stop the grin that broke out on his face. "Maybe. Just a little bit."

His other hand dropped from your face finally, and he stooped to pick up the skates again, while you analyzed this new information. "Just so we'd… Just so we'd be alone together?"

"That was the plan, yeah. I think it worked pretty well." He tipped his head back to finish his drink, then tossed the empty cup over your shoulder. It landed in the garbage can, a perfect shot. Then he reached for your hand. "Now I think I should get you home before you freeze."

Dazed and fighting a girlish giggle, you let him pull you along. Your silence didn't seem to bother him. He filled it easily, an explanation ready. "I've been dying to kiss you for ages. But you seemed sort of, I don't know… intimidated by me? I needed a chance to get you alone."

Butterflies ran rampant in your stomach. "I—I was intimidated by you. I am intimidated by you. You—you wanted to kiss me? Really?" Your words were stumbling all over each other, the question ending in a squeak.

He laughed, the richness of it like music. "God, you're cute. be careful, or I'll keep stopping you in the street to do it again."

He squeezed your hand as you walked on. Finally, you found your voice again. "Well, maybe I want you to do that." You were aiming for bold, but you didn't quite stick the landing, coming off as meek and flustered instead, which arguably, you were.

"Don't tempt me. I'm trying to be a gentleman. Though I will promise you a kiss goodnight."

You finished your own drink somewhere along the way, too giddy to feel the cold night air, the snow that brushed frozen fingers along your cheeks.

Keeping true to his word, when you reached the front stoop of your apartment building, Bucky let go of your hand to untie your skates from his, before dropping them on one of the steps. You made no move to pick them up yourself, because you were in his arms once more a second later. It made you dizzy, the glee you felt when he cupped your face again, his other hand on your spine, and kissed you slowly, until you saw stars behind your eyelids. It was criminal that you were still wearing your mittens, unable to fist your hands into the collar of his coat, but you supposed that now there would be more of this in your immediate future, so you let Bucky kiss you senseless as the snow fell, the world quiet around you.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked when he managed to drag himself away. His face was flushed, with cold or from you or maybe both, his eyes alive, the smile on his face so tender it made you ache.

You didn't trust your voice to come out hoarse, so you just nodded. He dropped a last kiss to your forehead, lingering for a heartbeat, before wrangling his skates.

And you stood on the stoop for a long while after that, watching him retreat down the sidewalk. Maybe ice skating was your new favourite hobby, now.

How does that song go, again? ‘When it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year’?

Yeah, he can sort of confirm. It’s been almost a year since he became your roommate.

How he got here is a tale for another time, because this one is about why he chooses to stay. Not the savings on rent. Not the great location and amount of natural light.

But because you remind him of why he’s fighting—to protect.

While his heroism is colored in very publicly blue spandex, yours adds warmth to the mundane. Quiet for those who aren’t friends with kindness, invisible to the blind of heart. But he’s super-human, so attuned to empathy that he notices all of that.

Realizes how you hang the laundry inside out—including his super-suit—so the sun doesn’t fade the colors. Listened to the crinkle of paper as you wrapped your Christmas gift to him last year, even when you’d only known him for a few weeks. Notices the way you murmur to your plants as you water them: a soft “you’re growing so well” while you gently touch a new leaf.

You’re always the first to check up on people, but also the first to disappear before someone can even finish asking “how are you?”

He thinks maybe because it gets more and more difficult for you to lie and say “good.”

He’d blame the season, but life finds a way to wither a spirit more than the winter’s cold.

Your day-to-day is a fight more fatal than the ones he flies into the skies for, because while he gets to subdue threats, yours come endlessly. The spring in your step persisted until summer rain, when you started smiling to convince yourself to persevere. Lovely conversations slowly retreated into a quiet “hey” as you walked past him in the living room, too burned out to exist.

His eyes miss looking into yours.

And because it hurts to witness, he does his best to help. Just like that same song—I’ll Be There For You—he swears it’s because you’re his ‘friend’. That’s what he told Ma when he called for her soup recipe, the one that seems to cure every chill.

When in truth, he communicates with all the languages available to show you how he feels: except the spoken word, which he’s supposedly good at.

Acts of service by brewing a pot of your favorite tea in the morning. Words of affirmations through post-its with smiley faces that should be antithetical to Pulitzer-winning journalism.

While you don’t come out of your shell enough for quality time, and physical touch begets the very emotions he’s trying not to let spill, the only language left is gift-giving. This time, it’s not just treats from a dessert place he thinks you’ll love.

It’s something bigger.

So thank heavens that Jimmy Olsen broke up.

Not that Clark’s happy for the end of yet another relationship for Jimmy (even though the man himself doesn’t seem too bothered by it), especially with Christmas around the corner, but Clark is grateful that his friend happened to have procured some rare goods in his effort to please his now ex-woman.

Two tickets to the Metropolis chapter of the Short ‘n Sweet Tour.

The photographer drops it on Clark’s desk like it’s some cheap tabloid and not one of the most sought-out items on the internet. Clark claps his shoulder and hugs him—the same kind whenever they bite into the lead of a century.

“You’re a lifesaver, bud. Thank you so, so much.”

“No problem, Smallville. Be grateful I didn’t scalp you.”

Unlike his friend, Clark is actually looking forward to attending. You were the person to get him to listen to the album—there’s something about the straightforwardness of it all that he finds refreshing, in a world full of pretend.

In a world where he has to pretend.

Pretend he’s not wearing the suit under the one he dons to work. Pretend he doesn’t harbor close-quarter feelings for a person he can’t lose.

Maybe Miss Carpenter will finally make an honest man out of him, after this.

“I have something important to ask.”

You’re instantly snapped out of your doomscroll at the dinner table. He’s standing at the other side, jaw locked, eyes boring into yours. Your gut expects the worst, the way he says those words.

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

Meanwhile, he aches at your response. Always so quick to concern others over yourself.

Clark swallows, dismissing the urge to care for and dote on you as an instinct that’s friendly. Platonic. Heck, paternal. Whatever it is that’s separate from the twist in his chest whenever he sees you crack an honest smile.

Your smile—that’s all he’s been working to get these days. The only curve he’d grade himself on.

It’s simple, but more special than comets—and he’s seen comets up close, flown next to them. Your smiles aren’t special because they don’t show up often, but because they’re proof that you’re sharing a moment of happiness with him.

“Yeah, no, everything’s perfect, I just—” he blubbers a little, chest tight with excitement, “just please tell me you’re free the weekend before Christmas.”

“Clark,” you deadpan, not without mirth, “I haven’t gone out in a month.”

“You went out yesterday?” he offers, trying to be gracious.

“It was a dentist appointment.”

“And you made it!”

You hide your smile behind the rim of your glass. His optimism is infectious.

“What’s up, anyway?”

There’s that way that he bites back a smile and you wonder if this man’s ever been hurt before. The answer is probably yes, but of course the metahuman is better at cultivating the enduring human spirit. His major arteries are probably infused with hope, or something.

You think that it’s cute. When you pretend that he’s adorable the way dogs are—harmless and entertaining—it’s a poorly masked survival tactic.

The alternative is to acknowledge the hitch in your heartbeat.

The alternative is losing the only safe place you have.

He’s the little big peace that live with you. By choice, not by force. A saving grace that never tires in coaxing you to eat full meals instead of leftovers. Your body somehow always obeys, stomach growling gently every time. Maybe it’s the tilt in his deep voice, a half-chiding half-pleading: “you gotta eat something that’s not scraps, sweetheart.”

God, that nickname hurts like an elbow to the rib. The fact that he calls you it all the time doesn’t make you immune, it makes you weaker at the sound.

And yet, you’re not doing anything about it. You won’t.

This? What you have with him? The dance where you and he spin closer and closer to each other?

You’d rather endure the uncertainty of the crash than the definite loss of him.

So yeah, he’s cute. That’s what you tell yourself: the only way you can stop that landslide of emotions you can’t afford to feel right now.

Not right now.

But he slides an envelope over the dining table, and the tension in your throat reminds you of job interviews. It tastes like rejection before it’s said out loud. You look at him, slowly put your glass down, and open the envelope.

Meanwhile, Clark’s blue eyes track your movements as if they’d tell him the future.

Precognition is not part of his skillset, but his mind reels anyway. Will you like his idea? Is this toeing too close to the line? What if you say no because you see him as a roommate, not a friend, and definitely never something more?

But then he sees it, the beginnings of a magic he’s been waiting for, and those thoughts are lost to air.

There it is. The gleam in your eyes, smile blooming like a flower in slow motion.

His heart rate nearly doubles.

“Merry early Christmas.”

“Clark, this is—”

“Gonna be so much fun,” he concludes when you can’t, voice soft. Confusion wracks your face, but he notices you look more alive in the midst of it.

And then, the best thing happens.

Chair legs scrape the wooden floors. He sees you lunge towards him, throwing yourself into his chest to give him a tight bear hug. You squeal. His arms waste no time coiling around you. Your voice is muffled against his button-down.

“I can’t believe it,” you pull away to look up, smiling ear to ear. “This isn’t a dream, right? We’re really going?”

Oh geez. You look so cute like this, head tilted up to meet his gaze, your smaller frame in his arms.

“Of course. Had to pull some strings,” he smiles back, hand patting your head. You don’t peel yourself off of him. The ease in which you let him touch you triggers heat to crawl up his cheeks. “But I know how much you wanted it. You queued online the entire day…”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You don’t understand how much this means to me.”

“Your alarm sound is Taste,” he hums, grinning. “I think I understand.”

The two of you share a laugh, but the vibrations from his chest and yours twist into an electric jolt—it makes you realize how close your bodies are.

You untangle first. Polite. He holds back a sigh at the loss, his own hands taking the long way home to his sides: brushing away your hair first, then sloping down your shoulders. The lingering sparks pierce through his force field. He can’t escape hyperawareness.

By the looks of it, you feel it too.

“Are you going to dress up?” He tries to diffuse the air, but the friendly words come out a little dazed, and there’s nothing light in the way he’s looking at you—he realizes as much.

“Maybe,” you smile. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

The days leading up to the concert sees your footsteps lighten up a little. Yes, life still spreads you thin, but you come home smiling at him again, and he thinks you’re going to be okay.

Here and there you do movie nights like you used to. Home Alone. The Holiday. Sure, they might not be anything new or gripping—often just a familiar backdrop to reconnection. You trade jokes like you used to, too: they might not be as boisterous as before, but just one sarcasm-laced sentence from you heals him like the sun.

One lazy morning, he wakes up to sizzling and a sweet smell. You’re making pancakes, humming Espresso loud enough for him to hear. He steals a dollop of batter just to get you to scold him.

“Stop eating uncooked food,” you playfully punch his right bicep. The ache he feels is near his left lung instead, an errant heart beat.

“You know I can never get sick of this,” he murmurs in reply.

D-Day arrives.

You trigger a perfect storm by showing off your outfit to him in the living room, spinning on your tiptoes. Glittery fabric and pretty shoes bring the album name to life: it’s short and sweet, in a color that makes your skin glow.

Turns out it doesn’t take much to send Superman’s world tilting off its axis. He thought he’d be used to it, having flown upside-down and stuff.

“How do I look?” you ask.

Like you can kill me and I’d say thank you.

“Really pretty, sweetheart,” he answers.

It was worth grovelling to Guy and the rest of the Justice Gang for this one night off. Worth the relentless teasing about “Big Blue asking for help ‘cause he needs to take a girl out on a date.”

Thank heavens they don’t know it’s not technically a date.

But the torment doesn’t end there, because when it comes to getting to the venue…

…everybody thinks you’re a couple.

It starts when you’re in line for the security check.

“Oh my god, love seeing a supportive boyfriend!” the woman behind you at the queue gushes.

You look at her, then at him, before shaking your head and politely correcting them: “no, no, he’s my roommate, actually,” only to be met with a knowing look and a hummed “sure, your roommate.”

And then again—

“How long have you been together?”

—and again—

“Didn’t know green flags still exist in this day and age.”

—and again.

“Tell me where you bagged him, girl, Hinge is a war zone!”

Clark lets you volley the misunderstandings each time.

He also helps you navigate through the crowded standing area. Your back brushes his chest several times, corralled by bodies to your left and right—you’re always grateful he’s built like that, but you’re especially thankful now. His bulk easily parts the throng of people while he holds your hand, fingers lacing with yours.

The warmth he brings is unlike the one enveloping the arena—instead of an explosive ready to blow, it feels more like a reassuring glow.

At this point, you’re sure you’re blushing.

Once you’re situated near the front, hands gripping metal barrier, a group of friends with matching tops standing next to you delivers the final blow:

“Careful, your boyfriend’s gonna get cuffed.”

Except instead of protecting you, he guides the hit straight into your chest, quickly cutting in before you can course-correct yet again. His words are loud enough to hear above the concert arena din:

“You wouldn’t mind if I did, would you, sweetheart?”

Call it a high or a losing your mind. Blame the screams that resound when the lights are turned low, or the devastating dimple bracketing his smile.

Because you shake your head, not in denial, but in letting go. The smile you shoot the friend group next to you is almost too easy to be just pretend.

“The handcuffs are gonna look so good on our bedpost!” you yell back through the noise.

You share a look with him, one of mischief and promise-you-won’t-tells. Catch the divot in his cheeks before the lights come back on.

The opening act’s drum beat amplifies the chaos. You’re too busy cheering with twenty thousand other people to notice Clark turning red.

For the first time in forever, your head is where your feet are.

There is no room for anxious thoughts—the sounds are deafening. When she came on stage, all that’s left are the music and lyrics, thrums from speakers reaching the floor. The vibrations flood serotonin into your bloodstream, and it doesn’t take long until you’re intoxicated without vice.

The crowd is a wild collection of bodies, limbs bumping and tangling in a unique dance that’s unified by one rhythm.

A song you know and love, performed live not a hundred feet in front of you.

You feel so secure standing in front of him. Clark is a steady shield from the movements of the masses, almost as if that’s what he’s there for, but he allows himself some leeway. A little sway in time with snappy beats. Low hums then short laughs then a blatant singing along.

All of a sudden, you’re completely unwound. Like you’re responding to his joyful calm.

It’s easy to tell yourself that the heat is from all over, not just his chest against your back.

Manchild comes on, and the people in your section has chosen to point at Clark for the stupid! slow! useless! chant—woe is the rare man in a crowd of mostly women. And despite him being the complete opposite of those adjectives, his kind soul takes it all in stride and laughs it off.

The expression is so earnest you find yourself smiling back twice as wide.

When the second chorus hits, he spins you around. That little move might have cured your high school trauma.

As the musical act continues, the energy settles into a comfortable kind of danger. Something reverberates in your body and it’s not the boosted bass. He places big hands on your shoulders on the slower songs, chin resting on the top of your head. His voice floats near your ear, an octave lower to the song being sung.

It’s comfortable because he feels like home, especially with his skin is against yours. Dangerous because he chips down walls that exist tokeep the both of you safe.

But caution has no place in a pop concert.

The two of you move side to side when Sabrina sings the holiday version of Nonsense. When did his arm wrap around your waist? Was that his mouth brushing against your crown? Your brain short-circuits in reaction.

‘Thinkin’ nonsense’ is just plain wrong. You’re simply not thinking at all.

By the time Juno is about to come on, you’ve lost your voice and your mind.

The lack of thought tells you it’s fine for him to hug you from behind like this—you’re a greedy girl, and the thought of never getting to feel him this close again is enough to make you mourn.

He loves so easily it feels like you’re easy to love. You don’t want that to stop.

Maybe it’s alright to act like he’s yours for just another hour.

Then it happens.

Someone with a lanyard attempts to peel Clark away from you, but he looks at you like he’s lost unless you reply. You smile in genuine excitement while hiding the fact that you feel naked without him near. The reprieve you get is his words, warm and for your ears only:

“Be right back, sweetheart.”

You hope he doesn’t see you shiver.

Not long after that, there are sirens and Sabrina’s sultry voice.

“He’s hot and tall? I’m sorry, we need to arrest him. The people standing behind you must hate you very much, sir.”

Clark’s face is all over the jumbotrons, handsome even in pixels. He’s slightly disheveled—from the intense amount of attention or the dancing, you’re not quite sure—but it only serves to make him that much more attractive.

You pray those hypno-glasses don’t fall off his nose.

“What’s your name?”

And so it goes: he mouths back his answer, she says it into the mic for everyone to hear.

“Where’re you from, Clark? Oh, Smallville. You sure are big, though.”

He grins bashfully above the crowd’s shrieks. You hear a faraway oh my fucking god he’s so cute! from behind you and the space between your ribs tighten.

But he looks away from the stage—you don’t know to what or where, it’s too far to tell. Then, through the jumbotrons, you realize he’s searching for something. For someone.

For you.

“Who’re you here with tonight, Clark?”

A near-blinding spotlight falls on you, and you see your dumbfounded face reflected on massive screens. Open lips, baby hairs sticking around your face, the works. You’re so caught unawares it feels like the club lights suddenly turned on, but about a hundred times more shocking than that.

“Hey pretty girl,” the blonde waves from the stage, coy smile on her lips. “You mind sharing your boyfriend just for this evening?”

Fuck the roommate explanation. You give her a smile and a thumbs up.

“Oh shit, that a yes?” she beams back. Her long skirt drops to the floor and the crowd screams out a deafening decibel.

Then she walks over to Clark who’s ushered near the stage, pink feathery handcuffs dangling from her hand.

“Have fun with those,” she says with a wink. Then to the crowd: “This song’s for Clark and his girlfriend!”

He’s the one who came up with the genius idea of flying you home.

Traffic getting out of Metropolis Stadium after such a large-scale event would be insane to navigate, even though neither of you would mind being stuck together in a stationary vehicle for two hours.

What started as a walk to a place secluded enough to take flight quickly turns into disjointed recounts of the show, your shoes and his clicking a pleasant beat on the sidewalk. He watches as you sigh out another part of the show you liked, something about the transition between Tears and Don’t Smile, but his mind is stuck in the past.

Namely a moment that happened an hour ago—as soon as he rushes back to your spot at the pitch.

You were singing along to every single dirty word to Juno.

Clark has never been so torn. There’s a rush at the thought of you letting him do the unspeakable, but totally singalong-able. Images of you under him in the pajamas he’s seen you in countless times, neck and shoulders marked up by his mouth like you’re his to claim, the soft skin of your thighs under his big, adoring hands while he parts them…

He nearly combusted with barely contained want at the sweet way you crooned out “I’m so fucking horny” like it doesn’t mean what it means.

And yet, despite the precarious concentration of so much blood in one place, it’s with happiness that his chest constricts, because you feel safe enough around him to have that much fun.

You went out with him tonight. Smiled, laughed even. Played along with the boyfriend-girlfriend act, even when the cameras are pointed at you for those few seconds.

The concert might be a gift to you, but you being present with him is his reward.

He stares as you speak. Even in the dim night illuminated only by passing cars and blinking green mans, he can see the colors returning back into your face. You have that glow about you while you talk about Juno again, twirling the handcuffs like you earned it.

Gosh, you’re so pretty, it hurts to breathe.

“Can’t believe she did a Superman pose for the—hey, are you even listening, Clark?”

“Nuh-uh,” he lets a weak smile take over his face, taking the opportunity to openly moon at you while his mouth lies with much effort. “Still a little high. I don’t think I’ve heard that many people sing along in unison, it’s actually quite heartwarming.”

“You’re the only one who’d find the humanity in collective horniness,” you chuckle.

A notification rings—your phone. You fish it out.

“All good?”

“Yeah, it’s just the group chat.”

Then he hears your gasp as you stop in your tracks.

“Holy shit.”

“What? What happened?” his brows stitch, wondering the worst.

“Clark, it’s—” you show it to him. He leans down to look.

Inside your phone screen is a jumbotron with his face on it. The clip cuts: first to him bashfully offering his name, then to Sabrina when he looks into the crowd for you, until finally it shows you, smiling and giving the thumbs-up.

He can only wonder if he looked so love-struck. The answer lies in the caption:

need a man to be down bad for me just like that

Sabrina’s voice rings clear through the little speakers: “This song’s for Clark and his girlfriend!”

You laugh. “Clark Kent. Pulitzer winner. TikTok star.”

In leaning down to watch what’s on your phone, he’s looking straight at you. Face close enough to feel your air. His blue eyes count your eyelashes, calculate the angle of your cupid’s bow, measure the mere distance it takes to kiss it with his—

But then he sees your eyes widen. You look at him, voice soft.

“Oh no.”

His response is even quieter. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Um,” you purse your parted lips, glancing down at the way your shoes and his nearly touch.

The answer almost makes his heart stop.

“Sabrina, she, uh, called me your girlfriend,” you whisper.

That she did. In front of a crowd of Metropolis’ thousands. In a video watched by a near worldwide million. His corner of the Planet’s bullpen is going to be chaos come Monday, but first he must quell the spark setting off all of his nerves at the thought.

You. His girlfriend. A thought he can’t say hasn’t crossed his mind, except that word doesn’t even begin to cover what he feels for you.

Suddenly feeling his throat dry up, Clark swallows and purses his lips. Steels himself just enough to say a few words. Just enough to muster familiar valiance.

Just enough to be honest.

“Can we make that real?” he asks.

Meanwhile you’re floating while standing still on some random street, trying to piece together what he said in a hundred different ways just to see if he means something else. A game of Scrabble that leaves you scrambling for alternate truths. Could he mean something else?

But no matter how many times you shuffle the sentence, there’s no other interpretation.

At that, you find relief. Then desire.

Not the kind that dances at the bottom of your gut like a flame—not yet, there will be a time for that, if you don’t mistake the look in his eyes. Now is the time for a desire that dictates the next beat of your heart. Where it arrives mindlessly before, it finds a pull now. A purpose.

A strength.

“You mean that?” you ask. The final sliver of doubt. A green exit sign.

A warm hand cups your jaw the moment your gaze falters to the outer corner of his shoulder, the touch rerouting your eyes back onto his.

“You mean so much to me,” he admits. The air shudders at the rumble of his voice. “More than a someone I’m splitting rent with. More than a friend.”

From this distance, you see his eyes speak.

“More than you know.”

There’s a little moment of permission—his nose brushes just shy of yours, lips parted. Lidded eyes ooze with quiet pleas. He makes them clear in the way his face leans closer to yours, separated by a hair.

And then you press into him, hand at the back of his head over tiptoed heels.

The kiss feels like coming home to something you’ve had all along: easy in its surrender, familiar with each pass of an eternal second. His lips are long overdue, gentle at first, but greedy after, as if he’s held back for longer than he thought possible.

But the timing can’t be any more perfect despite the wait. Your bodies say just that, meeting like magnets. His hands guide your torso against his, chest trapping against chest.

Did your toes leave the ground when he backs you up into a building wall? You’re not so sure—everything already feels weightless. All you know is you’re dizzy when your head gently knocks against brick, when he slants his face to kiss you that much deeper, when the sounds of his kisses ring in your ear…

He parts. Could’ve gone on forever, but something in him hungers to see the look on your face after.

And by golly, you’re beautiful.

Cheeks flushed—not from the cold. Eyes glazed—not from pregame bubbles that have long fizzled out. Breath wrecked—not from dancing.

He did all of that to you. An achievement he allows himself to be proud of.

“What do you say, honey?”

The nickname is a new taste on his lips, but his veins pulse with delighted agreement. A thumb idly strokes your bottom lip. You stare up at him.

Then your hands come up to rest on his biceps.

“Only because you’re not a manchild, Clark,” the reply is teasing, but your eyes are nothing but earnest. There’s a slight rasp in your voice that makes him giddy.

He’s smiling so wide as he presses a kiss on your jaw, then your ear, a low baritone sealing the deal that he had a feeling he was going to get when he first signed that lease with you.

“You bet I’ll always come a-runnin’ to you, though.”

“I have to go out of town and get some supplies, i’ll be gone for a couple of hours,” your boss announces as he walks from behind the Scoops Ahoy front counter. “And don’t go fooling around. Tend to our guest please” he demands, with a knowing look, as if he knows exactly what you and Steve do when he's not there. “Aye aye captain!” Steve replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes at your boss's rules.

As soon as your boss is out of your line of vision, you feel the presence of your brunette co-worker right behind you, he is so close you almost feel his broad chest flat against your back. “What do you want, Steve?” you try your best to sound annoyed so maybe he can leave you alone. “Oh, nothing! Just a little bored, I wanna have some fun…what about you?” you can hear the slick smile in his voice, you both know exactly what kind of fun he’s talking about. The kind of fun you had basically every week.

This always happens when it’s just you and Steve working, when Robin and your boss aren't there, you both end up going into the breakroom, ripping each other's clothes off and rutting into each other like you were feral, it was becoming a problem. Every single time you and Steve were in the same room, with no one else around, it’s like a switch flips inside of you.

“C’mon..I know you want it” he purrs, while stroking the back of your forearm, leaving goosebumps across your skin. After all of the time you guys have gotten together, he knows exactly what gets you going. You feel his breath fan across the back of your neck, that feeling in your stomach starts stirring, traveling down into your sex making you wetter and wetter.

“No. I told you the other day, that was the last time, Steven.” you argue, trying to convince yourself you don’t want this. He scoffed at the use of his formal name. He removes his hand from your arm, shifts from behind you, and stands next to you, he looks at you with that sexy, lustful look in his eyes, the look that always makes your skin burn. “You and I both know you don’t mean that.” he laughs, it pisses you off that actually he’s right. You turn to face him fully, you look into his brown eyes, and sigh in defeat. He knows exactly what to do to get you wet, all of your spots, where to touch and what to stay. Maybe it’s not that bad. One more time.

You tip your head down and grab the back of your neck staring at the dirty tile floors you stood on, “Go flip the sign.” you demand while walking into the backroom, you didn't see him but you heard him racing to flip the sign to ”closed” so you can both commit to your weekly “love-making” session. Your boss would be so pissed.

–

You sit down on the dingy couch that sat against the wall in the back room and wait for Steve to follow after you, flopping down right next to you, he immediately gets to the point and grabs your waist and sits you down on the growing bulge in his shorts and you straddle him, he grabs the back of your neck and smashes your lips against yours, you part your mouth so his tongue can dive inside, every inch of your skin was on fire and you needed Steve to cool you down. His swollen, wet lips left yours and met your jaw, trailing down to your neck, leaving kisses and little bites as he made his way to your collarbone.

You drag your throbbing sex across his bulge, you whimpering as you try to grind out the heat that built up inside you, and you feel your cotton covered pussy getting damper. Steve’s hips bucked up, rutted his clothed cock up against you, he left your neck to look up at your face twist up in pleasure, “Fuck, you’re so beautiful” he moaned out. You open your eyes and watch his chest go up and his head throw back into the cushion behind him, this was better than any porno you had ever seen.

You grab his warm hands, and slide them under your shirt, his fingers caressing your soft skin, tracing them over your lacy bra, “Can I…” he asked while stroking your hard nipples that were hidden by your bra, you take your bottom lip in between your teeth and nod. He grabs the hem and gently lifts your shirt off you and throws it to the other side of the couch, his lips part as he scans you, he does almost every time you fuck, but still end up getting bashful.

Steve grabs your waist and flips the two of you over, so that he’s on top, he sits on top of your hips, and reaches for the bottom of his shirt to tug it off, you sit up with your forearms to really take in the view. As much as he is a loser, he’s still so sexy. “What are you staring at?” he teases and tosses his shirt next to yours,“You, i guess,”you flirt. He lowers himself down, and hovers over you “Yea?” he asked seductively, you nod as he starts to kiss you chest, you shiver from the contact, he reaches behind your back and unclasps your bra, slowly peeling the garment off of your perky breasts.

His eyes darkened with lust, he grabs you right boob and starts kneading it softly dragging his thumb across your nipple and his hot, warm tongue licks a stripe across your left one, that move right there earned a sweet whimper from your lips, arching your back against him as he played with your chest. His pretty mouth sucking on your hardened nipples, circling his finger around them, “P-Please, Steve, oh fuck,” you almost scream out. He gives you the most smug look on face as he sits up from the work he was doing on your breasts, and hooks the elastic band of your shorts with his fingers and tugs them down.

He grabs your knees and spreads your legs open to get himself comfortable between them, so he can rub his fingers against the wetness that seeped through your white panties, his lips gap as he strokes your clit through your underwear, you’re about to cover your mouth with your shaking hand to muffle your moans, but he grabs your hand “Don’t cover your mouth, I wanna hear you,”

He slides your panties down your thighs and watches the wet patch peel off of your soaking wet cunt, his looks absolutely transfixed by your evident arousal. He grabs your panties and tucks them in his pocket as he uses his other hand to open your legs so he can get a nice view of your leaking pussy, you head falls back to the cushion, panting in preparation

He places his soft lips onto the skin of inner of your thighs, peppering kisses across your delicate skin, He licks his bottom lip and dives into you, licking a long, warm stripe against your pussy lips, your hips lift as you mewl out, but Steve pushes them back into the couch, lifting his finger to plays in the wetness seeping from your cunt, “That’s so hot..” he sighs out, circling his thumb around your swollen clit, and two of his fingers slowly in your hole, pumping them in and out.

You rasp out a little moan as he goes in for more and laps your sensitive pussy, you grab a handful of his beautiful hair and pull his head down, rocking against his face uncontrollably, that feeling in your stomach got bigger and your hips start to stutter, your legs are shaking, he whimpers against you from the pressure of your tugging his hair, that noise sent you over the edge, bucking his hips up into his face, whimpering out his name “Yes, yes, yes- Oh fuck-“ you scream out as your climax hits like a fucking tsunami.

You remove your hands from his hair and flop back onto the couch and sigh, panting from the biggest oragasm you've had in a while, Steve takes his fingers out of your pussy, sits up and looks at you in absolute awe, ”That was the most sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me” he says, his flushed red face is practically dripping from your arousal. You smile at him, then notice the rock hard bulge in his pants, that's begging for a release.

“Take off your shorts,” you say lazily, tapping his thigh, he nods vigorously, and takes off his blue sailor bottoms as fast a possible, add them to the pile of clothes at sat beside you guys, you almost drool at the sight of the outline of his big cock poking through his boxers. He got down and situated himself back in between your legs, hovering over you.

You reach out your hand to rub his raging hard on through the fabric of his boxers. Closing his eyes, he gasps softly as he bucks his hips into your fingers. You dip your hand into his boxers and grab his wet, hard dick, dragging your pointer finger across the slit of his leaking tip, he whimpers out a quiet “Fuck-“ as he ruts into your hand faster, gasping for air.

Pulling his dick fully out, and pumping your fist, gliding it up and with his sticky hot pre-cum, he’s biting his bottom lip, trying to hold back his pretty whimpers. He slides closer to you, settling his cock between your still wet pussy lips, you gasp from the contact, breath heavy and shaking, drowning in pleasure. You whine as Steve starts teasing your cunt, sliding his dick against you.

You grab his arms and pull him closer, your sweaty chests pressed up against each other, panting. He tucks his head into the nape of your neck and groans softly into your ear. You feel his fingers slowly pressing his cock in your pussy, as wet as you are, you still gasp at the feeling of his big dick stretching you out. You hear his breath hitch as he pushes himself deeper and deeper into your cunt, “Ah,” he gasps “You’re so- Fuck- tight” he sputters out, grabbing your hips and slowly starts rocking into you.

You lock your legs around his hips, as his pace starts to speed up, all you could hear in the room was skin slapping against each other, wet gushing noise, and loud moans pouring from your mouths. Steve sits up slightly and presses your hips down into the couch so he could get the angle to hit that spongy spot deep inside you, making you moan even louder.

Steves finger found your clit and began to rub circles around it, earning him a loud moan from your sweet lips, and you started to get that feeling twist up in your stomach, and you could tell he was about to come to by the way his thrusts get sloppy and sloppier, his pants and whimpers are louder, his hair is sticking to his forehead, as he shoves his hips against yours.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop- I’m almost there,” you gasp, lifting your hips to meet him, “Shit, me too,” he pants out, he pounds into harder, the couch is creaking underneath you. You back arched up into Steve as he fucks the living daylight out of you, rubbing your sensitive clit even harder, he starts to baffle out your name, little gasp and fucks, groaning into your neck. His hips start to stutter as you both cum, you start seeing stars and grasping on to each other.

Steve slowly fucks out the high, as you whine underneath him. He lies down on top of you, while you both come down from the insanely hot sex you had. You sigh and mutter our lazily “Ok, that was the last time.” Steve laughs into chest, “Yea, right.”

Every year, the most anticipated holiday arrives.

Christmas songs fill the air, the tree goes up, and presents are being wrapped.

Christmas had always been your favorite holiday. You looked forward to all the festivities; the chance to decorate the house with warm lights, bake cookies, play in the snow, and then cuddle up to watch a movie.

Everyone always seemed happier and jollier this time of year.

Everyone, that is, except for Bucky.

Bucky was like the Grinch of Christmas.

It was as if the light would dim in his eyes every time he saw decorations laid out or the first few flakes of snow. While you were online gift shopping, he would be in the other room, telling you that “we should save our money for other things right now, not expensive gifts.”

When you asked him to play in the snow with you, he would curtly reply with, “I don’t want frostbite.”

When you set up the Christmas tree and asked for help, he would stubbornly stand by the door, claiming, “I don’t want to mess anything up,” or “I don’t want to get in your way,” or simply, “I’d only ruin it.”

In most years, you would let him be and carried on by yourself. But this year, you wanted things to be different. You wanted him to take part in your festivities, to allow himself to be happy with you, to understand what it was like to spend the holidays with someone who loves him.

But so far, he hadn’t made a single effort.

“Hey,” you called out for Bucky, who was walking behind the couch. “Do you think you can help me grab the Christmas decorations?” Your eyes peered up over the back of the seat, flashing him a smile you knew he could never deny.

Bucky looked indifferent. “Where are they?”

“In the basement. They’re inside the bins that are tucked in the far back corner. It says ‘X-MAS’ written in big, bold Sharpie. You won’t miss it,” you explained.

He nodded and set his coffee cup down on a side table. As he opened the basement door, you called out again before he could disappear; “Oh! There are multiple boxes. Maybe five or six. Make sure to grab them all for me!”

After a faint, heavy, and tired exhale, Bucky went to retrieve the bins without another word. Heavy footsteps thudded repeatedly up and down the stairs, each bin being dropped in the middle of the living room with a heavy thud that made the coffee table shake slightly, and his building frustration only more evident.

A few minutes later, he begrudgingly retrieved all six boxes.

“There,” he said gruffly. “That everything?”

You smiled, trying not to push. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. His gaze flicked briefly to the boxes, indifferent and uninterested, before looking back at you.

“Call me if you need anything else,” he muttered, already reaching for his cup and turning to the hallway.

“Bucky?” you called out softly before he could go.

He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“You could... stay? Help me unpack a little if you have nothing else to do?”

And you knew he had nothing else to do.

An exasperated sigh left his lips, and you already knew where this was going, but that didn’t mean you were going to stop trying.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he said, strained. “You’ve already got a system for this kind of stuff. I don’t wanna mess it up.”

And there it was.

You shook your head quickly, already kneeling beside one of the boxes, silently trying to invite him in. “There are no rules. You just take things out of the box, and we’ll figure the rest out together.”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, unconvinced.

You grinned anyway, feeling determined as you lifted the lid off the bin. Christmas-colored tissue paper spilled over the edge, followed by a tangled string of lights. “Just grab the first thing you see, and we’ll start from there.”

He reached into the box, hesitating as his fingers caught on the tangled string of lights. He lifted them out carefully.

“Lights,” he muttered. Then he looked at you. “More electric bills.”

You tried to ignore him, laughing it off. “Try setting them up somewhere, Buck.”

You watched as he stood up with a tired groan, glancing around the room as if searching for the quickest place to be done with them. Eventually, he approached the bookshelf, draping the strand along the top of it, uneven and loose, letting one end dangle down the side.

He didn’t even bother plugging the lights in.

“There,” he said, taking a step back to admire his half-assed work.

Your smile dropped a little, but you reminded yourself that this was him helping—that this was more than he usually did. Even so, you couldn’t stand here and be ecstatic as you looked at the lights. It was crooked, careless, and set up like an afterthought. You wished he had taken a second longer, or at least tried asking where they should go.

You glanced at him, hoping he would rethink his effort, but he was already rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze fixed anywhere but you.

“Are you sure you still want me to help?” he asked, but it wasn’t because he needed reassurance.

It was the classic Bucky way of trying to get out of it.

“It’s okay,” you said, forcing a smile. “We can keep going.” You reached back into the box and pulled out a strand of garland, holding one end out to him. “Can you hang this up? Maybe along the stair railing?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Your smile brightened just slightly, handing him the garland. “Let me grab some tape.” You walked over to the cabinet, grabbed the roll of scotch tape, tore off a piece, and handed it to him.

Bucky took a few steps up the stairs and lazily taped the garland in place. It drooped in the middle, uneven and already half-sliding down.

“I don’t think we have enough,” he frowned at it. “It’s drooping weird.”

“We do have enough,” you mumbled quietly. “You just weren’t spreading them out right…”

You two continued on anyway. He plucked some random festive decoration from the box and set it on the coffee table without even looking at what it was. One of your matching stockings ended up tossed over the arm of the couch, and he laid the tree skirt in the middle of the living room as if it were a rug.

Each attempt felt rushed, as if he were checking items off a chore list instead of having fun with his partner.

Still, you thanked him every time. You tried to laugh when he muttered under his breath, trying to make it lighthearted. You pretended not to notice when he checked the clock or when he stood off to the side, arms crossed.

Eventually, you moved on to your favorite part of decorating.

“The tree,” you announced happily, unboxing the biggest, final box.

Together, you hauled the pieces out and assembled it in the corner of the living room. He held the base steady while you slotted the branches into place. When you stepped back, the bare tree stood between you—plain and waiting to be decorated with all the colorful ornaments and warm lights.

You reached into another box and pulled out the first ornament, smiling fondly despite everything.

“This one’s my favorite,” you said, holding it up. “My mom gave it to me years ago. She used to put it right at the front.”

You hung it carefully on a branch, adjusting it so it sat like how you remembered.

Then you lifted another one, giggling at it. “I made this one when I was in like, kindergarten,” you chuckled, raising it so he could see how ridiculous and wonky it looked. “It looks silly, but I’ve kept it all these years. I can’t get rid it of now… it’s special, you know?”

Soon, you were talking without realizing it—about where each ornament came from, who gave it to you, which ones always went near the top, and which stayed low. The entire time, Bucky lingered nearby, holding a handful of hooks. He passed them to you one by one, quiet and hardly present.

“Buck,” you smiled softly at him, grabbing another hook and inserting it into an ornament. “I know this kind of stuff isn’t your favorite, but it means a lot to me to have you here.”

Bucky’s eyes stayed down at the hooks, and he felt stiff.

“It’s just…” you continued, oblivious. “I kept thinking how fun it would be to do all of this together. Go gift shopping, maybe grab hot chocolate after. We could also make snowmen and stuff. Or have people over for the holidays—my family and our friends, just a small dinner—”

“No,” he cut you off flatly.

You paused, still holding the ornament between your fingers. “No?”

“I don’t want all that,” he replied, sharper now. “Crowds, shopping, people in the house. It’s—” he shook his head just thinking about it. “It’s too much.”

Your smile wavered. You understood Bucky not being big on shopping and crowds, but at least he was here. You didn’t want to push your luck too much, especially while you still had him.

“It doesn’t have to be all at once. We could just—”

“I said no,” he interrupted, exasperated. “I’m sorry. It just—it… doesn’t sound fun to me, doll.”

The words hurt you more than he seemed to realize.

This entire time, you had been forcing a smile because, finally, your boyfriend was participating in something festive. You tried to convince yourself that he was trying for you, but in matter of fact, he hadn’t been trying at all.

The half-assed decorations, the constant mumbling and sighing—it was all just a chore to him.

“You doing festive activities with me isn’t fun for you?” you asked, broken.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, already rubbing his temple. “I just don’t get why you need all this. Decorations, dinners, shopping—it’s... it’s all unnecessary.”

“Are you serious, Bucky?” you looked down at the ornament, your voice shaky.

He frowned. “What?”

“You really don’t see it, do you?” you said, lifting your head up slowly with a frown. “This isn’t about the decorations, or the shopping, or any of that.”

“Then what is it?” he pressed, genuinely confused.

“It’s about wanting to share something I love with the person I love!” you snapped, your voice breaking. You raised the ornament, practically shoving it in his face.

“It’s about wanting you to be here with me instead of acting like everything that makes me happy is an inconvenience.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and he set the hooks down on the side table. He opened his mouth to respond, his hands lifting slightly as if he were trying to calm the situation.

“I’m just saying—”

“No,” you cut in, trying to hold back from crying, though it was already too late as a stray started to spill down your cheeks. “You’ve said enough and you’ve done enough.”

You turned away from him, pressing the ornament back onto a branch roughly, making the tree shake slightly. Your hands trembled as you spoke again, the words fumbling out in one incoherent, stuttering mess, just trying to lay the frustration out on the table.

“For years, Bucky, I-I’ve let you do your own thing for Christmas,” you said. “I never pushed, and I never complained. I let you disappear into your room or sit it out while I decorated the entire house by myself.”

His body stiffened, and guilt flickered on his face.

“But this year,” you continued, your voice cracking, “I just... really wanted you to be happy with me. I wanted us to get into the holiday spirit together—and you can’t even get through decorating a tree without acting like it’s torture!”

“Sweetheart, I—”

“You’re not even trying,” you snapped. “You’re just dragging your feet so you can say you did something, and I keep trying to remind myself that what you’re doing is enough because I don’t want to ask for more than what you want to give me!”

Bucky had nothing to say.

You just stood there, shoulders shaking from trying to keep yourself together as you stared down at the ornament box. The colors, once vibrant and warm, were all blurred together as tears dripped down from your eyes and onto the wooden floor.

You felt him take a step closer to you, resting a hand on your shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something—though you didn’t want to hear any of it.

You moved away, your feet moving before you could think as you grabbed your coat off the rack and slipped your boots on.

“Wait—” Bucky reached out, trailing after you. “Hold on—wait, where are you going?”

“I can’t—I can’t be here with you right now, Bucky,” you snapped, facing him with hurt written all over your eyes. “Just give me some space, okay? Can you at least give me that?”

Bucky stopped in his tracks, his hand slowly falling to his side. He didn’t know what to do, nor what to say. He watched you stand there, visibly hurt, shoulders shaking, and barely holding yourself together—and for the first time, it clicked that this wasn’t just about Christmas. It was about him. It was about how every time something mattered to you around the holidays, he treated it like a threat instead of an invitation.

He wanted to say something… an apology, an explanation, or a promise just to get you to stay. But every word he thought of sounded wrong.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m trying.”

“You know this stuff is hard for me.”

“Okay,” he said instead, quietly and regretfully, as his voice was barely above a whisper. “Take all the space you need. I’ll be here.”

And of all the things he could have said, those exact words were the ones you didn’t want to hear. You wanted him to pull you back in despite your words, to pick the ornaments back up and finish decorating the tree with you, smiling as Christmas music played in the background.

But he didn’t.

So, without another word, you opened the door and left.

You thought going out would help.

You tried wandering through crowded stores, letting the noise and lights distract you from yelling at Bucky. You bought things you didn’t need, things you had planned to pick out together, just to give your hands something to do and your mind a place to settle.

But none of it helped.

If anything, it made it worse.

Every decorated storefront, every couple laughing over hot chocolate, only reminded you of him.

When you finally unlocked the door and stepped inside, you froze.

The house was completely different.

Soft Christmas music drifted through the living room, your favorite songs that you had blasted every time you decorated by yourself. The string lights were on, actually plugged in and on, and strung neatly along the bookshelf. The garland was taped properly along the staircase railing, and the matching stockings were hung perfectly side by side on the mantelpieces by the fireplace.

Everything looked beautiful.

It looked and felt like Christmas.

Then your eyes landed on the tree. It stood in the corner, just as you had left it with the few ornaments that you had hung up yourself. Bucky stood next to it, poking his head from around the corner.

His face lit up slightly at the sight of you, and he physically stopped himself from reaching for you—just in case you still wanted your space.

“You’re home,” he breathed, giving you a shy and hesitant smile. His eyes trailed down, noticing the shopping bags in your hands. “Did... did you have fun?”

You gently set the bags down, removing your coat and boots as you stepped in, warily.

“Bucky...” you looked around. “You did this?”

He looked around apprehensively.

“Uh—yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “After you left, I kind of just stood here by myself and figured I’d give this decorating thing a try.” He waved his hand around as he explained. “It took a lot of trial and error, but I tried to remember how you did it, and I did my best to replicate it. I’m sorry if it’s not good.”

You stepped closer, your teeth caught your bottom lip as you took in the living room.

“Bucky, I...”

“Come here,” he said, nodding to the tree. “I didn’t touch the tree because I knew it was your favorite part, and I didn’t want to take it away from you.” He bent down, pulling an ornament out of the box and holding it up to you.

He forced a smile, though you could see the slight wobble in his lips—how anxious he looked. “Maybe we can try decorating it together? If you’ll still have me?”

You hesitated before reaching out and taking the ornament from his hand.

“Yeah,” you said softly, a small smile finally breaking through. “I’d like that.”

You turned towards the tree and carefully hooked the ornament onto a branch near the front. Bucky followed your lead, choosing one from the box and hanging it a little lower, glancing at you as if checking whether he had done it right. When you nodded to show your approval, his shoulders eased just slightly.

The only sounds that filled the comfy living room were the soft songs of the holiday music, the brush of ornaments touching branches, and the gentle creak of the wooden floor as you moved around the tree together.

Then Bucky cleared his throat.

“I’m... not great with the holidays,” he mumbled, just barely speaking over the music. “Never really have been.”

You paused, listening.

“I grew up in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn,” he continued, placing another ornament on a branch. “Back in the forties. We didn’t have much. No big trees or piles of gifts. My family, when they were alive, we tried to make do with what we had. Thin socks, or secondhand books with a bunch of stains or torn pages.”

He hung up another ornament, his voice going even quieter as he recalled his memories. “There weren’t fancy dinners either, just whatever we could manage. And the snow...” his jaw tightened. “Snow didn’t mean magic... or winter wonderlands, whatever the people called it. It meant cold apartments, frozen pipes, and worrying about whether the heat would last the night—or if we had enough blankets.”

You frowned, gently dropping the ornament in the box as you rested a hand on his arm. “Bucky...”

He flashed you a quick smile that was probably supposed to be reassuring, but it wasn’t. It only made you hurt for him even more.

“And then later,” he went on, “snow meant something else entirely. It reminded me of falling into a cold, freezing mountain of snow, blood everywhere... then being trapped.”

His vibranium fingers stilled against the branch.

“So when all this came around,” he gestured vaguely at the lights, the music, the warmth, “it didn’t feel joyful to me. It felt like being in something I didn’t belong in. Like I was pretending. All I was reminded of was how hard things were.”

He swallowed hard, searching for the right words.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like enjoying the holidays was an inconvenience. I just didn’t know how to be part of it.” He finally looked at you, his eyes soft, vulnerable, and searching.

“I want to try, though,” he added quietly. “I really do.”

Your heart sank a little deeper with every word Bucky spoke. The crooked, boyish smile on his face wasn’t a happy one. It was a smile filled with regret, heavy with bittersweet memories of holidays gone by.

You stepped into his space and wrapped your arms around him, pressing your cheek against his solid chest. He froze for a second, like he always did when emotions caught him off guard, but then his arms came around you—slow, careful, and warm.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed. “I didn’t know it was like that for you growing up. I just wanted to share something I love with you. I never meant for it to bring up all the bad memories.”

A soft, almost relieved sigh left his lips as he held you tighter, his chin resting against your hair. You could feel his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek; the warmth of him only made you melt deeper into his arms.

“Thank you for doing all this,” you said softly. “Thank you for trying. It means so much to me, more than you know. Y-you know Christmas is my favorite holiday...” you sniffled.

“I know, and I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured, his hand coming up to caress the back of your hair as he nuzzled you even closer. “I should have tried from the start. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky stiffened when he felt his shirt getting damp. He pulled away slightly, and his expression was so soft, it only made you want to cry more at how gentle he looked at you. He raised his hands up and caressed your cheeks softly, both thumbs wiping away the wetness.

“Hey, hey—don’t cry, baby girl.”

The way he spoke, so quiet and careful, made you want to hiccup and choke back a sob.

“Hey,” he cooed again, pulling you close. “I mean it when I say I want to be here with you, baby.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead before wiping at your tears again.

“I want to make new memories,” he added quietly. “New, happy memories this time. With you, our friends... I want to go out and gift you something personal instead of picking items off your wishlist. I want to have overly sweet cookies and hot chocolate with you. I want to go outside and make lopsided, uneven snow angels with you.”

You sniffled, rubbing your nose as you let out a weak chuckle. “They’re not lopsided... or uneven.”

A small laugh left his lips too, his finger brushing over your nose. “And I want to see your nose red from the cold and snow—not from crying.”

You nodded against his chest, and Bucky felt his heart clench. He brushed his thumb gently beneath your eye one last time before letting his hands settle at your waist, giving you a soft squeeze.

“Let’s finish decorating the tree, okay?” he murmured. “And after that, we’ll do all of it—the shopping, the cookies, the hot chocolate. Then we’ll bundle up and play in the snow.” He pressed a quick, gentle kiss to your lips. “And yes, sweetheart. They are lopsided and uneven.”

He wrapped a hand around your shoulder, gently turning you to face the tree again with a smile. He bent down, picking a clanky, weird looking ornament from the box.

“You made this one too?” he asked, chuckling at it.

You nodded. “In seventh grade.”

Bucky handed it to you with a gentle hand.

“Then show me where it goes, baby.”

thank you for reading this lil story, and merry christmas to those who celebrate!

Stupid heart, racing like you’re fifteen again.

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

And holy fuck.

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

Up. Veins popping.

Down. Abs clenching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches. Audible. Embarrassing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doorbell is a gunshot.

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

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

The hug is illegal.

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

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

Dinner is foreplay disguised as spaghetti.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I gotta go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cracks are spider-webbing.

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

The snow doesn’t fall. It attacks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your dad saves him for exactly forty-seven minutes.

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

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

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

Silence settles, thick and golden in the firelight.

You count to ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

The guilt hits like a bullet between the eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside, he’s louder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky steps in and the world tilts.

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

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

Guilt slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle.

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

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

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

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

“Buck, shit, get out-”

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

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

You see it. You see all of it.

And instead of screaming, you let your arms fall.

You let him look.

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

The growl that tears out of him is broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pulls you flush against him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pull his mouth to yours.

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

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

“Fuck… gonna make me lose it-”

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

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

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

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

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

You sag together, panting, water cooling around you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your back bows off the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful what you ask for, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then make it worth it again before sunrise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His metal hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb rolling your nipple slow and gentle, like he’s petting you to sleep. Flesh hand slips lower, two fingers spreading your folds so he can feel where he’s splitting you open, feel the slick mess leaking out around his cock every time he gives that tiny, sleepy thrust.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he breathes, voice filthy and adoring. “Hear how wet my baby is? That’s me inside you. That’s us. Never gonna pull out, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here, keep you plugged and dripping and mine.”

You whimper, half-asleep, hips rolling back on instinct, chasing the gentle pressure. He hushes you closer, metal arm tightening just enough that the cool plates press deliciously against your nipples.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he croons, lips against your pulse. “Let me take care of you. Let me love on this sweet pussy till you pass out on my cock. You’ve been so good for me, taken everything I gave you, still clenchin’ around me like you can’t get enough.”

Another slow, lazy glide in and out, just an inch, just enough to make you sigh and flutter around him. He moans softly, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that. Fall asleep on me, baby. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you full. Dream about me stretchin’ you open, yeah?”

Your body goes liquid, melting back into him, head lolling against his metal bicep. The last thing you feel is his mouth pressing soft, endless kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hair, and the gentle, steady throb of him inside you, like a second heartbeat.

“Aww, listen to you,” he whispers, voice thick with sleepy, possessive love when your breathing finally evens out. “My sweet girl, falling asleep with my cock buried to the hilt. Never lettin’ you go. Never.”

His own eyes flutter shut, arms locking tighter, metal fingers laced with yours over your belly, keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.

Outside, the storm screams itself hoarse. Inside, the only sound is the soft, wet pulse of two bodies refusing to separate, and the quiet, reverent whisper he breathes into your hair just before he drifts off.

“Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts, baby. Sleep tight. I’ve got you.”

And you both slip under, still joined, still dripping, wrapped in steel and skin and the kind of filthy, desperate tenderness that only comes after everything has already burned down.

The kitchen smells like bacon, burnt coffee, and the kind of tension that could power a small city.

Dad’s at the stove, spatula in hand, humming “Fortunate Son” like he’s in a different decade entirely. You’re perched on a stool in Bucky’s stolen shirt, legs swinging, trying to look like a normal daughter who definitely did not spend the night tangled up with her dad’s best friend.

Bucky is shirtless, because of course, leaning against the counter with his “World’s Okayest Sergeant” mug, pretending to read the cereal box while his eyes keep darting to you like he’s checking you’re still real.

Dad flips a strip of bacon with flair. “So, Buck. That guest bed treat you alright? I peeked in around six to see if the power had come back on. You were dead to the world, man. Didn’t even twitch.”

You and Bucky both freeze solid.

Your coffee mug stops halfway to your mouth. Bucky’s metal hand tightens on his mug so hard you hear the ceramic creak.

Because at six am, you were definitely in that guest bed. Wrapped around Bucky like a koala, one of his thighs between yours, his metal arm locked around your waist, your face buried in his neck, both of you dead asleep and very, very naked under the tangled sheets.

You thank every god you don’t believe in that Dad only saw Bucky’s side of the bed. That the blanket was pulled high enough. That you were on the inside, hidden against the wall. That Bucky sleeps like a damn statue when he finally crashes.

Bucky recovers first, voice suspiciously calm. “Yeah… uh, slept like a rock. Deep. Real deep.”

You nearly choke on air. “Yeah, Dad. He was out cold. Didn’t move an inch all night.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at you over the rim of his mug. “Funny. I seem to remember someone doing a whole lot of moving.”

Dad turns, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Bucky shrugs, smooth as gravel. “Nothin’. Just said the bed was surprisingly comfortable.”

You hide your grin behind your mug. Bucky’s foot finds your ankle under the counter and gives it a light kick. You kick back, harder. He pinches your calf with his toes. Game on.

Dad sets down plates with a clatter. “You two are weirdly chipper for people who almost turned into popsicles.”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time. “Adrenaline.” “Good cardio.”

Dead silence.

Dad blinks slowly, like he’s buffering. You both sip coffee like it’s the last drink on death row.

Dad finally shrugs and sits. “Whatever. Eat before it gets cold.”

Bucky slides into the seat next to you, thigh pressing yours like it’s an accident. It’s not. You “accidentally” elbow him reaching for the salt. He steals two pieces of your bacon. You flick a tiny piece of eggshell onto his plate.

Bucky mutters under his breath, “Real mature, trouble.”

You whisper back, “Says the guy who begged ‘please, doll, don’t stop’ at three in the morning.”

He inhales bacon wrong and starts coughing. Dad reaches over and thumps his back. “Easy there, pal. Chew.”

You pat Bucky’s back with way too much enthusiasm. “There ya go, old man. Small bites.”

Bucky glares through watering eyes, mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing or strangling you. “Keep it up. See what happens when your dad leaves for five seconds.”

You grin. “Promises, promises.”

Dad, chewing thoughtfully, waves his fork in a circle. “You know, you two are actin’ weird. Like… weird-weird. Like you’re speakin’ in code or somethin’. And Buck, where the hell is your shirt?”

Bucky freezes mid-chew. You freeze mid-sip. You both glance at your chest at the same time.

You recover first, sweet as pie. “Laundry mix-up?”

Bucky nods way too fast. “Yeah. Mine shrank. She borrowed it. Charity.”

Dad squints harder. “It’s three sizes too big on her.”

You chime in, “Fashion, Dad. Oversized is in.”

Bucky adds, “Very trendy.”

Dad stares for a long beat, then shrugs. “Kids these days. And old men pretending to be kids.”

Under the table, Bucky’s foot slides up your calf again, slow and deliberate. You retaliate by pressing your bare foot right against the inside of his thigh, inching dangerously close to territory that would get you both grounded for life.

His hand clamps down on your ankle like a vice. He mouths, “Behave.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

Dad looks up. “You two are awfully quiet again. Everything okay?”

You and Bucky answer in perfect unison, “Yep!”

Dad eyes you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing, then shrugs and goes back to his eggs.

Bucky leans in, voice barely a breath. “You’re lucky your dad’s here, or I’d have you bent over this counter before the bacon grease cooled.”

You grin, all teeth. “Big talk for a guy who begged so pretty last night.”

His metal fingers tighten on your ankle, just enough pressure to promise payback. You wiggle your toes against his inner thigh in victory.

Dad stands up, plate in hand. “Alright, I’m gonna go fight the driveway before the next wave hits. You two want anything from the garage?”

You answer quickly, “We’re good!”

Bucky echoes, “Real good.”

Dad pauses at the door, gives you one last suspicious look. “You sure? You’re both actin’ like you drank Red Bull instead of coffee.”

Bucky shrugs. “Just the bacon high.”

Dad mutters something about “weirdos” and heads out.

The second the back door shuts, Bucky’s on his feet, crowding you against the counter, hands braced on either side of your hips.

“You,” he growls, nose brushing yours, “are a goddamn menace.”

You tilt your chin, smirking. “And you’re a terrible liar. ‘Best sleep in years’? Please.”

He huffs a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Fine. Worst sleep of my life. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you sound when-”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Dad’s literally thirty feet away!”

He licks your palm. You yank it back with a squeak.

“Animal,” you hiss.

He grins, all teeth. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

You shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. “Go put a shirt on before Dad thinks we’re running a nudist colony.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “I’d put a shirt on, but someone’s wearing my favorite one. And looks way better in it than I ever did.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are on fire. “Flattery won’t save you when Dad notices the hickey on my-”

He kisses you quick and dirty to shut you up, then pulls back just as fast.

“Gotta go before I do something stupid,” he mutters, adjusting himself with zero subtlety. “Like bend you over this counter and give your old man a heart attack.”

You pat his cheek. “Poor baby. Blue balls again?”

He groans, backing toward the door. “You’re evil.”

“Text me when you get home safe, Grandpa.”

He points a metal finger at you. “Keep that shirt. And lock your window next time there’s a storm. I’m not asking twice.”

You grin, sweet as poison. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

He pauses at the door, eyes dark. “Keep telling yourself that, trouble.”

Then he’s gone, boots crunching through snow.

Dad yells from the driveway, “Buck! You forgot your damn shirt again!”

You look down at the stolen tee, hug it to yourself, and yell back, “Finders keepers, dad!”

Dad’s muffled grumble floats in: “You kids are so weird…”

You sip your coffee, grinning like an idiot, already counting down to the next blizzard.

Because yeah. There’s definitely gonna be a next time.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

By the time you finished your part of the setup, the training room didn’t look like a battlefield anymore. The overhead lights had dimmed to a soft bluish glow, and the air held that crisp bite of cold that made your breath curl faintly in front of you. The clones had done an incredible job; you could almost hear the wind under the hum of the ship. When you stepped forward, the floor responded with a delicate crunch. Artificial, sure, but it felt real enough that your heart kicked up with excitement. If you were feeling this giddy, you couldn’t imagine what he would do.

Rex waited by the entrance, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. “He’s on his way,” he said with the kind of barely-contained amusement that told you he was enjoying this almost as much as you were. “Told him there was a malfunction.”

“That’s the best you could come up with?” you asked, fighting a smile.

“General Skywalker runs toward malfunctions. Figured it’d get him here faster.”

You didn’t have time to argue. The door hissed open again, and the Force shifted a heartbeat before the familiar stride echoed down the hall. You stepped back into the middle of the simulated snowfall just as Anakin strode in, his cloak swirling behind him, his expression sharp and ready for disaster.

“What’s the—” He stopped. Completely. Like someone had grabbed the back of his armor and yanked.

The first flakes drifted down in front of him, melting the tension right out of his shoulders. His eyes widened, not with concern or commander-level calculation, but something unguarded and achingly young. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him quite this still.

“Is that…?” His voice dropped to a whisper he probably didn’t realize he was using.

“Snow,” you said, warmth curling through your chest. “Kind of. Clone-issue snow.”

He moved forward slowly, like any sudden motion might scare it away. When one of the flakes caught in his hair, he blinked, startled, and looked up toward the projector arrays as if they were performing some ancient miracle.

“Did you do this?” he asked, a smile tugging at his mouth even though he didn’t take his eyes off the falling white.

You tried not to sound too pleased with yourself. “Maybe I had a little help.”

Rex cleared his throat. “My part’s done. I’ll leave you two to it.” He gave you a knowing look and slipped out before Anakin could drag him into anything else.

Anakin stepped further into the flurry, letting it settle across his broad shoulders, his gloves turning white as he held his hands out. There was wonder in him, bright and untamed, the same spark you caught sometimes in battle when he flew like the Force itself was carrying him. But this wasn’t adrenaline. This was something softer.

“You asked them to make this for me?” he asked, finally looking at you. You felt the moment he touched your presence in the Force, the quiet warmth of it brushing against you like fingers grazing your cheek.

“I thought you’d want to know what it feels like,” you said. “At least a version of it.”

His breath left him in a soft laugh, the kind he only ever gave you after a victory or a long night when the galaxy stopped demanding pieces of him. Snow clung to his lashes, his smile brightened by it, and he looked like someone momentarily freed from every burden he carried.

Anakin reached for you without hesitation, lacing his gloved fingers with yours. “Come here,” he said, tugging you into the center of the room beside him as if he couldn’t stand to experience this without you. The cold swirled around both of you, settling on your shoulders and hair, and he turned toward the drifting flakes like he was trying to memorize each one.

“You really did this for me,” he murmured, disbelief still threading his voice. “Stars… you have no idea how much this means.”

And standing there with him, surrounded by artificial snow on a Republic cruiser in the middle of a war, you realized you did know. Because the Force wrapped around him with a quiet pulse of gratitude—and affection so warm it made your breath catch.

“Wait until you see what happens when you step harder,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder.

He arched a brow. “What? Does it explode?”

“No. Crunches.”

He blinked, then grinned like you’d told him he could fly a brand-new starfighter. “Oh, I have to try that.”

And before you could say anything else, Anakin took an eager hop forward just to hear the snow crunch under his boots… then laughed out loud, a clear, unrestrained sound that filled the whole room. You watched him take another step—slower this time—just to feel the give of the artificial snow beneath his heel. The way his eyes lit up shouldn’t have hit you as hard as it did, but there was something about seeing him like this, unguarded and utterly present, that tightened your chest.

He crouched and scooped a handful of the stuff, letting it sift through his fingers in slow, fascinated drifts. “I always wondered what it felt like,” he said quietly, as if speaking too loud might break the spell. “I used to imagine it on Tatooine. Thought maybe it would feel soft. Cold in a good way. Like…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Like a world that didn’t burn.”

You stepped closer until your shoulder brushed his. “Looks like you weren’t far off.”

He glanced up at you, a crooked smile forming, but his eyes held something softer beneath it. Gratitude, yes, but also an ache—like he couldn’t quite believe anyone would go out of their way to give him something so simple and so impossibly out of reach from the life he’d known.

A gust of chilled air stirred the flakes again, and he straightened, brushing off his gloves. “Alright,” he said, his tone shifting into something suspiciously mischievous. “If this stuff crunches, does it pack? Because if it packs…”

“You’re not making a snowball,” you warned immediately.

“You don’t know that.”

“Anakin.” You pointed at him, already seeing the way he was trying—and failing—to look innocent. “This is meant to be sweet. Wholesome. Heartwarming. Don’t weaponize it.”

He lifted both hands in surrender, though the grin spreading across his face betrayed him. “I would never weaponize something so pure.”

You stared at him.

He caved instantly. “Okay, I might weaponize it a little.” You groaned, but he was already grabbing another handful of snow, trying to compress it into a ball. The moment it fell apart in his hands instead of holding shape, he blinked at you with exaggerated betrayal. “It doesn’t stick.”

“Of course it doesn’t stick,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “This is clone-made snow, not a battlefield supply crate of miracles.”

He made a thoughtful noise, nudging the pile with his boot, then tilted his head like he was studying an enemy flanking maneuver. “I could modify the emitter density. Or tweak the humidity regulators. Or—”

“You’re not allowed to rebuild the snow,” you said quickly. “Just enjoy it.”

He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to argue some technical point, then stopped. His gaze softened in a way that always made you forget how to breathe. “Alright. I’ll enjoy it. With you.”

The sincerity in his voice hit you harder than anything else he’d said, and he must’ve felt the spike in your heartbeat because he stepped toward you, closing the small distance the two of you always pretended didn’t matter. Snow drifted between you like quiet little sparks.

He let his gloved knuckles graze your cheek, brushing away a stray flake that had melted against your skin. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I mean it. No one… no one ever tries to give me things like this.”

You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, not pulling him closer, just grounding him. “You deserve moments like this. Not just battles and orders and pressure from ten different directions.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You make it sound like I’m difficult.”

“You are difficult,” you said, smiling. “But you’re also worth doing things for.”

The warmth that brushed your mind through the Force wasn’t subtle. It felt like the way he looked at you when you weren’t supposed to notice—bright, steady, fiercely protective. It wrapped around you like a cloak, as if he was trying to return the gift you’d given him in a language only the two of you spoke fluently.

Anakin inhaled sharply, a familiar shift in his posture telling you he was about to say something dangerous, something honest, something he wasn’t quite ready to let the universe hear. Instead, he leaned in just enough that his forehead nearly touched yours. “You keep doing this,” he murmured. “Giving me reasons not to be afraid of wanting more.”

Your breath snagged, but before either of you could push that line any further, a flurry of snow dropped from one of the ceiling ducts directly onto his head—no doubt a final, chaotic gift from the clones who’d set this all up.

He sputtered, hair dusted white, and you burst out laughing. He narrowed his eyes at you, but his lips twitched into a smile he couldn’t contain. “Alright,” he said slowly, like he was plotting something borderline illegal. “If I’m covered in snow because of you…”

“You’re not throwing anything at me—”

“Oh, I’m definitely throwing something at you.”

“You can’t, because it doesn’t pack!”

He didn’t care. He grabbed a handful anyway and lunged, and you yelped, spinning away just in time for it to disintegrate midair and puff harmlessly across your back. He stopped, blinking down at the useless powder, then looked up at you with an expression so offended you couldn’t stop laughing.

“It didn’t even hit you,” he said, devastated.

“Nope.”

He marched toward you with purpose, snow swirling around him like a cloak. “Fine. If it doesn’t throw, I’ll just have to catch you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.” And the look in his eyes—gleaming with playful challenge, brightened by falling snow—told you he absolutely meant it. “Run,” he said, voice low and delighted. “Before I prove it.”

You didn’t plan to, not really, but your pulse kicked anyway… because with Anakin Skywalker grinning at you like that, the chase was half the fun.

You didn’t mean to bolt. Really, you didn’t. But the second Anakin said run in that low, delighted voice—the one that meant he’d already decided he was going to catch you—your body reacted before you had time to think. You spun on your heel and tore across the training room, boots kicking up little bursts of artificial snow. The flakes swirled in your wake, and your laughter echoed off the walls like a dare.

Behind you came the unmistakable sound of him giving chase.

He wasn’t even trying to be quiet. His footsteps were fast and confident, punctuated by the soft thrum of the Force as he pushed himself just enough to keep the distance agonizingly small. You could feel him there, right at the edge of your awareness—warm, bright, burning with playful energy that practically wrapped around your spine.

“Don’t think you can outrun me,” he called, breathless but thrilled.

“You don’t know that!” you shouted back.

“I absolutely know that.”

You dodged behind one of the training barriers, hoping to use it as cover, but he read your move before you made it. The Force brushed against you like warm fingers at your shoulder, and you swore you could feel him smiling.

You ducked left. He cut you off.

You spun right. He matched you perfectly.

“Anakin—”

He didn’t let you finish. One strong arm hooked around your waist, momentum sweeping you off your feet with a startled gasp. He caught you cleanly, lifting you just enough that your boots skimmed the snow. You twisted in his grip, ready to shove him playfully away, but he was faster, pressing you back against his chest as he laughed into your hair.

“I win,” he murmured.

“I wasn’t aware we were keeping score!”

“Oh, I always keep score.”

Before you could argue, he shifted his weight—and your balance along with it. The two of you went down in a slow, tumbling fall, snow blooming beneath you like a soft cushion. You ended up on your back, breathless, the cold seeping pleasantly through your clothes while Anakin hovered over you, bracing himself on one arm to keep from crushing you.

His hair was dusted white, cheeks flushed from exertion and cold. You were about to tease him for looking like a half-frozen holo idol when he leaned down and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was steady, warm, and so achingly gentle that your chest felt like it might split open. His lips brushed yours once, twice, a sigh escaping him as if he’d been holding this in for far too long. You curled your fingers into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer without meaning to. Snow fell around you in drifting patterns, clinging to his shoulders as he deepened the kiss, slow and careful and full of things neither of you had dared say aloud.

You knew you should stop. You knew this wasn’t the place, the time, or the safest decision in the middle of a war.

But the galaxy felt very far away, and Anakin tasted like warmth in winter.

Then the door hissed open.

“Masters?”

Ahsoka’s voice shattered the moment like a thermal detonator.

You reacted instantly—too instantly. You shoved Anakin off you with pure reflex, and because he wasn’t braced for it, he slid backward in an undignified sprawl, skidding across the snow until he hit a low drift the clones had installed for “terrain variety.” He disappeared into it with a muffled oof.

You launched yourself upright, brushing snow off your clothes so fast it looked incriminating on its own. “Ahsoka! Hi! We were just—uh—falling. Training. Testing gravity. All very professional.”

Ahsoka stared at you, then at Anakin, who was still half-buried in fake snow, blinking up at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every choice that had led him to this. Her brows climbed higher, her expression landing squarely at I wish I were anywhere else.

“I… see,” she said slowly. “So you’re testing gravity by lying on the floor together?”

You flailed for something resembling dignity. “He pulled me down! I mean—no, I slipped! The snow is slippery! Extremely slippery!”

“It’s not slippery at all,” she said.

You shot a glare toward the heavens. Of course it wasn’t.

Anakin finally managed to sit up, snow sliding off his shoulders in an undignified cascade. “Snips,” he said, attempting calm authority and failing spectacularly, “this is not what it looks like.”

“It looks like the two of you were kissing.”

“Okay,” Anakin said, raising one finger, “it’s exactly what it looks like, but in our defense—”

“Nope,” Ahsoka cut in. “I don’t want to hear the defense. Or the prosecution. Or anything, actually. I’m going to pretend I walked in on absolutely nothing.”

She backed toward the door like she was escaping a dangerous wildlife encounter. “Master Kenobi wanted me to find you, but clearly you’re both… occupied. I’m just gonna… go.”

The door slid shut behind her before either of you could speak.

Silence settled.

You pressed both hands to your face. “I’m never showing my face in front of her again.”

“That’s fine,” Anakin said. “We’ll just move to a different system.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. His hair was still sticking up in ridiculous angles from the fall, and he was trying not to laugh. That didn’t help your composure at all.

Before you could gather yourself, a familiar series of chirps rolled into the room.

R2 trundled through the doorway, dome spinning as he scanned the scene—the snow, the disarray, the two of you sitting on the floor looking guilty as sin. He let out a long, judgmental whistle.

“Don’t you start,” Anakin warned.

R2 beeped something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then rolled closer and projected a tiny holo recording of Ahsoka’s horrified expression from thirty seconds earlier.

You stared. “He recorded her?”

“He records everything,” Anakin muttered.

R2 swiveled his dome toward you and released a soft, cooing chirp—sympathetic, in the way only a droid who’d watched you run for your life could manage. Then he nudged Anakin’s ankle with a surprisingly firm bump, as if telling him to get up and take responsibility for… whatever that had been.

Anakin groaned. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk to Ahsoka.”

R2 beeped again—this time encouraging—and whirred back toward the door like a small, smug chaperone.

You sighed, letting yourself fall backward onto the snow again. “I’m never living this down.”

Anakin flopped down beside you, shoulder bumping yours. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You got shoved into a snowbank in front of your Padawan.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning his head to look at you, eyes bright and unbothered, “but I also got to kiss you. So I think I’m still winning.”

Snow drifted lazily around you as R2 let out an approving trill from the doorway, clearly satisfied with the chaos he’d witnessed. And despite everything—the embarrassment, the panic, the shove heard round the galaxy—you reached for Anakin’s hand anyway. Just for a moment.

He squeezed back, warm even in the cold room.

Maybe this mess wasn’t the worst kind of mess to be in.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005@bookoffracturedescapes

anakin: @tezooks @lunacurlclaw

your town is small. its a little dot on a map, a small pocket of quiet just outside of the city, covered in wooded area and littered with rows of the same tired houses that look identical to each other. nothing extraordinary happens, nor does anything relatively ordinary happen. it's mundane— it's enough.

you go to college during the week, commuting back and forth because moving out feels useless when home is only thirty minutes away. on weekends or on any day where the heat rises to an unbearable temperature, you work as a lifeguard at the local pool, the same one you'd been going to since you were a kid and the same one you'd probably end up working for until you're forty. its a routine so simple that you're sure you could do it asleep, and sometimes you think you do.

so that's why when you'd met her, your entire life had flipped upside down.

natasha romanoff is anything but mundane. sure, she's the definition of suburbia with a cookie-cutter housewife life, a businessman husband and a perfectly put-together family, but nothing about her feels ordinary.

not in the way she walks into the centre like she's walking onto a stage, not in the way she eases into the water with that intentional slowness, not in the way she glides through the pool like she's been carved from something smoother, and certainly not in the way she parades around you in that blood red bikini.

it's obscene. it’s like she takes advantage of your pools ‘adult swim’ time just to taunt you. the fabric clings to her as it soaks with water, the colour burning against her skin. every curve, every muscle, and every freckle from the merciless sun seems like it's been placed there by some other worldly entity and you can't help that your gaze traces each one like she's forbidden fruit.

you perch upon the lifeguard tower, legs swinging lazily, eyes fixed on the adults in the pool— or at least trying to. the sun is high and hot, the heat making the water shimmer, but it's impossible to focus on anything but her.

natasha steps out of the pool, water dripping from her blonde hair and clinging red bikini. every movement she makes is slow and deliberate, every curve on her body accentuated by the sun. you can feel your pulse quicken as she runs her hands through her hair, wringing the water from it like she's in a shampoo advertisement.

as she makes her way back to her lounge chair, natasha glances up at you in the lifeguard tower, a small knowing grin tugging at her lips. her eyes catch yours and it takes everything in you not to

"hey, kid." she says, her voice smooth and clear amongst the screaming of little children and water splashing. "save any lives today?"

"not yet, mrs romanoff." you manage, your voice steadier than your heart, "but it's only half past one."

she cocks her head, letting beads of water drip from her hair down onto her collarbones, her eyes flicking over you like she's assessing her prey— like she enjoys watching you squirm.

"hmm." she hums, voice low. "well, don't get too bored. wouldn't want you falling asleep on the job, do we?”

before you can reply with some half-awkward joke about how you could never fall asleep on the job— or how she's distracting you more than anything else ever could— she's already turning on her heel and making her way back to her lounge chair, her hips swaying in a way that makes your stomach twist.

and of course, you follow her with your eyes. you watch intently as she walks with purpose, every water droplet catching the sun just so. you watch as her bikini bottoms ride up, the curve of her hips accentuated by the stretch of the fabric. just as natasha leans over, her ass on full display for you as she settles onto her chair, your eyes drag to the side and catch on someone less than happy to see you.

maria romanoff— natasha's daughter and the person who's made your entire school experience hell— is glaring holes right through you.

her stare is piercing, green eyes boring into the side of your face like she's trying to figure out what you're doing here— but you know that she knows that you work here, so really, what did she expect? her boyfriend josh sits in the chair beside her, talking her ear off about something she probably doesn't care about, but all she can seem to look at is you.

you shift awkwardly in your chair. your heart is hammering and your cheeks are warm, every nerve in your body flaring up as you try to awkwardly play off checking out her mother. you're sure she's going to give you shit about it at school.

but even with maria glaring at you like she wants to peel your head back and rub salt into the wound, you can't stop stealing glances at natasha, who sunbathes like she has no problems in the world. god, if you weren't wearing sunglasses, you're sure you'd be fired for perving on her. i mean, how can you not?

josh gets up from his seat, a duck floaty wrapped snugly around his waist. before you know it, he's running towards the pool, jumping in and yelling 'cannonball' as he does so. there's a huge mushroom wave that almost reaches your tower, and you have to pull your legs back to avoid getting splashed.

you roll your eyes and blow your whistle, "no cannonballing! god, i thought this was adult swim.”

the hours pass by unbearably slow, but soon enough, your shift is over and your coworker comes by and takes your seat on the tower. the moment your feet hit the ground, your whistle drops from your mouth and you stretch your arms with a quiet thank god.

you're dying to get home. you start heading towards the staff room, ready to escape the endless sun and the chorus of screaming kids in the playground. the end of the day should cause relief, but something in the corner of your eyes catches your attention.

natasha.

she's rising from her chair, hair wavy from the chlorine, skin sun-kissed from lounging in the sun, and bikini clinging in all the wrong places. she strides towards the changing room, tossing you a look over her shoulder.

you pause mid-step, heart stuttering. she disappears behind the door before you can even think of looking away, but the image of her walking sits heavy in your mind. you change your mind on how your shift is going to end, leaving a small unbidden pep in your step.

you walk past where maria had been sitting, trying to act as casual as you can without raising suspicion, but you can hear by the click of her chair against the concrete and the sharp snort from your left that you've caught maria's attention.

"enjoying your first week on the job, pipsqueak?" she asks, voice sharp and amused, full of that bite that makes your stomach twist.

you turn on your heel, arms crossing against your chest. "i've worked here for four years." you shoot back, "you come here three times a week— you know this."

"whatever." maria waves you off with a dismissive hand as she pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, "maybe focus a little less on staring at my boyfriend and a little more on the actual pool. just a thought."

you blink. "your... boyfriend?"

"yeah." she deadpans, looking at you like you're stupid. "you know, josh? duck floaty? sponge-for-a-brain? washboard abs? the guy you were eye-fucking so hard only a minute ago?"

you stare at her, your expression flat. "i know of him."

"well, i'm gonna need you to stop doing that— knowing him and looking at him." maria leans back in her chair like she's already won the one-sided argument, folding her arms behind her head like she's sunbathing on the moral high ground. "oh, and while you're up, do you mind getting me a diet pepsi? the sun really dehydrates me."

"i'm a lifeguard, maria. not your butler." you tell her, "and even if i wanted to, it's the end of my shift and i have places to be."

she gives you a once over and sighs, "and yet you're still standing there like you're about to serve me. must be muscle memory."

the words hit with that familiar sting, a sharp stab in the heart she's carved out with insults ever since elementary school. its pathetic how easily she can find your soft spots, how easily she can turn you into the little kid whose lunch always ended up on the floor, how easily she can make you feel small with no more than a sigh and a sentence.

you swallow it back down, forcing your shoulders back and pretending it doesn't land the way it does.

"right." you mutter, because anything else will give her exactly what she wants. "enjoy the rest of your day, maria."

you walk away before she twists the knife or before you say something you can't take back— before she realises you're following her mother into the changing rooms— because even if one romanoff manages to make your life a living hell, you know that another could ruin it and you'd thank her for it.

the changing room door shrieks as it opens, the scent of chlorine and sunscreen flooding your senses. it's almost empty inside, only a handful of people either gathering their things or heading towards the showers. the fluorescent lights hum above as you walk around acting like you're simply doing a routine check, but every step you take is measured and deliberate with one goal in mind.

you walk past the cubicles, shoes squeaking against the tile and eyes flicking all over the place just to catch a glimpse of the blonde you're looking for— then a hand grabs your wrist, firm and insistent, and before you can react, you're being dragged into the dank shower cubicle. it shuts behind you with a sharp slide of the lock, and almost instantly, you feel hands grabbing at the lining of your uniform.

by the soft manicured hands that run up your sides, you can tell it's natasha. the water from the shower splashes against her back, muffling any noise that might give you away. the air is thick with the faint smell of her perfume and the musky scent of her skin, your body painfully aware of the heat that radiates from her.

"finally." she murmurs before she's on you, pressing you up against the wall with her mouth pressed against yours.

the kiss is messy and urgent, her lips moving against yours that tells you that she's been waiting for this longer than you have. she tastes like sunscreen and expensive cherry chapstick, sweet and warm and something that makes your legs give out.

her teeth catch your bottom lip, a soft claiming scrape that sends a pathetic mewl crawling out of your throat. your breath catches as she hikes your shirt over your head and slides it off of your arms, tossing it haphazardly over the hook on the door. natasha pulls away just enough to marvel at the effect she has on you.

"been waiting ages for this.”

your eyes dart down to her chest where the red swimsuit digs into the flesh of your breasts. it's almost pornographic with how little the fabric covers, how it shows more than it hides. heat climbs up your neck at the same time something in your chest falls inward.

"a bikini, nat?" you barely manage, trying to ignore rationality and pure desperation fight a war in your chest. "what happened to that one piece you always wear? this one is— it's— your tits are basically hanging out—"

your brainless rambling only spurs her on. her hand slips under your bra, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple, the feeling sending a shockwave through you. she rolls the bud in between her forefinger and her thumb, your back arching off of the shower wall and your body pressing against hers with a pathetic whine.

"did you really think i'd show up like this without knowing exactly what it'd do to you?" natasha tilts her head, lips curled into that infuriating smirk, "i knew you'd like it. not even my poor excuse of a husband gets to see me like this."

nat's other hand slides into the elastic of your waistband, her fingers trailing against the warm skin of your hip. she hums like shes savouring the sensation, like touching you is a long awaited indulgence. she tugs it back just enough to tease you.

"plus, i knew it would get you all hot and bothered. you think i didnt see you wriggling up in that tower?" nat says with a shit-eating grin, amused at the pout thats sitting on your lips. "i could practically see you grinding down on that chair trying to find some friction and clenching your thighs when i walked past. you were probably waiting all day for me to drag you in here so i could have my way with you."

her words pool deep in your stomach, her fingers slowly tracing against the line of your underwear. your hips jerk forwards before you can even think, and nat doesn't take the motion lightly. her eyes spark with something greedy— almost delighted— like she'd been waiting for that exact reaction.

"hmm. so needy." she muses, nails grazing against your skin as she hooks a finger into just inside of the band, "you always get so tense when i touch you there, baby."

you keen into her touch even though everything in your body is telling you to back away. your muscles are tight with want and panic and something embarrassingly desperate, and you can feel your resolve slipping the longer her fingers press into your skin.

"nat, we can't—" you pant, trying to pull in a breath that never seems to come. "we can't be in here long. my boss'll find out i didnt punch out straight away and he'll—"

"then get on your knees and make me feel good." she cuts you off, her voice low and demanding with the kind of tone that erases the thoughts right from your mind.

the waistband of your shorts snap against your hip with a sharp crack, and her hand is already on your shoulder pushing you— guiding you— onto the floor.

the cold hits you as you drop the the floor with a muted plap. your knees dig into the wet tile, water immediately soaking the back of your shorts as the shower spray mists your back. your palms steady you against the slick floor as you look up at natasha.

above you, nat stands like a sin you've willingly walked into, water running down the length of her thighs in slow taunting rivers. her fingers slide into your hair, tilting your head back just enough to look at you.

"you look so pretty like this." she purrs, her thumb brushing over your cheek. "now take off my swimsuit."

her eyes darken, predatory and amused, like watching your subtle hesitation is the most entertaining thing in the world. your eyes drag towards the slick red fabric stretching over her hips, the last barrier between you and what you want the most. two small knots sit against her hips, almost taunting you, daring you to undo them.

"come on, just untie them." she murmurs, "i want to see the look on that pretty little face while you do it."

your fingers curl around the ties, fumbling slightly as the knots loosen. every sharp tug of your hair only brings your closer and sends a slow thrill up your spine, and you can feel her watching— savouring— every tiny movement that betrays just how undone you already are.

when the second knot is undone, the red fabric falls into your hands, and the sight that greets you is nothing less than breath taking.

nat's pretty cunt is on full display right in front of your face, already drooling and warm just for you. you can smell how sweet she is and you lean closer like its second nature. the flesh of her thigh is warm against your cheek, heated from the shower and the closeness.

your fingers tighten around the discarded swimsuit, knuckles turning white as natasha presses her hips out a little more. one of your hands slinks around the back of her thigh and hikes her leg up until hooks loosely on your shoulder, her other leg slotting in between your legs. the movement pulls her closer until there's nothing between you but steam and breath.

natasha's fingers curl tighter in your hair— not harsher, just firmer, more certain, like she's settling her hand into something that belongs to her— her mouth falling open when your breath fans over where she needs you most.

and when your tongue finally darts out to swipe across the salty skin of her folds, natasha lets out a shaky breath, her back pressing against the cubicle wall.

"just like that, angel." she coos. "you know what to do."

then your tongue dips lower, dragging through her folds and gathering all the slick she's been leaking for hours now. a moan falls from nat's mouth as you lap up what you can, her hips jerking into your face.

your hand slides from the side of her thigh and towards her pussy, pushing two fingers into her with ease.

nat's foot slips a little against the floor, and the shift angles her other leg in between yours perfectly, pressing against your desperate clothed cunt. the pressures hits you so suddenly that a moan spills from your mouth and against her cunt before you can stop it. instinct takes over; you grind down on her leg without meaning to, chasing the friction through the clingy soaked fabric of your uniform.

"look at you— riding my fucking leg while you eat me out. does it feel good, baby? is it getting you off?" nat pants, swiping the wet hair off of your forehead just to get a better look at you. "look at me while i'm talking to you, sweetheart."

and you do— your head tilting back ever-so slightly just enough to stare into here eyes. you tongue dips out of her weeping cunt, your teeth grazing against her clit before you take it into your mouth, sucking on the bundle of nerves as she grinds against your face. your fingers quicken, and the sounds it pulls from nat's mouth are borderline pornographic— sharp little gasps and low broken moans that slip from her before she can catch them— and you thank the heavens above that the showers are louder than a train whistle because otherwise the whole centre would know exactly what you're doing to her.

nat's head lulls against her shoulder, thumb stroking along your cheekbone as if mapping out the shape of your face just because she can, eyes unbearably fond in a way she'd never admit.

"i want you to touch yourself, baby." she moans out, voice warbled by the running water, "want you to come with me."

you nod against her cunt, pulling away from her leg just to shove your hands into your own pants, fingers gliding past the hand of your underwear until your fingers press against your swollen clit.  the direct contact steals the air from your lungs and has you slipping further onto the floor with a strangled sound you can't bite back, the cold ground meeting your thighs while everything else around you burns blisteringly hot.

you rub at your clit with every low moan that nat gives you, your fingers moving in shaking circles that match the rhythm of her rutting and your own fingers that pump into her. your tongue dips back into her entrance, the muscle running along the smooth velvety heat inside of her, and the noises she makes shoot straight through you.

she ruts into your face like she can't help herself, like every wet lap of your tongue and every suckle of her clit draws out something raw and instinctive out of her. her hips roll, slow and intentional, grinding her clit against your mouth with a drive that tells you she's losing her composure.

nat grins at your state— kneeling on the ground with your fingers in your needy pussy and your mouth full of her cunt. she notices how your eyes glaze over, wide and blown and almost trembling like you're overwhelmed, and she knows you're close. she laughs, quiet, breathless, delighted, her thumb smearing a streak of wetness across your cheek like she's marking you.

"god, you're so cute when you get like this... face buried in my pussy like it's all you know. what is it about me that gets you so wet?" she asks, her voice breathy and coated in a cruel amount of teasing. "is it that we're sneaking around? like knowing that i'm choosing you over my husband? you like that i'm old enough to be your mom?"

her hips roll forwards, brows furrowing in concentration as she fucks herself on your mouth.

"or is it just because you're easy?" nat continues, "so needy and desperate and wet for a woman who leans over the front desk and calls you cute? is that really all it took? one compliment and suddenly you're touching yourself every night to the thought of me?"

and you nod against her because it's all you can think to do. you dont really think you're easy— you dont want to be easy— but who can blame you for falling for a woman like natasha romanoff when she's smiling at you from over the desk like you're the only person who matters?

nat's thighs tighten around your head and practically pushes you closer to her pussy. you dip into your own cunt, fingers pumping in and out, trying to chase the high that you're so close to.

nat catches her bottom lip in between her teeth, her head rolling back against the cubicle wall, "right there, god, you're so good for me—"

"mom, are you in there?"

natasha freezes mid-praise, the sharp edge in her voice faltering the moment she spots maria's perfectly manicured feet peeking under the cubicle door. nat lets out a shaky breath, eyes narrowing in on you like she's silently trying to tell you to stay put.

"is something wrong, sweetie?" she asks, her voice just slightly unsteady. she clears her throat to try and mask the knot that coils in her stomach.

nat tugs at your hair, trying to pull you away from her, but god, you can't stop. shes so sweet and so warm and shes everything you've ever wanted and more wrapped up in one woman. natasha huffs, eyes clenching shut just to try and hold back a moan.

maria knocks on the door like she expects her mom to open it. "josh thinks he ate a bad hotdog and wants me to take him home. i think he’s gonna shit himself.”

"i'm just rinsing, maria." natasha tells her daughter over the rushing water, hiding every thrum of heat in her chest. "i'll be out in a few."

her fingers tighten in your hair, holding you still even like she's trying to maintain control even though your fingers plunge in and out of her and you have her falling apart on your mouth. you continuing lapping at her cunt and you continue fucking yourself on your fingers, desperate to get off.

you just hope maria doesn't get nosy and peeks under the stall door— then she'd see you kneeling on the ground with your hand in your pants and her mother's legs wrapped around your neck.

"just don't take forever, kay?" maria shifts on her heels, and you can tell that she's bored based on the annoyed tone in her voice. "also can i have five bucks for the vending machine?"

"of course, sweetie, just—" natasha's voice cracks, a moan caught in her throat, "just get it out of my wallet."

maria huffs, clearly irritated at something but satisfied with the answer. you can hear her sandals scuffing against the tile as she leaves, the sound fading as soon as the change room door slams shut.

both of nat's hands find the back of your head as she grinds her pussy into your face, her breath hitching as she gets off on your tongue. her hands glide through your hair, her head rolling forwards to marvel at how you bounce on your fingers.

"c'mon, kid, we gotta make it quick. we've both got people waiting on us." she hums, her mouth falling open, "keep going. just like that— don't stop."

you can feel the heat that pools in your stomach leaking down your hand, and you know that nat is close by the way her thighs clench around your head.

her clit pulses in your mouth as you suck on it, and your fingertips brush against all of the soft spots inside of her. they press into the familiar spongy spot that has nat doubling over.

"fuck, i'm gonna—" her voice goes thin, the words trailing off into a whine that gets drowned out by the shower, her hands holding you there like she needs the anchor.

your own breath shakes, insides flattering with the unbearable pressure winding tighter and tighter, and with a final thrust, you find yourself coming all over your fingers, hips grinding against nat's leg as your ride out your orgasm.

you continue brushing against the spongy spot inside until you feel natasha's cunt clenching around your fingers, the slick that leaks from her escaping from your mouth and crawling down your chin.

"don't stop—" nat whispers— begs— her voice cracking.

and you don't. you pump your fingers into her until she's breaking down in your arms. her thighs tremble around your neck, her body going taut, her own breath coming faster and rougher as she comes undone in your mouth, your name falling from her mouth in a chorus of moans.

she tastes sweet on your tongue, warmth and want blending in a way that makes your head spin. nat rides out her high, hands tugging at your hair right at the root and throwing her head against the cubicle wall once more in exasperation.

when you both calm down, it's a hazy blur full of teary eyes and raw throats. there's a heavy silence full of water and panting, one that feels too intimate for a public changing room, one that feels too right for two people who shouldn't be doing this, too addictive for either of you to pull away right away.

but when finally do pull away from her, you do so hesitantly, eyes glazed over and a string of saliva and slick hanging from your lip, still connecting you to her. you pull your fingers out of her first, sighing as you watch her clench around nothing.

natasha unhooks her leg from your shoulder and drops it to the floor, the muscles in her thigh still trembling. she lets out a sharp shaky breath as she touches the tile, one hand braced behind her while the other sits on your shoulder to keep herself upright. her hair is a mess and her cheeks are flushed, her hands tugging to fix the fabric thats slipped from around her chest.

your gaze drags over her body— the rise and fall of her chest, the faint twitch of her torso, the way her nipples perk against the thin fabric of her swimsuit— and then up at her face. she's already looking at you.

"you okay?" natalie cocks her head, her hand running down the length of your face to try and bring you down from your high.

her eyes flick down to your mouth— to the slick shining on your lips— and her jaw tenses. her thumb swipes along your bottom lip, wiping up the streak of her own arousal lingering there.

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i'm okay."

you grab for the discarded swimsuit bottom and help natasha tie it back on before you stand up, legs still unsteady, and natasha reaches out for you automatically, hands gripping your waist just to keep you steady. the gesture is so natural, so instinctive, that it makes your heart flutter.

and maybe there's some small tell in your face that natasha's learnt, sometjing she's learnt to read over time, because she doesnt let you go when you try to pull away.

"hey—" nat's hand finds your cheek, her thumb brushing the wetness from your bottom lip. her eyes flick between yours like she's trying to read every thought that you haven't said yet. "what's wrong?"

you know it's pathetic. you're beating a dead horse— dragging around a thought that you've chewed on for years and years over a thousand times— but the thought still sits in the back of your mind like an immovable stone.

"your daughter is an asshole." you deadpan.

nat is silent for a moment, her chest rising and falling as she studies your face. fhen she huffs out a soft airy laugh, pressing a warm kiss to your cheek before she leans over and grabs your shirt from the door hook.

"i know." nat grins, voice low and slightly amused. "she takes after her father. can't believe i let that asshole impregnate me."

"me neither." you grumble.

you allow nat to help you back into your uniform. you slide your arms through the sleeves and poke your head through the collar as natasha steadies you with a hand. the fabric clings to your skin, still warm and damp from the water, and you can't help but notice how close her body leans into yours as she fixes your collar and smooths down the fabric.

"there." she murmurs softly, tugging the last bit of fabric down and letting her hands rest against your chest. "good as new. well— sort of."

her hands slide off of your chest, lingering for a moment before she reaches over and twists the tap of the shower handle. it screeches as the water shuts off, and suddenly the world feels a little quieter.

"so..." you start, "are you leaving first or should i?"

"i probably should." natasha replies, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from her face. "gotta get back to them before josh shits himself and maria starts complaining about it."

you nod, the action half-hearted. you hate when she leaves and you hate the hollow emptiness that she leaves in her absence.

natasha turns around and unlocks the door, hand pausing against the cubicle wall like she can sense y something. she doesn't rush or look impatient; she simply waits until you say what you need.

"i'll see you next week?" the question slips from your mouth too quick for you to catch, but you don't feel embarrassed. not with her. "for adult swim? i mean, you're coming right?"

she glances at you over her shoulder, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips. "of course, angel. i wouldnt miss it for the world."

then she steps through the exit, the door shutting behind her with a  definitive finality.

you stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do with yourself. the sudden quiet of the empty locker room creeps up on you like an unwelcome presence, pressing in on you from all sides. just as you're about to shake yourself out of it, the cubicle door creaks open again.

natasha's head peaks back into the cubicle, just enough for you to see the playful grin she has plastered on her face, and you hate the way your eyes light up at the sight of her.

"come to my place tomorrow for lunch." she asks of you. her voice is soft in a way that feels rare, private, just for you. "my husband's overseas and the kids'll be out doing whatever they do. it'll just be me and you and a bottle of merlot."

you bite down on your lower lip, unable to hide the giddiness that runs through your bones. "i can do that."

natasha's grin softens, that teasing edge in her voice faded into something warmer. "good. i'll see you tomorrow then."

you nod quickly, your cheeks warming. she watches you for a moment longer, that adoring look lingering in her eyes before she finally stepping back and slipping out of the cubicle.

the faint click of the door shutting echoes in the otherwise empty locker room, leaving you standing there, your breath uneven and your fingers twitching as if still sensing her touch.

nothing about her fits the flat, predictable rhythm you've been stuck in. she's sharp where your world is dull, vibrant where everything else is washed out; natasha romanoff is temptation in a blood red bikini.

but youre ripped out of your mind by natasha's head peaking through the door again, eyes full of mischief and something darker before she speaks—

"oh, and bring the strap."

The cage began erecting itself the day you were birthed into a cruel and cold world. You never asked for the gift of life at the cost of your mother's, but your father acted like it was a debt he would spend the entirety of your life trying to collect.

He was distant at first, only holding onto you because you were the last remaining piece of his wife. Providing just enough care no one ever stepped in. But debt collectors had ways of making you pay under the table. Eventually he tried to drown his grief with bottles of amber and clear liquid. Proclaiming he couldn't even look at you because your eyes matched too closely with your mother's, and couldn't listen to you because your voice reminded him of her.

You wouldn't know, you'd only ever seen pictures of her.

You soon stopped asking for forgiveness. Stopped asking for anything at all. You learned to disappear, to make yourself smaller, until even the sharpest words bounced off of an impenetrable fortress.

Being invisible became your superpower. Out of sight meant out of danger. It was easier to hide behind masks and carefully curated smiles than risk being seen for what you really were. Broken. Scared. Damaged.

When you finally escaped at eighteen, you became barely more than a rumor on the streets. Perfected the art of invisibility and secrecy and turned it into a way of survival.

Never show. Never tell. And never let anyone close enough to guess the truth.

Even here, in the relative safety of the Watchtower, secrecy is a habit you can't shake. While you know that no one on the team would judge you for what you had to do to survive — seeing as their indecencies far surpassed yours — you were still wary to let them in. There was so much hardship crammed into this glittering tower of wealth and power, why would you want to add to it? Instead, you did what you thought was best. Shrouded your upbringing in mystery and flipped on whatever personality would relieve the weight of everything around you.

You're good at secrets. You always have been.

The only person you weren't able to fool was now folded into the biggest secret you had to keep to date. Bucky Barnes had slipped right past your defenses, dismantled your traps, and made himself at home before you could stop him. He was the only one who could coax you from the cage of your own making, wanting to spill every secret you've ever kept.

Which was a dangerous thing to realize. Especially when you were on your way to the conference room for a meeting with Valentina where you had to keep your devotion to the one man hidden from the only other person who had caught you in your web of secrets.

You took a deep breath before badging into the conference room. Sliding on that mask as easily as a scientist would place a new specimen under their microscope.

"Well if it isn't the gold star rookie," Val said warmly, already seated at the large wooden table.

You deeply despised that nickname when it came from her. It felt more like a condescension than actual praise.

"Valentina," you nodded, taking a seat across from her, carefully eyeing the files in front of her.

"You seem very tired recently. Been getting enough sleep? You know it's hard to save the world when you're running on empty."

You pursed your lips, the cracks apparently had begun to form. And even though it sounded like she was concerned for your well being, you knew better.

Valentina Allegra D'Fontaine always tried to play to the fact that you grew up without a maternal figure. Trying to slot herself in that role as soon as she picked you up. Too bad you were just cunning enough to notice that it was a manipulation tactic.

No matter, you had a few of your own. And it wasn't like you were going to tell her exactly what had been keeping you up.

"I'm fine, thank you for asking." With just the right tilt of your brows, to show your appreciation for her alleged concern.

She smiled softly. "Well I hope Sergeant Barnes is going easy on you after that scare in the Alps. It's lucky you have someone like that protecting you isn't it?"

You wanted to fidget at the mention of Bucky's name, and the mission gone awry. But you weren't going to fall for the bait that easily. Despite the uptick in your heartbeat, you remained neutral, giving her a gentle shrug of your shoulders in response. "Wouldn't say he was ever hard on me to begin with, but he has been letting me recover."

"Good, then you'll recover even better when he and Walker go retrieve the intel that you somehow managed to miss."

And there it was. The sticking point to this conversation where she wanted to see how the gold star rookie would deal being separated from her mentor for an extended period of time.

Underneath the carefully crafted compliments and acts of compassion, Val was really delivering a double edged knife. Bringing attention to the fact that you screwed up a mission, and taking away the one person she knew brought you comfort.

"It'll be a nice break I think," you answered smoothly. "I hope they're able to recover the intel, and I apologize I wasn't able to complete the mission."

Val's eyes narrowed even as another one of her pathetically fake matronly smiles pulled at her lips. "You know it must feel good to have someone in your corner like Barnes. Big strong super soldier." She puffed up her chest for emphasis, as if you didn't understand her implication. "After being on your own for so long."

A single tap of your finger against your thigh hidden beneath the conference table was the only tell you allowed. "I managed to get by. Can't say I mind the extra company though."

"Right. Extra company," Val nodded, now flipping through the pages in front of her.

This woman always knew where to stick the knife with you. How to make you feel just the right amount of 'motherly affection' before pulling the rug out from under you.

"Officially, consider this a recovery check-in, but you will be on stand-by after that disappointing performance," Val continued, scribbling her notes down. At least she had the decency to sound concerned. "Unofficially, consider yourself warned against certain…distractions. And ask yourself if you can afford any more mistakes."

Another tap of your finger on your thigh. You knew she wanted you to grovel and beg to be let on the mission with Bucky and Walker. Or maybe she just wanted you to come clean about your relationship so she could spin it for a PR piece. Too bad for her, you were doing neither. Deep in your heart you knew she only had suspicions to go on. Both of the missions reports you and Bucky turned in left out confessions of love and sleeping bag shenanigans. And ever since then, you had both been careful. Calculated. Keeping things contained to the safety of your rooms…and one supply closet.

You stood carefully, not going to give her the satisfaction of showing the cracks in your armor. The only thought running through your mind was that this torment was almost done as soon as you crossed back into the relative safety of the hallway.

She called your name sweetly just as your hand reached for the door. "Secrets don't stay hidden for long. I'd hate for one too trip you up. After all, that's how you ended up here in the first place, right?"

Your grip tightened on the handle, the cold press of it biting into your palm. All of your instincts told you to just rip it off the door and hurl it at her toothy smile.

Instead, you simply nodded and walked out.

The door shutting behind you felt akin to a pin being pulled in a grenade. You knew an explosion of something was coming, but whether the fall out was going to happen where you could contain it or everything was going to be blasted away by an explosion you couldn't tell. And that's exactly how Valentina wanted you to feel after the meeting.

Your thoughts hurled after one another faster than you could catch them, meticulously going over everything you said, looking for some slip in your mask that she would later use against you.

Halfway to the common area, you felt the familiar weight of his gaze. Like he'd been waiting ready to catch you as you dropped after the meeting.

You didn't say anything as he followed you, only falling into step with you when you were far enough away from the conference room and out of the way of prying eyes.

"You okay?"

You nodded, maybe a little too quick. "Yeah just…let's go to the shooting range or something, I need to —"

"That's not what you need," Bucky said it like it was a fact. And you were too wired to argue. He placed a gentle hand on your back, steering you towards your suite and away from the chaos.

Neither of you said another word until the door to your suite shut out the world behind you.

Bucky sat at the edge of your bed, letting you pace a line in front of him for all of three turns before he caught your arm and guided you to sit next to him. "Tell me what she said." Let me fix it is what his eyes told you.

So, you described the meeting, which is how they always went. Val attempting to insert herself into some maternal role like that would get her past your steel plated armor, you attempting to walk the tightrope of being 'grateful' to have someone like her in your life and not let anything slip. Then the worst of all, you being benched and stuck here with your own thoughts until she determined you could be trusted.

Bucky's face remained neutral, rubbing a thumb across your pulse point in your wrist. "Figured something like this would happen. Especially when I saw just my name and Walker's on the call sheet."

You drifted towards him, letting yourself be vulnerable in the only way he could make you feel. "I just hate that as soon as we tell everyone, she's going to want to spin it into some PR bullshit just like this mentorship program."

"I know, sweetheart." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Think we just need to get you out of that head of yours, and I have an idea if you'll let me."

He was right, of course he was. He had seen first hand how your thoughts could spiral when you were alone with them. In the past, he had always put on some trashy TV, found the most unhealthy junk food the Watchtower had to offer, and just existed in your orbit. But the way he said it this time, without moving for the remote or making a move to venture down to the kitchen had you curious. "Okay," you confirmed.

"Get your vibrator for me," Bucky doesn't ask, just looks at you expectantly.

You feel your cheeks heat, trying to figure out where he was going with this. "I…how did you know I have one of those?"

"Super soldier hearing. And for someone who is aware we share a wall, you're not as quiet as you think you are."

Great. You leaned over to your bedside table, opened the bottom drawer where your toy was carefully hidden underneath a few books. Handing over the sleek black device should have felt embarrassing, really you wanted to scream into your pillow at the fact that he had heard you use it. But you were past the point of wanting to hide from him.

He took it, placing it beside him and then leveled you with a stare you only recognized when he was about direct you. "Strip for me, little sun."

Your nerves were too frazzled to really deny it, and at this point you really did just want him to make the thoughts in your head stop battering your brain. You'd been naked around him enough by now anyway, this wasn't something new or to be ashamed of.

With a pointed finger just as your panties slid down your legs, you matched his tone. "Shirt off. I don't know what you're planning, but it'll help me feel better."

Bucky's lips quirked into an amused grin as he discarded the dark t shirt without hesitation. He stood, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. "Lay back and just try to let go for me," he murmured, kneeling between your thighs.

You did, settling on your cool sheets while his hands — warm and reverent — traveled further up your legs until they paused at your hips pulling you further to the edge.

His lips trailed along the marks on your skin he had left a few days before, murmuring his apologies that he lost his carefully crafted restraint so easily.

"Don't worry ab — ah —" you had been in the middle of telling him to stop beating himself up about it when his tongue slowly licked from your entrance to your clit. Your back arched off the bed, gasping as he made slow, agonizing circles along the bundle of nerves.

Bucky lowered his shoulders just enough to allow your thighs to rest there, granting him access to get impossibly closer. His tongue moved in slow, long lines, pausing to gently suck on your clit.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body already surrendering to the pleasure he pulled from you.

"Eyes on me, angel." Bucky's hand tapped your hip, whispering against your skin to bring your focus back to him between your thighs. "I wanna see those thoughts leave your pretty head."

His tongue moved faster, bringing you closer to the edge like only he knew he could. A finger pushed past your entrance just as you let out a soft moan, your back arching as he pressed at that spot that already had you unraveling. For a heart stopping moment, you really thought he would stop. Edge you like he had in the supply closet.

"Please don't stop, Buck…" you pleaded, fingers threading through his hair like you could keep him between your thighs until you broke.

Bucky only chuckled against your pussy, and the vibration mixed with the dark intent in his eyes tore your orgasm from you. The feeling exploded from your lower belly as his name fell from your lips over and over.

Your legs started to shake and clamp around his head like a vice, and just as the last of the aftershocks subsided, you thought so would his tongue.

But…instead of feeling him slow down like he had any other time he was buried between your legs, he sped up. There was no gentle retreat, no lazy circle of his mouth to your inner thighs while he worked you down fro them high of an orgasm. His tongue lapped at your oversensitive clit, ravenous even as you were shaking on the edge of pain and bliss when he added another finger into your still pulsating cunt.

"Bucky, what're you…" you tried to push him away, but he easily caught your wrists with his vibranium hand.

"Thought you told me not to stop sweet girl?" he cooed, thumb now replacing his tongue. "What happened to that?"

Your whole body was trembling in involuntary muscle spasms, every sound coming from your lips was beyond your control. The vibration of another chuckle from the man between your legs rolled through you made you jolt

"I — Bucky, 's too much, I can't—" you whined, trying to squirm away from the mind bending pleasure.

"You can, stop fightin' it," he assured, standing up so your legs fell to either side of his hips. Even as he brought your hands above your head, twisting to interlock his fingers with yours in a gentle embrace, his other hand never stopped moving.

"You're okay, just feel for me, little sun," he whispered against your check, letting his lips trail across your jaw and nipping at your earlobe gently.

You whimpered again, trying to push past the tension that was still wracking your body from the meeting; from keeping this very thing a secret. Because while you could feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the oversensitivity gave way to a pleasure you weren't expecting, all you could think of was how you wanted to brag to anyone who would listen about these skills of his.

You felt a sob building in your chest, the pleasure cresting so high that it almost hurt. Tears now rolled down your eyes, and your breath caught on a jagged whimper. You felt too exposed to the world until you squeezed his hand, focusing instead on where he was anchoring you to reality.

Almost like he could feel your body stop fighting and lean into the pleasure, he hummed in approval. "There you go…"

Your legs tightened around the solid muscle of his frame as you felt another orgasm slither down your spine; blooming hot and bright in your mind.

"Doing so good for me, solnyshko…" the roughness of his voice was the last piece that brought you over the edge a second time. Your entire body seemed to clench around him, yet Bucky still worked you through it. Even as you tried to close your legs or maybe just hold him there, you weren't sure which.

Your body felt like jelly, every muscle shaking, while sweat started to cool on your skin. You weren't sure if the sounds coming from your mouth was a laugh or a cry. You'd never felt so jittery or wrung out in a post orgasm dizziness.

The world was still hazy, your breath coming in deep gasps, and you didn't even realize Bucky was shifting. You opened your eyes just as your ears registered the low, ominous buzzing.

"You're still thinking too much," he whispered, now laying next to you on the bed, tucking you into his side. Your head lolled onto his shoulder, as he held your thighs open and trailed your vibrator down your stomach. The low hum felt like a tease; like you could already feel it against your oversensitive pussy even if he was just dragging it everywhere but there.

You sighed, body tensing again as he pressed the toy to your clit. "I…doubt that," you managed as your body bowed off the bed. Tears blurred your vision again; your own voice sounded strange in your ears as another moan released from your chest.

There was too much…everything. The vibrations, the heat, the slick mess between your thighs, even Bucky's voice.

"Mmm…you can still talk though…" he teased, pushing in just a little rougher, arm circling your waist to keep you still.

Your hips jerked relentlessly, not sure if you wanted to escape or chase the pleasure. With your back arching off the bed again, all senses overwhelmed as he clicked the setting up once. It made your vision white, hands grasping for anything until you found the arm holding you in place. Sweat made your palms clammy against the smooth vibranium as you tried to dig your nails in, teeth clenched while tension seemed to grip every nerve ending of your body.

It was helpless really, you trying to move away. Your body was already spent from shattering twice, and Bucky seemed to want to keep breaking you into smaller, more manageable pieces.

His fingers found the sensitive skin of your peaked nipple, giving it a quick tug while continuing the slow circle of the toy on your clit. He was somehow everywhere, infiltrating beneath your skin, wiping away every single thought with each touch and vibration, even if you were unable to process the words he was saying.

You felt the pleasure crest again, shuddering as you clung to his arm, looking for anything to ground you against the world blanking again.

"That's one, can you keep count for me, sweetheart?" He whispered into your hairline, bringing the toy away for a breath and then returning it to your quivering center. Could you? No, you could barely nod at his instruction, neck suddenly feeling too weak to hold your head up.

"T-two," you whimpered. Time blurred after the second time you fell over the edge, with only the deep timbre of his voice in your ear to keep you from floating too far into bliss.

You lost count after three. Maybe four. Numbers lost all meaning between the vibrations, the slick mess between your thighs, and your moans of pleasure.

Your body felt like static. Everything was buzzing, and with every word of praise Bucky murmured into your ear felt like honey was being dripped over your mind. Sweat was beading at your hairline, your breaths had become deep gasps only mixed with staccato whimpers.

Another wave had you trembling in his grasp. "What number was that, little sun?"

Your eyes tried to open, they really did. Your mouth opened to answer, but no sound came out past another moan when the toy was clicked to a higher setting. You could feel the vibration to your bones, rattling the last of your thoughts free.

"What happened, rookie? Can't follow simple instructions anymore?"

"Can't…can't count anymore, Buck…" you whispered helplessly.

Bucky smoothed your hair back from your forehead where it had started to stick. "That's okay, sweet girl. Just one more f'me."

You nodded, boneless, breathless, finally feeling yourself let go. The last climax snuck up on you before you could react. Your muscles straining, the only indication you had even fell over the edge was your grip tightening on Bucky's arm that was slung over your waist to keep you still and a strangled moan from your lips. Your limbs went heavy, disconnecting from your brain as you let yourself sink into the mattress in a full surrender.

You couldn't even register the toy being moved away, phantom vibrations still coursing through your body leaving you shaking. All you knew was Bucky's warm presence as he finally let you come down.

"Hey," he murmured, dropping to press a kiss to your shoulder, then one to each of your closed eyelids — damp with tears. "Come back, little sun. Right here with me."

You melted into his side, letting your muscles unwind and every last bit of tension ebbing away as he brought you closer to his side. Nodding slightly, you found yourself nuzzling closer into his chest as your arm drifted around his waist. The warmth of his skin the only thing grounding you against the tremors still traveling along your nerves.

He moved both of your bodies in tandem, tucking you both under your blankets; wrapping you in more comfort than you have ever known. A tear slips free, landing on the soldier beneath you. You're not even sure why it happened. But Bucky didn't move, holding you tighter while emotions you couldn't name stirred under your surface. His palm never stopped tracing the line of your back, soothing you through it.

"You did so good for me. I'm so proud of you. Always am," he whispered into your temple.

You blinked your eyes open, looking up at his eyes — bright and blue, a silent question of 'did I fix it?' in the depths. "You with me?" he asked, wiping away another stray tear.

"Yeah, think so," you mumble as best you could with your cheek pressed against him.

"Good. You feel better?"

"Mhm," you manage, letting your eyes close again. "Thank you."

And for the first time all day, the only thing you felt was safe enough to let all of your secrets go and your walls to finally retreat.

Next Installment ➳ I'll Be Home for Christmas ♡

After Chirps: I don't know, I'm running out of stuff to chirp about heh. Honestly, this is the one I was concerned about for awhile, just because it's more plot heavy instead of kink heavy, so if y'all hate it I understand, but just know there's much more smut happening later, and the next installment is pretty funny so... ♡

Everything Taglist: @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @scarletkanami @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @cassity357 @miraclediviner @houseofhyde @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @mathcat345 @yourmomoclockit

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @iamthatonefangirl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20

Kinkmas: @riirikenobi @vickynguyennn @galaxygoddess30

If you'd like to be added to a permanent taglist, please comment on this post. If you want to only be tagged in just this Twelve Days of Kinkmas, please comment below or feel free to send me a message ୨ৎ

Most girls’ fathers had—or should have—already taught their daughters how to change the oil, replace tires, and how to jump-start the good ol’ chevy in case of an emergency.

Unfortunately for you, your father hadn’t taught you any of that—nor had you been bothered enough to learn.

You never imagined yourself getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, standing on the side of a deserted road with no signal and a car that wouldn’t start. You began pacing back and forth, kicking rocks as your mind raced—not even knowing where to begin.

“Dang it,” you grunted, directing the frustration at both yourself and your past self for refusing your father’s help and warnings.

You knew you should have listened, but you were a spoiled girl who never got her hands dirty—always having strong and reliable men to take care of things. When there was a concert just a few hours drive away from home and your parents refused to buy you a ticket—you took matters into your own hands. You stole the keys to your dad’s car, negotiated with someone online for a last-minute sold-out concert ticket to meet up with at the venue, and that’s how you ended up here.

Stuck with no concert ticket and a car that wouldn’t start.

So, you did what everybody would tell you not to do.

You stood on the side of the street, one hand blocking the sun, and the other with your thumb out.

You were hitchhiking.

How bad could it be, really? It happened all the time in movies. You had heard stories where people actually ended up where they needed to go in one piece—where they met kind people and went on wild adventures with stories they could recite to their kids for years.

But, of course, there was also the horror stories. You tried not to let your mind wander to that.

Several cars zoomed past, kicking up dust in their wake. Every time one slowed down, it would edge dangerously close to the shoulder—close enough to make you squeal and jump back toward the safety of your chevy.

Each time you thought someone might actually stop, it turned out to be a middle-aged man behind the wheel, lecherous eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. His wife, seated beside him, would take one look at your concert-ready outfit, glare daggers, and snap at him to keep driving.

The longer you waited for salvation, the more your anxiety gnawed at you.

What if no one stopped? What if you never got signal, never made it home—just stayed here, stranded in the middle of nowhere? You should’ve listened to your father. This is what you get for being a spoiled brat chasing a stupid concert.

Maybe if you started walking now, you could make it home in… what? Four days? Five?

You felt your heart thudding faster in your chest as every terrible scenario raced through your mind. Just as you were about to go back into your car to rest your aching feet from standing for so long, your hand paused at the door handle.

In the distance, the sound of a large, heavy truck, like thunder rolling far off in the desert filled your ears.

A long-haul truck—silver cab, a little beat-up, with various worn stickers fading on the bumpers—slowed as it approached. The truck hissed as it finally came to a full stop beside you, the brakes slightly creaking. The window rolled down, and a blast of cooled air from inside hit your sunburned skin.

“Hey, little lady.”

You lifted your head and rose onto your tippy toes, squinting through the harsh glare of the sun to get a better look at the man behind the wheel.

He looked like he had been carved out of the same roughness that the road was built on. A close-cropped haircut framed a strong jaw with days’ worth of obvious scruff. He—and his truck—smelled faintly like cigarettes. His eyes were blue and cold, a contrast to his sun-kissed skin from driving around for days. He must have caught you staring, because he narrowed his eyes, a little skeptical.

“You lost?” he asked, pulling your attention back to him.

You stood up a little straighter. You had your thumb sticking out for over an hour, and not once did you prepare what to say if someone were to actually stop for you.

“Oh, um—” you hesitated. “My car won’t start.”

He blinked as if he couldn’t hear what you said, the softness of your voice barely audible over the music playing on his radio. He turned it down and leaned in a little closer from his seat.

“I see that,” he huffed. “The closest town is about a hundred and seventy from here. You need a ride?”

You shifted on your feet, your fingers tightening on your door handle. You hadn’t expected less from a trucker—he looked rough, the kind of man you wouldn’t approach in any other situation. He was clearly older, with the kind of face that looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You swallowed, suddenly not feeling as confident as you were moments ago. “I—I don’t know,” you said quietly, taking a cautious step closer to your own vehicle. “Could you just—help me out and try jump-starting it?”

His jaw clenched for a moment, and he exhaled through his nose. His grip on the steering wheel tightened—like he was contemplating just driving off and leaving you stranded once again. Eventually, he sighed, pushed open his door, and climbed down from the cab. His boots hit the asphalt with a heavy thud, and up close, he was even taller than you’d thought.

Without a word, he walked past you toward your car. You trailed behind, keeping a good distance between the two of you.

He crouched beside the front end, his eyes scanning the hood, the tires, and the faint line of oil that had started to pool beneath.

“What’s your name, mister?” you asked, trying to start light conversation.

“Bucky,” he replied, eyeing your Chevrolet carefully. “And yours?”

You gave him your name, and he repeated it back softly, the sound rolling off his tongue as he stared at the car.

Then he straightened, wiped a hand across his jaw, and looked at you.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You frowned. “What do you mean? You didn’t even—”

He gestured toward the car with a nod. “You’ve got a blown gasket, maybe worse. She’s been leaking for a while. You could crank her ‘til sundown, and she still wouldn’t turn over.”

You stood there with a blank face, the words sounding like a different language. “Oh,” you nodded as if you understood, but you didn’t at all.

He watched you for a moment, then checked the sun sinking lower behind the hills. “Look, I’d stick around and help you figure it out, but I’ve got somewhere to be before nightfall.”

Bucky stepped back toward his truck, his hands pausing at the doorhandle.

“I’ll drop you off at a nearby gas station. You can use the payphone to call your ma or pa—whoever it may be—to come to your rescue.” He glanced at you again, nodding his head at the passenger seat.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, the faint rasp in his voice making you hesitate. “I don’t bite.”

You looked down at your shoes—now dusted from the desert sand—bit your lip, and looked back up at him warily.

He seemed kind enough; he’d technically stepped out of his truck and taken the time to at least try helping you. Despite his rough appearance and gruff demeanor, there was something about him that made you want to trust him. He gave off the same steady, dependable energy as the other strong men in your life—the ones who always made sure you were safe, even when you didn’t deserve it.

It was instinctive, almost paternal.

When Bucky realized you weren’t moving, he let out a tired sigh and shrugged.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t have all day,” he said, walking around to the front of his truck to get back into the driver’s side. “I do hope that you find your way back home. Be safe out here—”

“Wait,” you protested.

He paused, the sound of his boots shuffling against the ground as he glanced over the hood to face you again.

“Um—if you don’t mind the company, I’ll tag along.” You said, your fingers fiddling in front of you anxiously. “I just need to—uh,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, “grab my stuff…”

Bucky raised his brows in surprise, not actually believing you’d come. “Okay, then.”

He walked back to the side of the road, watching as you quickly scrambled into the backseat of the chevy to grab your belongings.

As he rested a shoulder against his thousand-pound rig, his eyes lingered a little too long, staring at the slight curve of your back as you bent over. His tongue slowly swept across his dry bottom lip at the sight of your hips swaying as you tried to grab something that was out of reach, your legs dangling slightly.

Just a single breeze, or just an extra stretch, would expose whatever was hiding under that deliciously short dress you were wearing. He shouldn’t be eyeing you like this. He was probably double your age—if not more. His own nephews and nieces might even be about your age.

Bucky forced a smile once he saw you gather your things, your hair a little disheveled from rummaging around.

“Need any help there?” he nodded toward the two bags you were holding.

“Yes, please,” you huffed with a smile, raising your arms.

He smiled back, clearly finding it amusing that you needed his help. It was to be expected, really. In his eyes, you were this helpless little thing who couldn’t do anything on her own. Good thing he was here—cause what could you have done without him?

He reached out and grabbed both bags out of your hands, lifting them with ease, and tossing them haphazardly onto the floor of the passenger seat.

Bucky extended a hand, helping you up. “Not too roomy in here, but better than standing out all alone in the desert, right?”

You smiled and grabbed his hand. His hands were rough and calloused—a complete contrast to your soft and dainty fingers. He hauled you up and watched as you wiggled slightly, tugging the hem of your dress down to cover your thighs, trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat before you buckled yourself in.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded.

The engine started, slowly but surely, as Bucky merged back onto the main road. The sight of your father’s car grew smaller and smaller as you watched it slowly disappear into the distance in the side mirrors. The ride was silent—only the faint sounds of the wheels turning on the road and the low music playing in the background.

You snuck curious side glances at Bucky. He had one arm resting on the window and the other lazily holding the wheel. You were waiting for the part where he pulled out a knife and started stabbing you, or made a sudden right turn off-road and murdered you in broad daylight, but he just kept his eyes on the steady on the street, humming to the music as if you weren’t even there.

“Curious little duck, are you?” he spoke suddenly.

You blinked, his question throwing you off guard. “Sorry,” you mumbled, shyly averting your eyes back to your lap.

He chuckled, a deep, raspy sound rumbling from his chest that only sent a shiver down your spine and made your heart beat faster. “Don’t be sorry, sweetheart. You’ve never been inside a rig before, have you?”

You shook your head. “No… I’ve only seen the inside of these,” you looked around again, “in movies and stuff.”

“And stuff,” he repeated, the corners of his lips tugged up in an amused smirk. “And that bel air back there, that ain’t yours now, is it?”

“No,” you confirmed softly. “That’s my dad’s.”

“He let you drive that scrap all the way out here?”

You shook your head with a frown. “No…. um—I stole his keys. There was a concert I really wanted to go… but my parents wouldn’t let me.”

He raised a brow, his head turning slightly to meet your eyes. “Jesus,” he huffed. “If I was your daddy, I would’ve had you over my knee.”

A little laugh escaped your lips. “Do you have daughters, mister?”

“No kids,” Bucky said. “And don’t call me mister—it makes me feel old. Bucky’s fine.”

“Okay, mister Bucky,” you repeated with a gentle nod.

He snickered, shaking his head. “Just Bucky, sweetheart.”

You nodded again, folding your hands in your lap as the truck rumbled down the empty stretch of road. For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the steady thrumming of the engine, the faint rasp of the tires against the pavement, and the rock music playing quietly.

After a few minutes of silence, he glanced sideways at you. “So,” he said, his voice low over the hum of the radio, “where were you headin’, anyway?”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “Oh—um, there was a concert a few towns over. I was supposed to meet a guy for sold-out tickets. ”

He raised a brow. “Stealin’ your old man’s keys and meeting up with a stranger online,” he made a face. “You’re just asking for trouble, little duck.”

You frowned, your fingers fiddling in your lap as you bowed your head in embarrassment. “I know. It sounds stupid now.”

“Sounds stupid? It is stupid.” He sighed. “Girls like you have it easy—I mean, you look well-fed, you’ve got on a nice little dress—probably drained your parent’s wallet for that outfit, and now you’re protesting because your old man won’t let you go to a concert? You’re a little spoiled cookie, aren’t you?”

Your chest tightened, your face started to feel warm, and you blinked quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sting behind your eyes. You had already been stranded for hours, burned under the sun, humiliated by your own choices—and now, the stranger who had come to your rescue was reminding you just how foolish you had been.

It felt demeaning. Here you were, an adult woman, getting lectured by a man you didn’t know as if he were your own father. And the only thing you could do was sit here and take it, because he was the only person who had the decency to stop for you and give you a ride. Riding with him and actually getting to a safe destination was far better than standing on the side of the street, getting catcalled by every old man who drove by.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice breaking just a little. “I know it’s stupid. I just… really wanted to go, okay?”

Bucky glanced at you, his expression softening slightly when he caught the little wobble in your voice. You were turned to the window now, blinking hard, pretending to be fascinated by the endless stretch of desert instead of his lecture.

“Hey,” he frowned, his voice softer and almost apologetic. “Didn’t mean to sound like that.”

“It’s fine. I get it.”

He sighed, his fingers tapping the wheel as he looked back at the road. “I just—” he exhaled through his nose, “guess I ain’t the best at talkin’ nice.”

There was another moment of long and awkward silence. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, still looking out the window, perfectly still with your timid hands in your lap, perched like a proper doll.

Bucky couldn’t take this silence anymore. He found you amusing—too kind for your own good. What could have happened if it wasn’t him that picked you up? What if some other man with no good intentions had swept you off the road? You probably would have been dead by now.

He was drawn to you, almost protective. And now that the ride was nearing an hour, he couldn’t handle sitting here in the tense silence any longer.

He tapped a few switches to grab your attention, pointing them out as he spoke without preamble. You turned a little in your seat, watching as his hand moved to the dashboard.

“This one here controls the trailer brakes. Don’t wanna hit that one by accident unless you’re lookin’ to stop hard. This one’s for the axle lock. That one—” he pointed to a faded red knob, “that’s the parking brake. The whole thing’ll hiss like a snake when you pull it.”

You sniffled quietly and wiped your nose with your finger, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He did, of course—but he didn’t say anything. He just kept talking, hoping to cheer you up.

“And this one—” he continued, nodding toward a small, rusted switch near the radio, “turns on the cabin light. But don’t mess with it too much. The thing flickers worse than a Christmas tree with bad wiring.”

You let out a small, involuntary giggle, and he caught the sound, glancing over with a grin that deepened the faint lines around his eyes.

“What?” he asked, pretending to be offended. “You laughin’ at my truck?”

“No, it’s just…” you chuckled, trying to hide your smile. “Comparing a creaky rig to a Christmas tree is silly.”

He looked over at you for a moment, the light from the sun reflecting in his eyes. “You’ve got a nice laugh, little duck,” he said.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because that’s what you are,” he grinned. “A cute little duck.”

You looked down at your lap, finding the contrast between being in a pretty dress and sitting inside an aged rig amusing. “You make me sound so little,” you shook your head, grinning. “I’m not some fragile little thing, you know.”

“No?” he hummed, clearly entertained. “You might be right. Especially since you were standing on the side of the road all by yourself without a scare in the world.”

He gave you a subtle sideways glance that you didn’t catch, one hand steady on the wheel as his eyes roamed over you. He watched you sitting there, like a princess perched on a dirty seat, how you squirmed a little and fiddled with your hands in your lap, unsure what to do with them.

You were the picture-perfect image of innocence—and for some reason, Bucky wanted to ruin it.

When you’re sitting down all day as a trucker, you don’t get much blood flow in your legs. It’s vital to stop and take breaks to stretch them out, keep the blood pumping. But sitting here next to you, he seemed to no longer have any issue with his circulation as his blood flowed warmly from his core and straight to his cock.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, adjusting the growing tightness in his jeans.

You turned to look at him, eyes wide and innocent. “Are you okay, mister Bucky?”

“M’fine,” he grumbled, forcing his eyes back onto the road. “And stop calling me mister.”

“It just feels…” you pursed your lips into a subtle pout, “… impolite.”

It was rare that Bucky felt cuteness aggression toward anyone or anything. He’d felt it with pets, sure. Maybe even with his nephews and nieces. But you? You were something else entirely. You were sickeningly sweet in a way that made his teeth ache. You were so soft and spoke so gently that he wanted to wrap his burly hands gently around your delicate throat to preserve your voice forever.

And throughout the drive, he felt exactly that. Cuteness aggression. Having these vulgar thoughts about a pure, innocent stranger was completely inappropriate. He began making pointless conversation in hopes to get his mind off of it.

“What concert were you goin’ to, sweetheart?” he had asked.

“Heart.”

“Heart?” he raised a brow. “I pegged you for the Olivia Newton-John type. I didn’t expect you to be fond of those Wilson sisters.”

You giggled. “I’m not as innocent as you think I am, mister Bucky.”

He smiled—not a genuine, kind one, but one that almost seemed taunting. “I’m not sure about that, little duck.”

These types of talks were supposed to distract him, to keep his mind occupied with something else, but they hardly dulled the warm feeling that was slowly building in his groin.

As the minutes went on, as an hour turned into multiple, the harder it became for him to ignore the way his cock was pressing insistently against the denim. Your soft laugh after every bad dad joke he threw, the way you would cross and uncross your legs every now and then, fiddling with the ends of your skirt. He grew more tense by the second, his body rigid and tense. He would let out a heavy sigh every now and then, his knuckles nearly going white around the wheel.

You noticed this, but you had been trying your best to ignore it. But after another agitated exhale from his nose, you decided to speak up.

“Mister Barnes?” you started, turning your head to face him. “Are you okay?”

He paused, his jaw clenching slightly. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said, though his voice was strained.

You frowned, leaning in a little closer. “Are you sure? If you want, I can take over. Though I’ve never driven a rig before…” your voice trailed off softly.

And there you went again—to Bucky’s demise, you were being aggravatingly adorable.

“No,” his jaw clenched again. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his focus on the road and not the sweet, intoxicating scent of your perfume. “I think I just need a smoke. You don’t mind, do you, doll?”

You pursed your lips together. You were never a fan of cigarettes, always hating how the smell clung to your hair and clothes no matter how many times you washed them. But what kind of position were you in to deny this man’s request—especially in his own truck?

So, you shook your head. “I don’t mind.”

He hummed, shifting his hips to dig in his back pocket for a pack of Marlboros. He opened the box and pulled a cigarette out, waving one toward you.

“Want one?” he asked with a smile.

“No thank you,” you declined with a polite smile.

Bucky shrugged and rolled the window down just barely, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep inhale before puffing it out. The smell already made you gag. Bucky was oblivious as he kept inhaling, exhaling an unpleasant cloud of gray smoke that made you cough and sniffle.

You kept coughing—small and stifled, like you were trying not to make a fuss. Your nose scrunched, eyes watering. And when you coughed a little louder, Bucky finally turned his head to look at you.

“You alright there, little duck?” he asked, blowing smoke out.

“I’m fine,” you wheezed.

Despite your words, he could clearly see that you weren’t fine. You kept blinking rapidly with a scrunched nose, trying not to let the smoke get to you as you sat there trying to be polite—trying to be good.

The sight of your innocence and purity only made his cock twitch in his pants even more. Bucky’s grip on the wheel tightened in frustration. With a deep sigh, he rolled the window down further, letting the cool wind sweep in as he stubbed the cigarette out in the portable ashtray in the cup holder.

“There,” he gruffed, flicking the butt out the window and flashing you a strained smile. “No more smoke.”

Your teeth caught your bottom lip as you looked at him warily. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders were stiff, and he kept shifting around in his seat—as if trying to ease some sort of discomfort. If anything, he looked even more on edge than he did before he took his smoke break.

Now, guilt started to eat at you, and you began to feel like this was your fault. He had picked up a random woman on the street, who was taking up his space and alone time, and he couldn’t even take a proper smoke without you having coughing fits right next to him.

“I’m sorry,” you spoke up suddenly, looking at him. “I feel bad for cutting your smoke break off early. Is there anything I can do to help you?” Your eyes quickly raked over his tense form with a frown. “You look like you’re in pain.”

He made a little grimace, not trusting himself to look at you.

“Stop worrying your pretty head,” he said, trying to sound playful, yet it came out strained. “I’ll be fine.”

You leaned in a little closer, trying to get in his peripheral view. His body stiffened.

“But, you don’t look fine.”

“Don’t push it, little duck.”

“Mister Barnes,” you frowned, leaning even closer. “I feel bad. I want to help you.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply. The smell of your sweet candy perfume filling his nostrils that are usually clouded by smoke, seemed to be the last and final straw for him. He snapped his head at you, making you shrink back just slightly as he spoke.

“You know what pretty girls like you do to men like me to help ‘relieve stress’?” He asked. “Huh?”

You shook your head, biting your lip.

Bucky continued. “They put their mouths to good use.”

You frowned a bit, sulking in your seat. “Like… sing?”

The earnestness in your voice made him suck in a breath.

Sing?

The words that had just come out of his mouth were filthy, practically an indirect invitation for you to suck his cock right then and there, but it had completely gone over your head.

This only made his patience wear thinner.

“Not singing,” he sighed in defeat. His hand went down to adjust the bulge straining against his jeans.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands—big and calloused—as he subtly tried to palm himself. Bucky’s breath hitched as he gave his cock one good rub against the denim before placing his hands back on the wheel.

He was hard. You knew that for a fact, because your eyes would not leave the tent between his legs, no matter how many times he tried to adjust himself; it almost seemed to be begging for you to notice.

In your desperation to help Bucky in any way you could, you leaned over and reached your hand out. Before you could think, your soft palm rested gently on his clothed erection.

He immediately jumped in his seat, thrown off guard by your sudden action.

“Jesus! Doll, what the hell are you doing?”

You immediately retracted your hand as if you hurt him, looking at him wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry—!”

“No,” he interrupted, his hand coming to circle your wrist and bring it back to his crotch. “Don’t apologize—just… just keep it there.” He instructed quietly, his hand closing around yours as he held you still.

Your face flushed as you felt his warmth beneath your palm. He felt heavy, full, and the way his cock pulsed when you slightly grazed your fingers against him made you sigh softly. Encouraged by his subtle reaction, you rubbed your hand again, watching him carefully.

He sucked in a breath, glancing at you. “Fuck. Do you have any idea what you’re doing—” a small groan left his lips as you squeezed him through his pants again.

“Is this helping you, mister Bucky?”

Bucky shuddered, his hips jutting up slightly to meet the palm of your hand. “Shit,” he mumbled. “It’s helping, doll, but…” his hand wrapped around yours firmly, guiding it up and down harder against his length. “Move your hand like this.”

You followed the motion he instructed, biting your lip as you watched him carefully. You eyed the way his jaw hung slightly as his breathing grew heavier, the way his eyes were focused on the road, though it was obvious he wanted to look at you.

“Like this?” you asked, palming him harder.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, rocking his hips against your hand. “Like that. Just like that.”

You continued moving your hand up and down against his cock. He pulsed and throbbed underneath your palm, but he made a face—a look that told you this wasn’t enough. That he needed more.

So, you took it upon yourself to unbuckle your seatbelt, reach over and adjust your knees in your seat as your hands clumsily fumbled at his belt.

Bucky finally looked at you, wide-eyed as you worked at his buckle. “What—sweetheart, what are you—” a shocked gasp escaped him as you started unzipping his pants. “Jesus Christ—you… you’re an eager little duck, aren’t you?”

You batted your lashes at him. “I want to help you.”

“Yeah?” he groaned, lifting his hips up to help you. “Go on, then. Show me how good girls like you take care of men like me,” he said. “And it better not be by singing.”

You dug your fingers in his jeans, your soft hands finding the hole of his boxers and pulling his length out—freeing him from its confines. Immediately, he felt hot and heavy in your hands, heavier than he had against the denim. He was big, too big, and you didn’t know if you could wrap your small hands around him fully.

A soft little sigh escaped you as you hesistantly tried to wrap your fingers around his warm shaft.

He groaned, his head dipping back slightly against the car seat, his cock already pulsing at the sensation of your timid little fingers. He’d been so starved of any female affection out on these lonely roads that just your slight touch and smell were enough to make him bust right then and there.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “Keep… keep going. Move your hand up and down.”

Encouraged by his instruction, you squeezed your hands a little tighter, causing him to groan. You started to move your hands up and down and his hips started to shake as he gave your warm palm shallow thrusts, beginning to fuck your fist.

“Is… is this good?” you asked softly.

It was like a bolt of ecstasy flooded his entire body at the sound of your soft and innocent question. He pulsed in your grip again, and you took that as a sign to keep going. You started to pump him steadily, sighing softly at the sight of him trembling beneath your hand.

“That’s… that’s good,” he grunted, forcing his eyes on the road. “…very good. Don’t stop, doll.”

And you didn’t.

Your hand kept pumping him eagerly, your fingers giving his length a squeeze now and then, leaving him trying to contain his grunts and groans. A bead of pre-cum started leaking at his tip, and with a shaky thumb, you swiped your digit over it and smeared his arousal over the head of his cock.

“Jesus, baby,” he groaned. “How would your daddy feel if he found out his daughter was such a dirty little girl? Getting picked up by a stranger and stroking a man who’s twice her age’s cock?”

You chuckled softly. “He’d be very upset with me, mister Bucky.”

Bucky’s body shuddered, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands—so clearly inexperienced—made him feel good, sure. But he wondered how well you could do with that innocent little mouth of yours. He wanted to feel the soft, wet, and warm press of your tongue against his cock instead.

He adjusted his seat back slightly. “Come here,” he urged.

You leaned in a little closer, confused, before he grabbed the back of your head, fingers slinking through the strands of your hair as he moved your face down to his lap.

“Closer,” he grunted, his hands tightening around your hair and making you whimper softly. “Sorry, little duck. Gonna need your cute little mouth for this one—think you can give me that?”

“I can try,” you said softly, adjusting yourself. “Though, I never—”

“That’s okay,” he reassured, his voice strained and raspy. His grip on your hair was tight, and you could tell it was taking everything in him to not shove his cock into your inexperienced mouth right then and there.

“Just give it a few licks—a few kisses. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Your face burned hot at his question. The way he asked it made it sound simple and innocent—though every word that left his mouth was dirty.

But you were determined to please him. After all, he was doing you a huge favor by saving you off the side of the road and giving you a ride.

“I’ll try my best…”

You adjusted yourself in your seat, your knees digging into the worn fabric of the passenger seat as you leaned down, your face barely hovering over his lap. You looked up at him, and his jaw was clenched tight, one hand still laced in your hair and the other holding the wheel steady.

“Are you sure we should be doing this while you’re driving?” you asked hesitantly, your lips tugging down into a pout.

“We’ll be alright, doll,” he soothed. “The road’s empty, and it’s just one straight road for more than a hundred miles. And don’t worry—I’ll finish quick.”

He glanced down at you, eyes wide and innocent, your hand wrapped around his cock and your lips hovering right over his tip. The sight of you like this, innocent as a bunny, only made him want to ruin you further.

He claimed he’d be quick, but even he knew that was a lie.

He was going to drag this out for as long as possible.

“Go on,” he urged. “Give me a little kiss.”

You leaned in hesitantly, your breath warm over his shaft as you pressed a soft and tentative kiss against his cockhead. Bucky’s eyes momentarily fluttered shut, groaning at the feel of your soft, wet lips touching his sensitive length.

You kept giving him the same delicate and shy kisses all over him—each kiss was a taunt, leaving him wanting to defile you more and more. His hand tightened around your hair, and he nudged your face closer. You let out a small yelp as his cock started to rub up and down clumsily against your cheek. He groaned at the feel of your soft cheek rubbing against his sensitive and wet tip.

“God, fuck,” he groaned, rocking his hips up against your face. “Bet you never had a grown man’s cock all over your face like this, huh?”

You whimpered beneath him, squeezing your eyes shut as his cock caressed your face. Deep, shallow thrusts of his cock smeared his pre-cum all over your cheeks and ruined your makeup.

“Go on, baby. Get a good whiff of that.”

Doing as instructed, you inhaled deeply, letting his masculine, musky smell fill your lungs. You’d never been this close to a man’s cock before—the smell and the close proximity of him was enough to make your head dizzy.

Bucky looked down, a devilish grin tugging at the corners of his lips at the sight of your scrunched face.

“Aw,” he cooed, teasing you. “Look at you. What an innocent thing you are. You said you’ve never sucked a cock before?”

You blinked up at him, shaking your head shyly. “No, I’ve never done it before. I’m sorry if it’s going to be bad.”

Bucky sucked in a harsh breath at your words, and he had to stop himself from smiling even wider. You were so innocent, so pure, and you were actually apologizing to him in case you gave him a bad performance.

He didn’t care about that.

He just wanted you.

“Don’t apologize, little duck,” he said, his thumb wiping the smeared mascara underneath your eye. “I’ll be happy with you trying your best.”

A soft, faint blush warmed your cheeks at his words. Most people tossed out lines like that without thinking. But coming from him, it settled differently. People didn’t usually have patience for you and your various lack of experience with… things.

“Okay,” you smiled softly, feeling encouraged. “I’ll try my best.”

With that, you parted your lips slowly, giving his cockhead a slow and shy lick. When he groaned, you took that as encouragement to move your tongue around more, teasing the swollen tip. The taste of his pre-cum that gathered at his slit was unusual, a little salty. But the way he moaned and bucked his hips for more—it only motivated you to keep going.

“Don’t be a tease, babydoll,” he warned raspily.

With one hand around his shaft, you leaned your head down and opened your mouth wider, your soft lips enveloping the tip. You swirled your tongue in an attempt to please him, but it was clumsy, uncoordinated, and you were already drooling down your chin like an amateur.

Bucky laughed softly. Your attempt was cute, but he wanted to test you.

“Gonna push your head down a little, sweetheart,” he gave you a slight nudge, watching in satisfaction as your small mouth stretched around his length.

He didn’t even make it halfway before you immediately broke into a gagging fit, tears springing in the corners of your eyes. You whined and choked around his cock, though you didn’t pull away.

He felt bad, really. It was your first time with a dick inside your mouth, and it was one of this size. But he couldn’t admit he wanted to see you struggle.

“Oh,” he breathed, huffing out a small laugh. “You’re taking my cock like a champ, little duck. Ain’t this hurting you?”

He shouldn’t have bothered asking, because he knew he was not going to get an answer—not when your mouth was stuffed with just half his cock. When you muffled and coughed around his shaft, Bucky loosened his grip in your hair just slightly and gently started caressing your head, as if soothing you.

“That’s it, baby. Don’t try to force it, just take what you can—fuck, that’s it. Gooood girl,” he cooed softly.

One hand was tight on the steering wheel, keeping it steady. His eyes kept flicking back between you and the road—it damn near made him dizzy. “Try bobbing your head up and down a little, baby. Can you try doing that for me?”

You nodded against his dick gently, your head slowly moving up and down, your cheeks hollowing around his length. Your tongue rested heavy against his pulsing cock as you tried your best to take him deeper, and a little bump in the road made his cock hit the back of your throat. You immediately choked and pulled away slightly.

“Shit,” Bucky grunted. “I’m sorry, baby. The road’s a little bumpy. Just breathe in and out of your nose, okay?” He glanced down at you, pushing a stray hair out of your face and running a finger against your hollowed cheek softly.

“You’re already being such a good girl for me.”

You pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cockhead before you swiped your tongue over your lips. You craned your neck to look up at him. “… I am?”

Bucky’s eyes were glazed with lust, lips parted as he looked at your face—makeup smeared, hair a mess, drool painted all over your chin—it was a beautiful sight. “You are, baby. You’re being a very good girl.”

You were no longer the innocent, helpless girl who stood by the road with her thumb out. You were his now, his own little plaything that made him have fun with for the first time in a long time.

If he had a girl like you in his passenger seat for every car ride, he’d be the happiest, and luckiest, truck driver on earth.

“Am I making you feel good, mister Bucky?” you asked shyly, with one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft and pumping him at an uneven pace.

“Y-yes, baby,” Bucky’s breath was shaky. “You’re making me feel more than good. Think you can try taking the rest of me in your sweet little mouth?”

You tried to catch your breath as your hand paused, eyes trailing back down at his length. He was big; you already knew that when you first pulled him out of his jeans. You were only able to take half of him inside your mouth, and that was with you already trying your hardest.

To say it wasn’t painful would be a lie. The stretch around your lips burned, and the ache around your jaw was a type of ache you’d never experienced before. Your own drool and spit were everywhere—even smeared all over your chin. And after that bump on the road, you hated the feeling of gagging.

But even then, there was a building heat that pooled between your legs from the very start.

Despite the ache, you liked this.

You liked knowing that you were able to please a man who was way older than you, with much more experience, even though you lacked it all. And seeing his face—handsomely desperate for an inexperienced girl like you... how could you deny him?

“I don’t know—I mean, I can try…”

“I know, doll. Just show me how much you want to please me,” Bucky encouraged, flashing you a lazy smile.

You blushed softly at his words. Eager to please him, you leaned back down, your soft lips finding the tip of his cock again before your warm mouth stretched around him, slowly sinking your head down further as your tongue dragged along every pulsing ridge and vein.

“Fuck!” he moaned as he felt you go in deeper than you had before, your mouth slowly constricting around his cock as you went deeper.

Tears were springing to your eyes, and you squeezed them shut to keep them from flowing.

“No, baby,” he grunted, his rough fingers tangling in your hair again. “Keep your eyes open. I want you to keep ‘em open while you take every inch—fuck, yesss, that’s it!”

His head thudded hard against the driver’s seat, his mouth dropping completely into an o-shape as he guided your head down deeper and deeper. A tear dripped down your cheek and onto his lap as the size of him started to get too much. Your mouth was not used to such a large object inside, but the filthy sounds that left his mouth were enough to spur you on.

He was more than halfway inside your mouth by now, moving with a gentle slowness that was almost excruciating for him. He pushed, paused and let your mouth adjust to his size, then pushed again.

But the more you gagged and the more his cock rubbed against the walls of your sweet, warm mouth, it made it harder for him to keep control. You were so close to taking him all—you just needed to be a good girl and take one last push.

“God—fuck!” Bucky shouted as he gave your hair one hard tug before pulling your head down in one hard, swift motion.

Your eyes went wide as your nose hit the base of his pelvis. Your hands flew to his thigh for support as you choked and sputtered around his cock. “Mmph!”

His grip on your hair was tight as he held you still, his hips rocking up against your face, fucking your mouth hard and relentless.

“Shit, shit,” he moaned loudly. “I know, baby. I’m sorry—fuck, but I couldn’t hold back anymore. Just… just stay still, okay? I’ll take care of the rest—shit!” He gasped as he felt himself getting close.

Everything was intoxicating.

The thrill of having a pretty, innocent girl’s mouth wrapped around his cock while driving, the wet sounds of your mouth as he slammed his hips up and fucked your face harder than you could take—the way your eyes rolled, your back arching slightly over the console, your dress barely covering your ass as your knees dug deep into the uncomfortable cushions of the seat…

It was more than he could take.

This very moment was everything he could ever dream of, and he knew that the minute he painted your pretty lips white with his seed, every truck ride after you wouldn’t be the same.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, his thrusts sloppy and uneven as he desperately chased his release. “Fuuuck, you little slut!”

A little sympathetic whine left his lips as he heard you mewl and sputter beneath him, choking and crying on his cock.

“Sshh, shh… I’m sorry. I know, doll. I know it hurts—but fuck, you’re taking me so well. I’m close—just…move your tongue a little—”

His body immediately shook, and another loud and almost animalistic groan tore straight out of his chest the minute you—attempted to—rub your tongue up and down along his shaft. You tried to keep in time with his brutal throat-fucking, though you couldn’t keep up.

It was cute, really.

“Shit, shit, shit,” a litany of curses spilled from his lips as he felt his base coiling hot. “F-fuuck, I’m gonna cum—” his balls tightened up, and his face twisted as he felt himself let go.

With one hard thrust upwards, he sheathed his cock completely inside your wet mouth. You coughed and choked around him as warm, thick cum flooded your mouth, making it spill and drip around his length. You tried your best to swallow it all like he would have wanted you to, but with your gag reflex already overstimulated, you didn’t have it in you to choke it down.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, lifting your head up so that you could catch your breath.

Bucky’s cock was released from your mouth, and you immediately started coughing and catching your breath, your cheeks streaked with tears and long rid of its makeup.

His eyes flickered to the road—still empty—then back to you. He released his hand from your hair and clumsily swiped his thumb over your lip, catching any stray drops and sticking his thumb in your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he panted, giving you a tired and reassuring smile. “You did so well for me. I didn’t hurt you too bad now, did I?”

You coughed, shaking your head and giving him an equally tired smile. “It was a little rough. It was a new feeling,” you admitted. “But I enjoyed it.”

His smile widened, letting out a breathless laugh as he reached out and ruffled your already messy hair. “Good girl. Now, sit back down and buckle yourself in. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt now.”

You scrambled back into the passenger seat, adjusting your dress and putting your seatbelt back on. You pulled the sun visor down and rolled the mirror out, and you let out a shocked gasp at the sight of yourself.

You looked completely debauched. Your hair and makeup—once neatly done for the concert you were supposed to go to—were now smeared and desecrated. You looked like a woman straight out of a porn magazine. Even worse, you looked exactly like the woman your parents would warn you about.

“Oh my god,” you murmured, trying to flatten your hair.

Bucky turned to look at you with a grin, already tucking himself back into his pants. “What is it, little duck?”

You frowned. “My father would kill me if he saw me like this!”

Oh, that.

His smile faltered just a little.

Just a few miles from now, he had to drop you off at a safe location, say goodbye, and never see you again. His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles going white as he stayed silent.

You looked at him with a frown. “Are you okay, Mister Bucky?” you asked curiously. “Did my… did I not help you feel better? Are you still feeling tense?”

He immediately snapped back and loosened his grip on the wheel just slightly. He turned back to you—the sight of your wide eyes, still innocent and bright despite the brutal face-fucking you took from him just mere seconds ago—it tugged at the strings in his chest.

There it was. That damn cute aggression all over again.

“Huh? Oh, no. I’m fine, babydoll. Don’t worry about me now.” He forced a smile.

You smiled back, genuine. “Okay.”

There was an awkward, very tense moment of silence after that. Your eyes were peeking curiously at the window, and your thighs were clenched tight together. He kept stealing glances at your lap every now and then, and every time he looked, you were squirming and fidgeting. Your hands were playing at the ends of your skirt, and your teeth would catch your bottom lip.

You looked just as tense as he did before you… “took care of him.”

And he realized now how foolish he’d been not to take care of your own needs, especially after how diligently you worked to please him.

“You feeling alright, little duck?” he asked, keeping his eyes casual on the road.

“… I’m fine,” you mumbled.

You were not fine. After giving your first blowjob, your heart had been hammering in your chest with excitement. Your body felt warm, and the area between your legs felt tingly and, well, damp. You were so wet, your panties were practically soaked right through, and Bucky hadn't touched you once aside from the hair tugs and gentle face caressing.

You needed more. Your body ached for him—but you felt like it was too selfish to ask. The blowjob was supposed to be you paying him back for giving you a ride. He had already done too much for your sake.

“Hey,” he nudged you gently in the arm, grabbing your attention. “You hungry? There’s a little diner I know that’s just a few miles ahead. I’ll fill up the tank, and we can grab something to eat.”

You blinked at him. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to be more of a burden—”

Your voice immediately trailed off as he reached over, his hand casually resting on your thigh. You stiffened, and that same tingling, clenching feeling you had came back tenfold. A little whimper escaped you as you felt his rough, calloused hand slowly glide up and tickle past your skirt.

“You’re not a burden, doll,” he reassured, voice deep. “Then after we eat, we can park somewhere… discrete, and just relax. We can continue having some private time to ourselves before you call your daddy to come pick you up.”

Then, he finally looked at you.

There was a glint behind his eyes, a look that told you that he was sensing what you were feeling. It was almost as if he didn’t want to drop you off somewhere safe—but rather keep you here with himself.

After all, you needed a reliable and trustworthy man to look after you—and who better than him?

“How about it, sweetheart?” he smiled. “Spendin’ more time with mister Bucky. Doesn't that sound nice?”

IM FINALLY FINISHED I HAD THIS DRAFT UP MY BUTT SINCE THE BEGINNING NOV but anyway. im finally finished. i honestly dragged my feet for the second half so i apologize for any mistakes.

thank you for reading!! <3

Some may label you foolish for missing the signs. You’ve read every romance column known to women, familiarizing yourself with these so-called symptoms of a failing relationship. Looking at Max and the life you’ve built, you never thought to give any of them credence.

So what if he works countless late hours in the office, he’s continuing to build his parents’ legacy — of course, he would work hard. So what if he puts his phone face down when you enter the room, smiling up at you tight with a stiff crinkle in the corner of his eye that you brush off — he just wants all his focus on you. So what if he decides to get a separate credit card for his personal items — he doesn’t want to burden you with his spending.

You’re not naive by any means. Many have called you cynical, evidenced by the articles you write that often renounce simplistic forms of love, pure perspectives on life with no consideration of the horrors of the human mind.

It’s not that you’re naive. It’s that your edges, the ones that face him, have been smoothed over time. Chipped away and sanded until they are curves that he can hold onto, keeping a firm grip on you to free his other hand to reach for another.

When you first step past the threshold of your home, the last thing you expect is to hear voices. Max was supposed to be at work. Your heart lifts, the innocent thought that he had come home earlier to surprise you crossing your mind. It’s a consideration that does not last very long when a woman appears, skipping out into the living room which you have a clear line of sight into from the doorway.

A woman who looks very much like Max’s secretary. The one who always prepares you coffee when you stop by. The one who always simpers so sweetly at you, but lingers her sultry gaze a little too long on your boyfriend. The one Max told you not to worry about.

A woman who is in nothing but her bra and panties.

At first, she doesn’t see you, giggling carefree with her bare feet against your hardwood floors. Only when she does a twirl does she see you in your doorway. Only then does she do a double-take, stumbling over her own foot and nearly toppling over your very nice vase.

“Shit,” she squeaks out quietly, righting herself into an awkward stance.

The words die in your throat. While your mind could attempt to do the mental gymnastics of justifying why your boyfriend’s secretary would be practically nude in your place, you’re not granted the opportunity when the man of the hour comes running up to her, broad arms that you once called your home wrapping around her.

“Come back here,” he laughs, lips attaching to her delicate neck. The one adorned with a pearl necklace that you remember seeing him sneak into the apartment, but never reached your hands. “What are you—”

At least, you aren’t the only one caught off guard. It seems to be a three-way standoff the way everyone freezes where they stand. There is only a brief second of silence, you could hear a pin drop, before the chaos unfurls.

Safe to say, your beloved vase does not survive the five minutes it takes to chase the two of them out of your home. The vase ends up scattered across the hallway outside your door, lodged against his skin and maybe even hers. You’ll be the first to fully admit that you can’t fully recall what exactly transpired in the moments following the betrayal.

When all is said and done and you’re left in the aftermath of what just happened, two weeks before Christmas, all you can think is — ‘tis the fucking season.

—

By the time you roll to a stop in front of your parents’ upstate home, you’ve comfortably settled into the third stage of grief. Ire flows through your veins the entire drive up, blood rushing to your foot for you to floor the accelerator the entirety of the three-hour ride over. The music that blasts through your speakers is deafening. It’s angry, it’s hurt. It’s a reflection of you.

While you had been numb when you first called your parents to request permission, asking to use their home under the guise of a quiet place to focus on work with your pressing deadlines, that paralysis has quickly subsided into fire that sears through your entire being. Despite the early December chill, all you feel is hot.

Flames enveloping your heart in pure, unbridled white-hot anger. How dare he. Seven years. Seven of the best years of your life. Seven years shredded into nothing in five minutes. Five fucking minutes. He couldn’t have even bothered sitting you down, telling him that he was no longer interested in you, that he no longer loved you. He couldn’t even bother extending the courtesy of breaking up with you.

Hell, he couldn’t have even bothered booking a goddamn hotel room like any other cheater out there. He took her — the woman he promised you never needed to worry about — to your home. Your safe space. The one you purchased with your hard-earned work.

Your fingers itch with the urge to dial up his number, to give him a piece of your mind that certainly will last a lot longer than five fucking minutes. But you bite back that impulse because it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.

He already tainted every single piece of your home by bringing her there. All the good — the whispered kisses under the covers, the tangling of your legs on the couch with the television purring quietly in the background, the clanging of pots and pans for your dinner dates — is gone. Memories stained with permanent ink. When you imagine your pristine apartment, all you can see are the spots — the marks that can never be erased. Smudges over the flawless house you’ve built.

For a while, you sit behind the wheel, knuckles tight where you grip. The tears are warm in your eyes, you will them away, but they stick. They roll down fast, soft lines down your face that can’t seem to disappear, no matter how many times you wipe them.

For a moment, you think you’ve regressed in your grief — the guilt seeping back in through the cracks of your wrath. The self-blame question in the margins of your mind has only partially formed when a knock on your window jolts you back to reality.

Quickly swiping away the wet streaks on your face, you squeeze your eyes shut and force your face to be brave. You plaster on a shaky smile before you unlock your car and slide out.

“Marta, it’s been too long.”

Marta is a four-foot-nine lady who’s been working here since you were two running around in nothing but your diapers. She mostly keeps the house clean, but she has had to occassionally wear a few hats, including babysitting you when you’re being a bigger brat than usual.

Her thick arms swathe you in a warm embrace, one that you didn’t know you desperately needed until your own limbs return the affection. She doesn’t say anything about your swollen eyes or your sniffly nose. Instead, she holds you at arm’s length and smiles softly. “Dear, it’s been much too long. You haven’t been here in years. The last time I saw you, you were off to start your first year in the city.”

Remorse slinks around you again, hovering close by. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been busy. Life, I mean. I haven’t really had the chance to come back here.”

“No matter,” she tuts quietly with a pat on your shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well. You look healthy at least. Probably could use my squash soup, you used to love that.”

“I still do,” you grin back.

Marta takes you on a tour of the home, refreshing your memory of where things are stored and the renovations your parents have done on certain rooms, including turning your bedroom into a home gym. The two of you spend an hour or so catching up, her lighting up with every piece of your life that you share with her. By the time she bids her farewell, the sun is slowly sinking over the horizon.

The rush from the day has slowly given way to weariness that weighs heavy on your eyelids. You barely register her words when she tells you that your parents have hired a full-time caretaker for the property who lives just down the road. You barely remember drifting towards the living room couch and stretching out, letting sleep swallow you.

When you come back to, the room is bathed in a gradient of purple and orange. The sun peeks shyly over the horizon as you stretch your exhausted, aching arms long into the air with a groan. Your phone lights up to indicate that it’s barely six, which means you’ve slept more than you have this past week alone.

You tug the throw blanket around your shoulders, fabric dragging by your feet as you step across the creaky, cool floors into the kitchen. You reach for a fresh glass and fill it with tap, tipping the crisp water down your throat to quench your parched throat.

Sleep hadn’t been kind to you. Even — especially — with your eyes closed, all you can see is the betrayal that plagues you. The scenes shift throughout the night — your home, his office, a restaurant that you used to frequent with Max. Each one once a memory of the good you had, now soiled with her face replacing yours. It’s her hand he’s holding. It’s her eyes he’s looking into.

You’re standing in the fringes of these moments, like an outsider watching through a window.

Your head pulses with an ache that doesn’t seem to cease. Instead, you try to distract yourself by fussing with the kettle to make some tea, hoping that the caffeine would ease your drowsy mind. While you wait for the kettle to whistle, your hand automatically reaches for your phone, your first instinct is to scroll through the news notifications.

A wedding in Brooklyn. Another stupid comment from the president. An alien invasion in Metropolis.

You can’t tell if some higher power above finds destroying the world you live in to be the ultimate cosmic joke. This is why you don’t like writing about real news; it’s too depressing. At least you find interest in the topics you write, even if they aren’t always the most critical things the world needs. 

You’re halfway through this article from The Daily Planet that you’re convinced is another outlet similar to The Onion when you spot movement in your periphery. The blood-curdling scream leaves your lips when you see the dark figure standing by your kitchen.

Said figure then steps into the streaks of gold the sunrise paints across your floors. Slowly, his face is illuminated — it’s his broad chest that you notice first, hidden beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. Your eyes then shift to his equally broad shoulders, covered by a plaid button-down that hangs loose over his middle, tight around his biceps. Then his bearded jaw comes to life before the slope of his nose and finally his bright blues.

While you aren’t a particular fan of home invasions, maybe there is something to the way this man looks ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously, effortlessly handsome. He doesn’t even seem fazed when you lunge for a knife, pointing it in his direction. In fact, he looks rather amused.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth.”

A scowl descends on your face. “Never answered my question.”

“I’m Bucky,” he says simply. When you don’t put your weapon down, he sighs. “Marta didn’t tell you? I work here. Been helping your parents with construction, renovation, and plumbing, along with some other odd tasks.”

Bucky? “What kind of name is Bucky?”

His lips curl again, amusement deepening the dimple in his cheek. His eyes twinkle with mischief, like he’s about to respond with a ridiculously stupid line. Your annoyance burrows deeper into your heart as you tighten your grasp around the knife.

“You gonna put the knife down or are you gonna keep acting up?”

There’s something in his voice, the curl of his syllables, the drop in pitch of his tone. It almost makes you want to listen. Almost. Your hand falters for a second, he notices. His smile stretches again.

“What? I gotta show you my state ID?” He chuckles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out and jingling the keys in his hands. “Telling you that I have keys to the place. I didn’t realize you were coming so soon. Thought it would be a couple of days. Upstairs toilet has been acting up so I was going to take a look before you came.”

Pinching your lips, you slowly lower the knife. You slip it back into the block but keep your eyes on him the entire time. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

“Bet you do,” he mutters under his breath, low enough that you nearly miss it. But the morning is quiet, a far cry from the constant cacophony of sirens and honks in the city. For a second he pauses, his curious eyes appraising you silently. They analyze you carefully from the top of your head to where your toes are curled into the tiles.

Then they fly back up to meet yours. You make the mistake of letting a gasp escape. You didn’t think it was possible but he grins even wider. He looks even more handsome with that smile. “What?” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest, covering yourself up further.

“Nothing,” he huffs a laugh, “just look cute in the morning.”

Your heart stutters against your ribcage. He doesn’t even wait before he tromps up the stairs, footsteps disappearing along with the ghost of his voice caressing your ear.

The way your heart skips is new. You’ve been with Max for so long that you forget the thrill of the flirting game. The little comments. The teasing looks. You tell yourself that it’s because you’re freshly heartbroken. It’s not because Bucky is alluring in the way Max never was. Rough bumps rather than smooth surfaces. You’ve slipped on that slope before; maybe it’s time to try something different.

—

For the most part, you keep to yourself. Bucky putters around and outside the house doing all sorts of things. Sometimes he’s carrying a toolbox, other times a sledgehammer. There are instances when he walks around with nothing at all. But through it all, he’s always fucking stripping.

He would come into the house with at least two layers. Over the course of the day, he would peel off his shirt and drape it over the kitchen chair. Then, when he’s under the sink plugging away, he tugs his t-shirt over his head. By the time you look up for the second time that hour, he’s already exposed in front of you.

It’s not easy to ignore, not when you see the way his abs flex with every move. Or how he grunts every time he does something a little hard. Or the attractive furrow of his brows when he can’t figure something out.

You’ve been sitting on this desk by the window for the better part of the day, but your eyes have wandered more than a handful of times to him. It’s enough times to make it embarrassing when he catches your gaze straying to him one too many times. When his lips tip up with that stupid twinkle in his eyes. That’s when you duck your head back down behind your laptop screen.

At some point in the afternoon, Bucky does come up to you. He opens his mouth and, before he can say anything, your stomach rumbles. Loud.

Shit.

It’s worse when you see him clearly resisting a laugh, his teeth catching his bottom lip, his eyes shining with mirth. It looks even brighter in the light — closer to a baby blue than cerulean.

“What?” You glower at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“You wanna go out and eat?” The question catches you by surprise, obvious when the creases on your forehead melt into your raised brows.

Bucky shoves his hands into his jeans, his naked chest still open in front of you. You almost want to look at the mirror and write whore on it with how closely you’re tracing the lines on his stomach. Maybe it’s time to write a piece on attractive parts of a man that aren’t sexual. Like the clavicles. His are quite attractive.

“There’s no food in the house. Your parents cleared it all out when they left on their cruise,” Bucky clarifies, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his ear. For the first time since you met him, he looks almost… awkward. It’s satisfying.

“Right, that would make sense,” you say, equally as awkward. “Where were you thinking?”

“I needed to go into town to pick up some supplies, need it to fix up that toilet upstairs. There’s a bistro there with decent sandwiches — nothing crazy like you city folks are used to but it’s food.”

As if on cue, your stomach protests again. Loudly. Bucky doesn’t hold back his laugh this time. Heat crawls up your neck as you scrape your chair back. “Fine. Let me get changed first.”

“Why?” Bucky looks at you, eyes falling to your clothes before coming back up.

He can’t be serious. You’re in frumpy, wrinkled pajamas that cover your toes. “I can’t tell if you have shit taste in clothes or if you’re just being nice.”

Thankfully, Bucky only smiles at you and lets you know that he’ll wait outside. When you finally step out in a much more appropriate sweater and jeans, Bucky’s leaning against a pickup truck, arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be deep in thought, eyes laser-focused, face devoid of emotion. His gaze is on the dirt in front of him. He only looks up when the front door slams shut a little too loud.

The sharpness in his eyes chips away when they land on you. You’re not entirely sure what to make of that change and choose to tuck it away in a box of questions for another time.

The drive into town is relatively quiet, Bucky has some radio station playing music with static that he hums along to. You choose the safer route of looking out the window to the wide expanse of forests and farmland. Your mind slides slowly back to why you’re here in the first place, a dangerous territory you would rather avoid.

“How long are you staying?”

You jerk around to face him. “Oh, um, I haven’t really figured that out yet. Maybe Christmas? New Year’s? Who knows?”

He’s quiet for a beat then continues, “Why’d you decide to come up? Figured you’d want to spend the holidays with friends — your boyfriend — in the city, especially with your parents gone.”

You know what he’s doing. He’s testing the waters, wading his fingers in slowly to see if anything will bite. So you sigh. “You don’t have to beat around the bush. I haven’t told my parents yet but I found my boyfriend with his practically-naked secretary in my apartment. Packed up my bags same day and wound up here within five hours.”

An expletive leaves his lips. “That’s… shit.”

You can’t help the bark of a laugh that comes out of your mouth. “One way of putting it. It’s pretty shit, especially when I gave him seven years of my fucking life.” Now that the floodgates have been opened, all your words come pouring out. They spill out in questions about whether you’re good enough, whether you did something wrong to deserve this, to push him to that point. They stream out in expressions of irritation, a combination of how dare he with that motherfucker with a sprinkling of who the fuck does he think he is.

By the time you run out of phrases to curse out your ex, Bucky is pulling up to a parking spot in this quaint town. It’s the kind of small town you see in movies where people greet each other walking down the sidewalk, where the flowers are always yellow, and the skies are clear. It’s the complete opposite of the storm brewing inside of you.

That is when you realize what you’ve just done. Embarrassment swiftly spreads across your entire body, rippling in goosebumps. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He asks, sincerity coating the single syllable.

“I said too much. You didn’t want to know all that.”

Bucky shrugs. “Didn’t mind it. Helpful context. Plus, think you needed that.”

You do feel a little lighter, a little less tense. You’ve had nowhere to channel all your thoughts and energy since yesterday evening, worsened by the fact that you haven’t eaten a single bite since lunch. For the first time since you left your house, you’re able to take a breath without your lungs quivering. It’s steady. Your heartbeat even.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Another huff of a laugh. He rubs your head, an affectionate gesture for a guy you’ve just met this morning, but you don’t mind it. There’s a familiarity to his touch that you lean into. He seems surprised but smiles. “No need to thank me. Let’s get some food in you.”

Lunch with Bucky is an experience, mainly because, by the end of it, you’re convinced he’s some sort of celebrity in town. No fewer than five people stop by to say hello and coo about how nice Bucky is. The waitress comes by with a slice of pie on the house. The chef knows the way Bucky likes his burger by heart. You get plenty of you’re so lucky’s that you blanch at, much to Bucky’s entertainment. If you didn’t know any better, he planted these extras and you’re waiting for someone to jump out and say you’ve been punked.

“Did I accidentally walk into a cult and you’re the high priest or something?” You ask when you finally leave the restaurant, a paper bag in Bucky’s hand of extra dishes the chef had whipped out for him.

His lips shift into a smirk. “Now why would you say that?” You’re not going to give him the satisfaction so you clamp your mouth shut and look away. Bucky touches your head again, and you do swat it off this time. “I have to go to the hardware store for the things. Did you want to join me or explore?”

The face you involuntarily make is apparently answer enough.

“Alright, grump. Give me your phone, we’ll trade numbers. Meet you back here in an hour?”

“It takes you an hour to pick up supplies for a toilet?”

Bucky shakes his head as he returns your phone. “A lot of questions. Might start charging you for answers.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s already stalking down the street. You’re left standing there, wondering what in the world you’re going to do to kill an hour. So you just start walking, your feet taking you down corners, twists, and turns. You wander around a farmer’s market for a while and end up with two bags of fresh produce to hopefully last you the week. Without fail, each stall owner points out that we haven’t seen you around here before, welcome to town!

It’s slightly unnerving but perhaps you aren’t used to eastern hospitality. Usually, when someone acts nice in the city, they probably want something from you. You try not to let your cynicism show and merely say I’m only in town for a little bit.

You’re making your way back towards the car when a bookstore not too far away from where you’re parked catches your eye. The titles are a little worn, but they look like they’re taken care of. There are a few classics that you’ve been meaning to read, time that you invested in your boyfriend now freed up for you to regain your literacy. You stack a few copies in your hand, only stopping when you can no longer balance them with your grocery bags.

When you go to put the bags down, you catch a fascinating sight.

Bucky is walking towards you but he doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. On his journey, he suddenly stops, turns to look inside a store then goes in. Your eyebrow raises in question which is quickly answered when the door swings open and an old lady walks out, chattering excitedly at Bucky who is now carrying three additional bags. He packs them away inside her trunk and she pinches his cheek, which he winces at.

Then he continues walking only to pause again when he hears a group of kids bickering in front of a shop. He talks to them for a moment, the sheepish looks on three of their faces growing before they mumble apologies and run off. The one kid remaining thanks him profusely, lighting up in a smile that could power a city.

His final pause was when he spotted a dog sitting patiently on the sidewalk. He crouches down and gives the dog a few good rubs, lips moving in a murmur you can’t hear from the distance. The dog rolls over to show its belly which Bucky provides equal attention to.

Finally, he stops in front of his car and looks around. That’s when his eyes catch you and a slow smile spreads across his lips. He struts over to you — yes, strut because the way he walks makes him look like a model.

“Find anything interesting?” He teases, nodding to the pile in your hand.

You purse your lips. “Yes, a few. I’ll go pay and be right out.”

Bucky plucks the stack from your hand, flipping through them with an easy smile and putting away the ones he says are in your parents’ library. Only two remain. Instead of handing them back to you, he peeks his head inside the bookstore. “Mr. Moore, put them on my tab, will you?”

Mr. Moore is fast to agree and wave him off.

“You have a tab here?”

“Yes, I’m surprisingly literate.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you scowl.

“Mr. Moore only takes cash and he’s nice enough to let me keep a tab in case I don’t bring enough cash.”

Oh. When Bucky senses you aren’t going to ask follow-up questions, he picks up your bags from the floor and tucks the books between his arm and his waist.

“I can carry them myself, you know.”

“I know.”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling again. Damned flirt. Bucky opens the door for you again, waits for you to slide in and hook your seatbelt, before he drops off the items in the trunk and goes over to his side. 

When you prepare dinner that evening, a risotto recipe you found online and somehow manage not to destroy, you find yourself quietly stirring the mixture. It’s not as if you’re thinking about your breakup again or the fact that you have just lost seven years of your life to a man who couldn’t keep in his pants and had the gall to lie to you about it. You’re only feeling a little… listless.

For that reason, you are thankful that Bucky is still tinkering around upstairs. You haven’t gone to check on him once but you assume he isn’t destroying your mother’s precious porcelain tiles. The noise is comforting. It’s a relief to know that you’re not alone in this expansive, overwhelming space. You’re not engulfed in deafening silence that rings all too sharp in your ears.

As you switch off the stove, you hear Bucky land on the final step downstairs. Typical man — no help in the kitchen but arrives when the food is ready. His voice carries into the room as you keep your back turned towards him. “Toilet upstairs should be good to go. I’m going to head out for the day.”

That has you freezing. Muscles involuntarily spasming. You’re not entirely sure why you lock up. It’s not as if you know this man, as if you want him to stay. Because why would you want him to stay? Again, you don’t know this man.

Slowly, you turn, shifting your gaze away from him and onto the flowers dotting the wall. “I made too much for dinner. Followed a recipe with multiple servings. Did you want some?”

Bucky observes you for a second, silent as he searches your face. You can see his eyes moving from your periphery but you refuse to meet them. Then he breathes out, “Sure. That would be nice.”

“Wash your hands,” you automatically say, wincing when your habit comes out. Your now ex-boyfriend had the terrible habit of coming in from god knows where and putting his hands on everything in your spotless home.

The man before you doesn’t seem to take offense; in fact, he looks humored. “I was going to. Scout’s honor.”

Dinner passes relatively peacefully. Between the tang of lemon on your tongue and the mushrooms melting in your mouth, Bucky peppers you with surface-level questions. What do you do for work? How’s life in the city? What are you working on these days? You hate to admit it but you are grateful that you’re not entirely alone here.

You have a feeling that Bucky understands that too. He keeps the conversation flowing, not a moment of silence for you to overthink your current circumstances. Even as the two of you are working through the dishes side by side, Bucky makes you laugh over some of the things your parents have done in the house, their kooky requests that he has had to draw the line on. Your heart feels a little lighter once more.

But as the night dwindles down and the crickets begin to chirp outside your window, Bucky moves slower, like he’s delaying his departure. When you look at him from across the room, he seems hesitant for a second then asks.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

His question catches you off guard, your grip on the sink faltering. “Uh, have we met?”

Bucky tilts his head, like he’s trying to gauge whether your response is genuine. “Never mind,” he shakes his head with a small smile. The look has you prickling in annoyance, partly because it seems like you’re not in on the inside joke playing in his head. Still, you don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. “I’m going to head out, let you get some rest. I’ll be back here early tomorrow morning,” he smirks, “just a heads up so you don’t launch that knife at my head.”

Your eyes roll instinctively. “If I throw a knife at your head, it’s more likely because you’re insufferable.”

“Mhmm, sleep tight. If you need anything, call me. I’m just down the road and I can be here in five minutes, yeah?”

The offer is comforting — an olive branch. You don’t tell him as such, but he seems to know when your shoulders slacken, tension draining from your bones. “Yeah, thanks, Buck. Bucky—” you quickly correct yourself.

His pink lips curve up on one corner. “Buck is fine too. Goodnight, doll.”

Before you can protest the unprompted nickname, the front door is closing behind him. When you reach up to touch your cheeks, you find them warm. 

–

The following days pass in a hazy blur. You continue to work around the house, moving your laptop from one place to another whenever you run into a block. Sometimes you pace, take a lap around the house. What you won’t admit to yourself is that, every time you move, you find yourself chasing after Bucky.

You’re still not entirely sure what work he does around the house, but apparently it’s everything. One moment he’s fixing the leaking tap in the kitchen, the next he’s climbing on the roof to fix the shingles. He’s always covered in dirt-stained clothes, always ends up shirtless in the house at the end of the day. It’s all incredibly distracting.

If Bucky notices you trailing after him, he doesn’t point it out. He keeps to himself, occasionally looking up to check on you then goes back when he sees that you’re still sitting there, fingers chipping away at your keyboard. Once he does notice, which is unfortunately after the second time you followed him, he always gives you a heads up.

“I’m going to work on the kitchen sink, do you need more time here?”

“The balcony upstairs has a clear view of the garden and the roof.”

Small gestures that don’t go unappreciated by you. The two of you make it a habit of sharing lunch, you whip up something easy when you need a break from writing, and Bucky tries his hand at a new dish when you’re fully immersed in your work (spoiler: both of you put both bathrooms in the house to good use).

The noises he makes as he works — the clanging of his tools, the hissing of loose air, the little grunts he lets out — become your soundtrack. A soothing sort of white noise that keeps you company as the words fall onto the pages. You don’t think you’ve ever been so productive in your life.

When the day bleeds into hues of pinks and purples in the sky, you find that sinking feeling returning. Dinners with Bucky are comfortable with the two of you sharing bits and pieces, like a precursor to dessert that leaves you hungry for more. Each time Bucky shares a small bite, you have the urge to take a bigger one. He seems to know, drinking in the curiosity in your eyes, and offering you more.

However, as each night winds down and the silence begins to settle again into the air, you’re left to your own devices. At the end of the night, he always leaves. There are words sitting on your tongue that risk falling free, a plea for him to stay, to keep your nightmares at bay. Alas, your pride has them crumbling into ashes, and he is gone before you can even whisper your desire into the quiet.

This is one of those nights and you find yourself twisting and turning in the guest room, the sheets feeling a little too scratchy, the bed a little too firm, and the room a little too silent. Throwing the covers off, you pad back downstairs and attempt to tire yourself with work. Only the sentences come out a garbled mess and you end up closing your laptop in frustration, nearly tossing that darned thing out the window. You’d give something else for Bucky to repair.

So you give into your last resort which is to step outside into the brisk air and sit on the steps of your front porch. At least out here the crickets and the wind lull you to a sense of peace. A peace that you haven’t found on your own since you left the city. You almost miss your small apartment and the cracks on your floor, the sounds of city traffic and impatient rush-hour drivers pouring in for the day. But you rather enjoy the fresh air. You needed it — to take a step back.

When you think about Max now, the ache doesn’t pulse as painfully anymore. Your heart throbs dully, a reminder of what you have suffered and survived. When you really turn it in your mind, you realize that what you had in him was comfort. It’s difficult to describe what you had as love when you can barely describe what it means to be in love with him. Romantic media has soiled your idea of love and sparks and butterflies, pushing you to the other end of the spectrum to believe that love is much more practical. Love is about checks and balances, building a strong, grounded foundation to last.

And you’re left wondering if you’ll ever find a love that feels like the movies.

Before you can dwell on it for too long, you hear the sound of gravel crunching and your skin pebbles in fear. You have no weapon out here. You’re near hypothermic in your flimsy pajamas. Your fingers will likely crack if you even think about clocking this intruder.

Luckily, you don’t have to think about self-defense when Bucky emerges from the shadows. The moonlight casts him under a pale glow, gleaming gold with the lamp hanging by the front door. “You scared me,” you mutter with a huff, heartbeat soothing into a gentle rhythm.

“You scared me. I thought I was going crazy when I saw someone sitting on your porch. Figured I’d check to make sure you were okay.”

A light laugh slips past your lips. “Why were you up?”

“Why were you?”

“Stop turning it around on me.”

“You’re such a brat.”

A gasp. You narrow your eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

“And you’re barely wearing anything. You must be freezing.” Bucky doesn’t waste a beat before he shrugs off his thick coat and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth that surrounds you is immediate — what remains of Bucky’s body heat that clings to the fibers of the fabric. “What in the hell are you doing out here?”

You sigh. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t work. Thought I could use some fresh air.”

“Doll,” Bucky grunts, sounding almost disappointed.

“Why do you call me that?” The question springs from your lips before you can think twice. “Just— not that I mind, I’m just wondering.”

He pauses only for a second before he shrugs. “Because you look like one.”

“You objectifying me, Barnes?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest to bury yourself deeper into his jacket.

It smells like him. You’ve been getting whiffs of him while he works — sometimes he smells like citrus and pines, other times like sweat and grime. Both are equally intoxicating and you can’t tell which you prefer. This jacket is a balance of the two, placated by the crisp winter air.

“Only if you want me to,” he shoots back with an easy grin, leaning against the wooden frame opposite of you.

You hate to admit it but there is something so effortlessly sexy about him. A lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t come embellished with hours of primping that you’ve seen your ex do. The fine lines on his face, the exhaustion in the shadows under his eyes. They make him feel real.

Bucky adds, “Are you okay?”

The million-dollar question. “Not sure,” you confess, eyes wandering into the open field. You see his house in the distance, blinking like a single star in the stretch of darkness. “I think I’m getting there.”

Bucky drops down next to you, scooting closer while also nudging you to make room for him. You do. For a moment, the two of you sit in the stillness. Two people existing, hovering but never touching. His voice is gentle when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The first instinct is to say no. You’ve barely met the man, you already told him too much once, you refuse to do it again.

But the voice inside your mind tells you to trust him, to open up to him. He’s a stranger, one who you’ve been following in the time you’ve been here. But his presence feels like a safe haven.

When the words come out, they are intentional. “I’ve been playing back the last few years in my mind. Seven years is a long time to spend with someone. I keep trying to find that single point of inflection, the time when it all went wrong. When did he decide that I wasn’t enough? Or maybe that I was too much? When did he figure out that it wasn’t me that he wanted forever? When did he realize that this risk was worth losing me?”

The questions that have been swirling in your mind for the better part of your nights spill out into the silence. You take in a shaky brath, your heart pressing against your bones, tight in the way it shrinks and inflates. Bucky doesn’t respond and it coaxes more out of you. The doubts you’ve been too fearful to address.

“I think I come back to the question of why. Why did he do it? Why didn’t he just break up with me if he didn’t love me anymore? Why did he take her to our home? Why her? Why not me?”

When you turn to look at him, he’s already staring right back at you. His gaze is kind. There is no weight to the way he scans your face crumpled into a resistance to your tears.

“It’s not on you. His decisions are not a result of your actions. His mistakes are not a reflection of who you are. Guys fucking suck,” he spits out and you giggle, the sound a little frayed. “It’s true — well, most guys suck. This one in particular because he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Hopefully this one asshole doesn’t deter you from finding someone better. Someone who loves you. Deserves you.”

Your voice betrays the hope that tinges it. It’s fragile, small. “You really think there’s someone out there like that?”

Bucky’s eyes are soft, the frozen chips in his eyes thawing into clear water. “Loves you, yes. Deserves you, never.”

Your heart palpitates a little too loud, a little too fast. The skip of a beat. Your fingertips tingle with the urge to reach out to him, bury them in his thick hair. It would be easy, sliding your hand to close the whisper of a distance. It would be simple to scooch over until your knees touch, until you can brush your lips against his skin. Until you can draw them up to his.

His glance falls to your mouth, a brief millisecond, before flying back up.

Easy. It’s easy.

Too easy almost.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Bucky gently bumps your shoulder with his, breaking the spell. You look away quickly, hoping the warmth that’s crept up your neck doesn’t give away your intrusive thoughts.

The two of you rise to your feet, Bucky reaching out a steadying hand which you don’t take but appreciate anyway. He walks you to the door, some form of upstate gentleman hospitality that’s severely lacking where you live in the city.

There’s a crackle of a spark in the air, one that flashes so quick you nearly miss it. It’s a zap of lightning in clear skies. It weighs in the atmosphere like the residues of humidity after a downpour. The feeling sticks to your skin but it’s not uncomfortable, only unfamiliar.

“Try to get some sleep,” Bucky says as you stand just past the threshold of your doorway. You almost invite him inside, lips parting with the request ready. Without waiting for you to ask, he responds, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.”

You can only nod. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime. Have a good night,” he calls out as he jogs down the steps, figure half cloaked in the darkness.

A breeze whips past your neck and that’s when you realize— “Wait, your jacket.” You whirl around just as he turns back to look at you.

Then there’s that charming grin again, and your heart stupidly lurches for him again. “Keep it,” he beams, stealing the air from your lungs, “it looks better on you.”

—

Something has changed. You can’t quite put a finger on it, but you sense the shift to his demeanor. An unfamiliarity that makes the hairs on your arms stand. While the morning starts like any other, Bucky feels… different. He’s still wearing his uniform tee and plaid shirt combo, red this time, greeting you with a sleepy grunt at seven as he trudges into the house. Yet, the air teases with a new kind of tension.

It begins with breakfast when you’re deftly flipping some eggs and bacon, a hearty meal you have been preparing every morning. Bucky goes towards the stove, undoubtedly to steal some food as he always does. Only this time, he brushes behind you, a little too close for comfort when you can feel his body heat against your back. As he plucks a piece of bacon from the pan, his hand settles on your spine — high enough to be appropriate, low enough for you to notice. It’s not uncomfortable, but the weight and warmth say I’m here. When he drifts away, his palm drags to your hip, squeezes lightly, then releases you. He leaves you with the echo of his footsteps disappearing down the hall.

It’s not a material change. Not really. It’s not something you would outwardly question with him. It’s not that you mind that he’s suddenly comfortable enough to put his hands on you. You haven’t known Bucky that long but, when you’ve spent nearly every living moment together for the past few days, there is an automatic intimacy that connects the two of you. A red thread if you will.

You hate to describe it as dependency; whenever he exits a room you’re in, the temperature drops a degree lower; when he returns, the sun is pleasant where it kisses your skin. You want to chalk it up to the fact that you really haven’t been in this house for too long, and Bucky radiates the kind of contentment with being accustomed to the space. The voice in your head calls you a liar in denial.

You try not to listen to her too much. What does she know?

Bucky slithers back into the room a couple of hours later, this time in coveralls. A system in your brain appears to have malfunctioned at the sight because it can’t compute exactly what you’re seeing. If Bucky notices your blank stare, he doesn’t point it out. Perhaps it’s the years of evolution — and a decade of staring at men only in boring, stiff suits, but that same voice earlier is now screaming in your ear that’s a fucking hot working man. That voice is likely influenced by your knowledge that he actually does work with his extremely capable hands. It begs the next question: what other things are those hands capable of?

Your self-control tried and failed to slam the brakes on finishing that thought. How easily did you forget that seven-year relationship that almost destroyed you. What you need now is some healthy distance from romance and all of its associated variables. What you don’t need is to be thinking about how broad his chest looks underneath that navy fabric that stretches across it, or how his thick arms seem to fill it out, or how he’s now starting to tie his hair back into a bun.

Life isn’t fair. Some higher power up there is testing you and your self-restraint, which is admittedly not very strong.

“You okay?”

Bucky’s voice helps you drag your attention away from cataloging every single detail you find delicious about him today, quickly creating and filling a little memory box in your head to the brim. It’s probably a bad decision since you haven’t exactly gotten laid in a while, and Bucky is someone who you very much can imagine doing the laying.

Swallowing the thick, aroused lump in your throat, you nod and smile. Tight. “Fine. Great.” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

Thankfully, Bucky lets it slide. “I need to go into town to help out a friend. Did you want to come along? Figured we could do a night out after I wrap up. Dinner maybe.”

Your brows jump. Is he— “Are you asking me out?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Bucky’s lips tug up on the corners, pretty pink surrounded by his dark stubble. He has trimmed it down, giving you a clearer view of his sharp jawline and shallow dimples. You can’t tell which one is worse for your libido.

“Do you want me to ask you out?”

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, heart skipping a beat over how casually confident he looks. That lazy smile, that devilish glint in his eye. “Touché,” you mutter, “let me get changed.”

Looking at your options, you are — well — stumped. It’s not as if you packed to star in some cheesy romcom, playing out this potential something with your parents’ employee. You packed for comfort, which means a wide array of cozy, ratty sweaters and sweats, more than enough leggings to avoid a wash, and a single pair of jeans. You tell yourself you’re not trying to dress to impress Bucky, why should you? It’s not a date. Still, you find yourself digging through your pile for more options, praying for something more enticing than home clothes that drown you.

Past-you clearly thought you needed this and you find a flowy, maxi skirt which you throw on with your most presentable sweater. You spend a bit of time on your makeup and hair — enough to make you look like you have been getting eight hours of sleep a night, not enough to make Bucky think you’re putting in that much effort for him.

Now, you look good. You may even look good enough for a date. Which this is not.

When you get to the bottom landing of the stairs, Bucky’s head immediately lifts from his phone. The slow smile that sprawls across his face is certainly worth the extra push you put into your appearance. He doesn’t comment, instead giving you a leisurely once-over that has your chest rising with the hitch of your breath. His eyes dark with his pupils blown.

For some reason, it feels infinitely heavier than a compliment.

The drive out into town is plagued with air thick with tension, the music crooning from the speakers doing nothing to ease it. It’s like sparks of electricity crackling here and there, enough times for you to notice, but so de minimis that you can choose to ignore them.

“You feeling better? Didn’t catch a cold from last night, did you?”

“No,” you murmur, “I’m fine. Just— hasn’t really been easy sleeping away from home. I’m used to the crowds and the noise.”

Bucky pauses. You can practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Anything I can do to help?”

You almost — almost — let slip that his being around does help. That his voice is soothing, his presence calming. The proximity and his warmth a balm for your aching soul. “No, think I just need to grow into it,” you shrug with a sigh, then add, “but thank you for checking in on me last night — and for your words.” You stop to take a deep breath. “It’s a little embarrassing actually to tell you all that, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Doll,” Bucky says, the word tinted with the slight hint of exasperation. “I’m glad you talked to me, alright? Shouldn’t be thinking all of that alone. Don’t want you thinking that you’re to blame for someone acting real stupid.”

You hum, looking away to bite back the smile that threatens to crawl up your lips. “Thanks, Buck.”

His shoulders loosen, rolling back slightly as he reaches his free hand over to your knee, giving it a squeeze. It’s barely anything, but it feels like everything.

“This okay?” He asks, voice so low that you almost miss it beneath the quiet purr of his car.

His hand is a comforting weight on your knee. His fingers grounding without overwhelming you. His eyes search you in brief glances, almost wary. You can feel his grip loosening, his hand slipping as you wait a beat too long to respond.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” you say, equally quietly, but you know he hears it when he slides his hand back firmly over your knee and keeps it there.

When you arrive and Bucky releases you, you feel the loss almost instantaneously. You wonder if it’s your heartbroken-riddled mind playing tricks on you, craving the touch of a man you barely know to replace the one you thought you did. His gaze finds you again, kind and warm. There’s reassurance in the way his blue eyes shine, and you take satisfaction in that for now.

Bucky helps you down, careful to take your hand and slip his fingers through yours as he tugs you towards the open door of the garage. You don’t question why he keeps your hands interlinked, you don’t want to risk him letting go.

“Great, you’re finally here,” a tall blonde man pops out from behind the car. “I can’t get this running. I don’t think the battery’s busted but—” His eyes find you a smidgen too late, but are quick to drop to your hand in Bucky’s.

Instinctively, you pull away, tucking your hand behind your back. It’s not shame, it’s embarrassment. You don’t know this man. He doesn’t know you. Neither of you can define the nature of your relationship with Bucky so neutrality seemed to be the best option.

Bucky peeks at you, slightly amused, but doesn’t comment. “Yeah, give me a second and I’ll take a look. Come say hi first, don’t be rude.”

The man swaggers over towards you, legs as long as Bucky’s carrying him to the two of you in a few quick strides. He wipes his hands, stained in oil and grease, on a rag that looks equally soiled. He sticks it out and Bucky smacks it away.

“Don’t get your greasy paws on her.”

The man is handsome in that traditional sense, a typical all-American. The light to Bucky’s dark, with the exception of the black smear on his face. He grins easily and nods his head at you. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that you can’t understand, but Bucky seems to, judging by the glower he throws at him.

“I’m Steve, Bucky’s friend.”

You introduce yourself and stick out your hand for Steve to shake. His smile stretches a little wider as he accepts it, and it morphs into a smirk when he turns to Bucky.

“Bucky didn’t tell me he was bringing a pretty lady around. Hell, I didn’t even know he knew any ladies, let alone pretty ones. Have you met Sam yet? Did you bring her around to meet Sam? He’ll love her. He’ll love you.” His attention consistently shifts between the two of you with every question. 

“Shut it, Steve.”

His gruffness is leveled by the fondness in his voice. It’s clear they have a good relationship. Good enough that Bucky lets parts of him that he hasn’t even shown you shine through. It’s endearing.

Bucky shoos his friend away, then turns to you. “Assuming you don’t want to stick around a couple of grease monkeys, I can drop you off in town when I go to pick up some supplies for that guy. I can pick you up whenever you give me a call. It’ll be a couple of hours at least before I finish up, but we can go to dinner after? You can also stay here if you want. I grabbed your laptop on the way out in case you wanted to do work or relax with us. Steve has WiFi.”

In the last few years, you don’t think Max has thought anything through beyond getting takeout together after work or shooting you a quick message if he gets a last-minute reservation somewhere. Perhaps your standards have stooped to levels lower than the floor in the years you’ve been together — resignation mistaken as comfort, but the thought that Bucky has put into making sure you’re comfortable is nice.

“You can drop me off in town. I can walk here after, it’s not too far.”

“Doll, I’ll pick you up, don’t—”

“Can you relax?” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can read a map, Barnes. You finish up whatever you need to do here so then we can go to dinner. I want that Italian spot. The one you keep talking about with the good ravioli.”

His lips quirk up as he shakes his head slightly, a huff of a laugh escaping his lips. “Alright. I already made a reservation there, you’ve been talking my ear off about it.”

“I have not.”

“Alright, doll,” he relents. “Come on.”

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again for the duration of the ride, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is about to leap out of your chest and onto his dashboard. He releases you to come out and open your door, his hand around yours again in an instant, like he can’t bear to not touch you for even a second.

Before Bucky separates from you to head to the hardware store, he clasps your hand a little firmer. “Call me if you decide you want me to pick you up. I’ll have my phone on me the entire time, yeah?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky chuckles again. “Such a brat.” You scowl. “I’ll see you later.” With one final pat to your head, he walks away.

The town is a nice place to stroll around in. Given that you’ve been cooped up at home, being more than aggressively productive with work and your deadlines, it’s nice to actually use your legs for something other than going to the kitchen or the bathroom. You stop by little shops and pick up little trinkets that remind you of Bucky, realizing later that he may not even need them. You start to overthink it, panicking on the sidewalk over how it looks, when a door opens.

“Come to look for more books?”

Mr. Moore. “Oh, hello. I, uhm, honestly am just browsing for now,” you say sheepishly, scratching your cheek. “But I’ll certainly be back when I’m interested in more.”

“Don’t worry. I was just surprised James was with a pretty lady, never seen him around here with anyone — and he is around here quite a lot.”

Heat creeps up your neck at the pretty lady, second one you’ve gotten today. Instead, you opt to address— “James?”

“The young man you were with. He comes by a lot for books. Says he is building out a library for someone.”

A library? James? “Bucky’s building a library? For someone?”

“Ah, yes, that’s what he prefers to go by. Yes, he comes by to pick up a new book every once in a while. His taste is quite eclectic and I’m not sure if he’s even read any of them,” Mr. Moore laughs lightly, unaware of what his words have just done.

Your heart may have splintered a bit. Despite what you try to tell yourself, that you’re not trying for anything with Bucky, this disappointing news has dashed what little exists of your hope. It feels a bit childish to be so… possessive over a man you’ve just met. You only know him in the context of your little bubble, within the confines of your home. He probably does have a life outside of it all, why wouldn’t he? You’re only meeting Steve for the first time and he seems to be a very good friend.

You try not to think about it too much as you start the slow walk back to Steve’s place. Even the hustle and bustle of this quaint town does nothing to distract you from the multitude of thoughts swirling through your head. You’re still thinking about them even when you stop in front of the open garage again.

Steve perks up when he spots you. “Hey! You’re back.”

Bucky slides out from underneath the car fast and your heart traitorously jumps. His coveralls are now spotted with grease and oil, his hair messier from lying on his back, top buttons of his coveralls popped open in the heat of the work. His eyes are bright when they find you, but his brows immediately pucker.

Fuck, are you really that obvious?

He gets to his feet and wipes his hands down, cursing when he sees that he isn’t getting rid of them that easily. He almost looks pained when he approaches you, looking down at your hands. “Sorry, don’t want to get you dirty,” he mutters, bitterness tinging his voice.

“It’s okay,” you can only say.

Bucky tilts his head, seeming to assess you and your expression. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it’s clearly concerning enough to have him frowning. “Everything okay? Did something happen?”

You’ve known this man less than a week and he can already read you like a book. Meanwhile, you apparently haven’t even begun to read the important chapters of his life. “Yeah, I’m good,” you force a smile.

Looking far from satisfied with your response, he gives you an easy out by pivoting to look at the bag in your hand. “Got anything nice?”

Now the gift feels a little silly. You pull out the small item from the bag. “Um, it’s a fridge magnet. A ravioli. Thought it would be cute since we’re having that for dinner tonight.”

“S’cute,” he murmurs, eyes only briefly flicking to the item in your hand before refocusing on your face.

“It’s for you,” you state lamely.

Bucky’s eyes sparkle even brighter as he looks at it in awe. He reaches out to take it from you, flinching at his dirty hands again as he stops. “Thank you, I love it,” he says softly, “hold onto it for me, will you? Don’t want to get it dirty.”

You hum and nod.

“Doll, did something happen? Was someone bothering you?”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. Nothing happened.”

“Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

Do you? “I don’t have a puppy,” you sarcastically respond. Bucky gives you a pointed look. “Nobody was bothering me, promise. I’m just… thinking about something.”

“You gonna share that thought with me?”

Highly unlikely. You’re not here for any longer, you may as well save yourself the embarrassment of bringing up hey, so I thought we had something starting here, but you seem to have someone else you’ve been interested in for a while.

Fortunately, before you can answer, Steve calls out. “Shit, Buck, need your help with this.”

He looks pained once more when his attention flies briefly to Steve and returns to you. “We’ll talk later. I gotta help this guy. He’s fucking hopeless when it comes to cars.”

You end up sitting against the wall on one of the workstations, your laptop propped up in front of you. Despite having all the time in the world while waiting for Bucky, you can’t seem to concentrate. It’s a good thing you’re ahead of most of your work. The rest of these pieces can be pushed to January, which leaves your holidays untouched. You end up pulling up a book you’ve been meaning to read and flipping through it.

The pages do keep you occupied, stopping you from going down a rabbit hole of despair. Every once in a while, Bucky would stop by and say, “Sorry, not that much longer.” He’d check in to see if you were hungry, if you wanted a drink, if you were enjoying the book, if you were comfortable, if you were warm enough. 

His concern is sweet, but you can’t help thinking that this is probably how he is with everyone. If he’s like this with you, you can’t imagine what he’s like with the recipient of that library he’s crafting.

Each time, you would reassure him that you’re fine and to focus on the task at hand. He doesn’t look very convinced.

When you’re a third of the way into the volume, Bucky comes up to you, looking weary but glowing with contentment. “Took longer than I expected. Sorry about that. I’m going to go wash up and we can go?”

“Sounds good.”

Bucky lifts his hand up again, fingers twitching, only to pull it back in frustration. You don’t have time to solve what that was about when he then goes into Steve’s house. Steve is still tinkering away lightly but you can feel his gaze drifting towards you every once in a while.

“You finding the house okay?”

His question pulls you back to the present. “Ah, yeah, it’s been good. Bucky takes great care of it.”

“Mhmm,” Steve singsongs, like he knows something he won’t share. Him and Bucky have that tendency, you’re not gonna take the bait. “What do you think of him?”

The question catches you off guard. Steve is probably being a protective friend. Bucky has been spending an awful amount of time around the house. Maybe he’s worried that he’s left him defenseless to a stranger from the city — not that that man can be defenseless, he can probably fling you across the room with one hand. The mental image does nothing to help when you press your legs together.

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best, really,” Steve emphasizes, “loyal too. Like a dog.”

You let out a small snort at the comparison. “Think he’ll twirl three times and bark if I tell him to?”

“Think he’ll do anything you tell him to,” Steve flashes a cheeky grin.

You’re not sure what to make of that. His words are cryptic, saying little but hinting at so much more. As a writer and a reader, you’ve always been able to read between the lines — except for when it comes to things related to you. In this case, while you are slightly hopeful about his words, you’re not going to let it get out of hand. 

“How long have you known him?” 

Steve pretends to think for a second, but you know the answer is top of mind. “Since high school. We went to different colleges for a bit, but ended up back here anyway.” 

This is someone who knows Bucky well. Really well. Maybe even too well. Perhaps he would know this person that he’s supposedly interested in. You could be nosy and ask, play it off as genuine curiosity, but who are you to invade his privacy? 

“That’s a while,” you choose to mutter instead. 

“Not longer than you though,” Steve shrugs. 

Your brows immediately meet in a frown. “What do you—”

“Ready to go?”

Bucky’s return interrupts your train of thought and your head instinctively turns to find his voice. The words fizzle out in your throat when you see him. You’ve seen Bucky down and dirty, grease-stained, dirt-covered. You’ve seen him shirtless under your sink, on your roof, behind your house. But you’ve never seen him like this.

To others, it may be nothing to write home about. A crisp button-down, black trousers. He’s rolling up his sleeves as he approaches you. His hair is tugged up into a bun with a few strands (aptly named slut strands by your friends) loosely framing his face.

The closer he gets, the louder your heart beats. You wonder if he can hear you, wonder if it’s obvious how your brain is completely short-circuiting at the sight of him looking deliciously put together.

While you can’t find the words to say, Steve lets out a low whistle behind you. “Look at you, haven’t seen you look this clean since senior prom.”

“Quit it,” Bucky grunts. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you see his ears tinged pink. He shifts his focus to you, eyes softer. “Ready to go?” He repeats.

Unfortunately, all you can manage is a nod. Mentally, your jaw is on the floor, dragging behind you as he leads you back to the car, a warm hand on your back.

It’s been so long since you’ve been this… affected by someone. Max dressed in custom suits and shirts that cost him thousands at least, but none of them have your heart beating out of your chest, your legs pressing together, or your breath knocked out of your lungs. Bucky changed that quickly.

Once again, you’re left wondering if this is all the aftermath of your breakup. You can’t help but constantly contemplate whether your attraction towards Bucky is spite towards your ex, or a search for something more, or a temporary filler for that cavity in your chest. The questions are a test of your rational decision-making. Emotions are difficult to decipher after a major incident, but you find yourself enjoying Bucky’s company and maybe that’s enough for now.

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again on the drive over, the weight strangely soothing. A familiar touch. He doesn’t press further on your quietness from earlier, but you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing your way with inquiring eyes.

The Italian place is nothing fancy, nothing like the Michelin-starred establishments in the city. It’s a small, family-run bistro that Bucky apparently frequents because the host and the owner greet him like family, kisses on his cheeks and everything.

“And look at this pretty lady you’ve brought with you,” Maria beams, immediately welcoming you with a hug and a kiss on each cheek as well. “My, my, I can’t remember the last time you’ve brought a date here.”

“Maria,” Bucky scolds teasingly, affectionately, “I’ve never brought a date here.”

“You’re right,” she hums, eyes sparkling with a mirth that you don’t understand. “Come on, I have your table set up for you. Good thing you called, we have the Millers coming in later for Harry’s sixtieth so you know they’re filling the whole place.”

A groan resounds next to you as Bucky guides you to follow Maria with a hand on your back. “So much for a nice, quiet dinner.”

Maria only smirks before she leaves you at the table to get some water. You finally manage to get your first question out, and it’s not even the most pressing one. “Do you all just know each other around here?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not everyone. Some are more active in the community than others, so you tend to see the same faces. The Millers are a large, rowdy bunch, you’ll always see the group of them at town events. Maria’s family has been here for generations and she does food donations every Sunday.”

“And you?”

Bucky leans forward, arms folded on top of each other on the table. His baby blues shine under the low overhead lights. His smile almost teasing. “What about me?”

Warmth crawls up your neck again. “How does everyone know you?”

“Not everyone knows me,” he says and you immediately reward him with an eye-roll over his fake modesty. He laughs, “It’s true. I help out around town, I’m pretty handy, but nothing compared to some of the good people around here.”

“I think if you kidnapped someone’s dog, they would probably thank you for taking such good care of them.”

A snort slips past his lips. “Glad you think so highly of me.”

Dinner is a lovely, quiet affair. Bucky’s compliments did not do the ravioli justice as the pasta melts in your mouth with that delicious ooey-gooey filling. You’re pretty sure you blacked out and threatened to marry Maria at some point if that would get you her secret recipe. She laughed and told you that you don’t think Bucky would ever let that happen.

“Oddly protective of your ravioli, Mr. Barnes,” you grin.

“Oh, trust me. It’s not the ravioli he’s protecting,” Maria smiles, winking at the two of you before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You’re too food-drunk to fully process her words, instead choosing to scoop up more sauce onto your pasta and into your mouth. Another moan leaves your lips at the tangy, fresh tomato flavor.

“You make those noises every time you eat?” Bucky asks from across the table.

You finally look up from the divine dish, finding him amused, pupils dark where they’ve expanded. You don’t even have the capacity to be embarrassed when the food is worth it. “Only when I get something really, really good in my mouth.”

Bucky’s lips part before his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He closes his eyes for a moment, releases a sigh, and once again shakes his head. “The mouth on you.”

Sure enough, the moment the Millers arrive, the restaurant descends into pure chaos. You’re surprised Maria even let Bucky keep the table when their family takes up the remainder of the seats, some of them squeezed together shoulder to shoulder. Their voices pulse off the walls, rambunctious in a way that only a large family can be. You find yourself both endeared and amused; after all, growing up, it’s only been you and your parents.

“Wonder what it would be like to have a big family,” you murmur quietly.

“Think you want a lot of kids?”

“First date and we’re already talking about having kids?” You grin, relishing the way he flushes pink again.

It’s not a date, the voice in your head chooses to emphasize then. Two friends having dinner. Remember, Bucky has someone he’s actually interested in. The reminder has your stomach churning and suddenly, panna cotta on your tongue doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.

“Hey, where did you go?” Bucky drags you out of your thoughts again. His gorgeous face is marred by the furrowing of his brows. You blink at him, the grey clouds slowly rolling away. “Lost you for a second there,” he murmurs, “what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you answer a little too quickly.

“Are you sure? Sure seems like something’s bothering you. If I can do anything to help, you know I will.”

Unfortunately, this is not a problem he could help with. Not unless he suddenly loses interest in whoever he’s building a romantic library for. “I’m fine,” you force out a smile, “just work.”

“Thought you were doing well with your deadlines.”

Shit. You’ve always wished that men would pay more attention to the things you say; now, you’re starting to regret hoping for that. “I am, I’m thinking about my line of work for January. Hoping I have enough to sell to publications.”

Bucky stretches his hand across the table and takes yours, thumb brushing the back of it gently. “You’ll do great. You’re good.”

“You’re just saying that,” you laugh, your heart threatening to burst again with how aggressively it’s thumping. Your hand feels like it’s on fire where it’s tucked into Bucky’s.

“No, I’ve read your work. You do some nice fluff work, but there are a lot of your analytical think pieces that I enjoy.”

A squeak escapes you. “You’ve read my writing?”

“Don’t look so surprised, your parents talk about you all the time. How proud they are of you. I get forwarded all your articles.”

You groan, pressing your free hand against your forehead. “I’m going to murder them. I’m so sorry.”

“Why should you be? I like reading them.”

“They’re force-feeding it to you.”

Bucky laughs, grinning wide. “Actually, they did offer to stop after a while but I told them to keep ‘em coming. Makes me feel more intellectual compared to all the how-to-fix-a-bathroom guides I’ve been reading.”

It’s irritating how you keep drawing comparisons between Bucky and your not-to-be-named ex. The latter worked in finance and barely had the time to give your work the time of day. You didn’t think much of it, figured it just wasn’t his cup of tea. Little did you know that his cup of tea was bending his secretary over his desk.

“Well, I appreciate it,” you say, hoping your embarrassment of being perceived isn’t too obvious.

Bucky turns to look at the increasingly unruly crowd to the side. “Ready to get out of here? With the amount of wine Harry’s drinking, I have a feeling the tables will be their new floors soon.”

With a laugh, you nod. Bucky swipes his card before you can even pull out yours, which pulls a protest out of you. He only smiles, “First date, right? You can take the next one.”

Oh, how you love the way your heart skips a beat.

You didn’t have a single drop of alcohol yet you feel wine-drunk the entire ride home. With Bucky’s hand on your leg and his humming in your ears, this feels like a high you haven’t experienced in a while — or at all for that matter. You almost wished he would drive slower, take his time so the night wouldn’t end. Once the night comes to an end, he’ll be gone again and you’ll be alone again.

The car pulls to a quiet stop in front of your house and the engine clicks off, bathing the two of you in a thick silence. The dread sinks in fast. It’s not only about being left on your own, it’s specifically about having distance between you and Bucky. Today feels different; it’s not like all those times spent in your kitchen sharing a meal or the drives out into town for a purpose. There is a heavier taste to the air that leaves you wanting more, craving a fix that you can’t quite name.

“Walk you to your door?” Bucky asks softly, to which you manage a nod.

There aren’t enough steps between the car and the door. By the time you exhale, you’re already on your front porch, your key in the door. Bucky hovers behind you wordlessly.

Once the door is open, you rotate to look at him again. “Thanks for dinner, I really enjoyed it. We should do it again sometime.”

“Mhmm, just say when and I’ll take you.”

Then that word sticks again to your mind, begging to be freed. The one plea that you’ve managed not to say, but rests so heavy on your tongue that you want it to just roll off. Bucky looks at you with eyes searching for any signs.

Stay.

His eyes widen, revealing more of those beautiful blue irises, gold flecks glowing underneath the warm oil lamp. You realize then that you’ve said it out loud.

Moritification is etched onto your face when you quickly add, “For wine. I picked up a bottle last time we were in town. Um, it’s still early. If you want. You don’t have to, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do but—”

“Nothing better to do,” he easily interjects, “nothing else I’d rather do.”

Your chest blooms with hope as you take a step back into your house, swinging the door open further for him. “I’ll get the opener.”

The two of you settle in the living room. The television flickers quietly as background noise as you take another sip of the burgundy wine. It tastes delicious, a twenty-dollar bottle that could pass as two hundred. Maybe it’s not the wine itself, maybe it’s the company. Bucky pokes at the logs blazing in the fireplace before setting the metal rod aside and sitting back down next to you.

The conversation flows easily, lubricated by the alcohol buzzing in your veins. You take one glass after another, finding yourself a little lighter, a little less anxious in talking to him when he’s so close to you like this. He listens to you with rapt attention, even when you start going on tangents, arms moving around animatedly. He asks you follow-up questions, intrigued when you reveal more details about your story.

You tell him about life in the city, your friends, your colleagues. You don’t even think about your ex as you describe it to him, your life doesn’t center around him after all, and you realize that now. You tell him about the stories you’re thinking of writing, more think pieces that he enjoys, and he asks you to send him the draft when you’re done, tells you that he’d love to read it in advance.

“Why would you want to read the draft? It’s not going to be perfect,” you say, crinkling your nose.

Bucky’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “I like seeing how your works progress. How they can only get better. Plus, gives me some idea to the raw makings of your mind.”

You laugh at that. Bucky grins even wider.

When you realize how long you’ve been talking — how much, you stop abruptly. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve been rambling. I tend to do that.”

“Don’t apologize, I like hearing you talk. You haven’t really been doing much of that since you got here.”

The way Bucky’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to, has butterflies fluttering inside your chest. Your stomach flips when you see the flames flicker, casting his features in this warm glow, the other half shadowed where he turns to look at you.

He looks beautiful. He always has been. But in this light, on this specific night, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone more irresistible.

You blame the alcohol for what you do next. Looking at the clock, you see that it’s gotten quite late. The two of you have spent the last couple of hours chatting right here on this couch. A very comfortable couch.

“You’ve had a good amount to drink,” you whisper, scooting closer to him. 

He’s had one glass. Barely anything. He probably doesn’t feel a drop with how big he is.

He looks at you, his gaze falling to your lips before slowly, hesitantly drawing back up. “I have,” he lies for you.

“You should just stay the night. S’not safe for you to drive,” you say, keeping your eyes locked on your hand as it reaches over to slide up his lap. His thick thigh tenses beneath your fingertips and your mouth begins to salivate instantly.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he confirms as he leans closer towards you. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear as he does so, lips grazing the length of your neck as he inhales deeply. “Y’smell so good.”

You bite back a moan, swallowing it down with the taste of the wine. “New perfume.”

“Don’t think I’ve smelled it before.”

“Didn’t think you were paying attention to how I smelled.”

Bucky chuckles low, puffs of air meeting your sensitive skin as he presses his lips against the side of your neck. A shiver snakes up your spine as your eyes slide shut. His presence is heady, like a drug seeping into your veins.

“I always pay attention when it comes to you.”

Fuck. Not only is your heartbeat crescendoing, there’s a new but not unfamiliar pulse between your legs that pulls a whine from your lips. Bucky shifts back and you feel that loss almost immediately, body instinctively drawing closer to seek him out again.

“Are you sure about this? You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” Bucky says gently, gaze laced with concern as he stares at you.

You can feel him pulling away, becoming more hesitant, but your hand squeezes his thigh, the same way he’s been doing all day. “Never been so sure of anything in my life. Promise.”

Before the flickering flames, Bucky slides a hand up your neck, thumb pressing gently against your jaw, which has you parting your lips ever so slightly in soft pants. He watches it carefully, how your lips stick together before separating, how your eyes glaze over at the small act. Then he leans closer, you can feel his breath against your skin. Your eyes slide shut expectantly, lips closing in anticipation.

“Keep your mouth open, doll,” he says, voice clear and stern.

You feel that order between your legs, pussy clenching. But you do as you’re told and you open up your lips again. Bucky closes the distance with a groan and licks your bottom lip. It’s like the first breath of air when you’ve been choking for so long, the first drop of liquor for an addict who just wants a taste. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you moan needily, fingers crawling up his chest to claw at his collar and draw him closer.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second and hoists you up to his lap, legs bent and straddling him, before kissing you again. His moan reverberates straight through you, straight to your core where it squeezes with the need for attention. His hands around your back, one to cup your ass and the other to bury in your hair. He tugs it back, gentle enough not to hurt you, but firm enough that you can feel your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He tilts your head slightly to the side to open your neck up for his lips. His teeth. His tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog while you grind down on his lap like a bitch in heat. His mouth feels hot and delicious against your sensitive skin, his growing erection digging against your thigh until you position yourself right on top of it. You thank the heavens you decided to wear a skirt, the thin fabric of your underwear is the only thing that stands between you and heaven. His cock feels thick against you, growing with desperation.

“Tastes so good, as sweet as I imagined,” Bucky mumbles against your skin. “Are you wet for me, doll? Can feel you leaking on my pants.”

Shame doesn’t even reach you when you’re slammed with the urgent need to feel more of him, pressing yourself down with a hungry whimper.

Bucky slips his hand underneath your sweater and tugs it over your head. You let him without a single letter of protest. The house is warm with you sandwiched between the fireplace and Bucky’s body heat. Your body feels like it’s been lit on fire with how Bucky ravenously drinks you in, his keen bright eyes memorizing you with a weight that has you shuddering.

“Always imagined what you looked like underneath all those cute sweaters and hoodies,” he says softly, palm stroking up your side and thumb reaching to brush your nipple over the fabric. You jolt in his hand, back arching slightly to his touch. “Could never compare to the real thing. Look at you. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Buck,” you whimper, the beginnings of embarrassment settling in the more he stares at you.

His gaze is casual but alert, like he’s taking his time committing the sight of you, every part of you, to the parts of his mind that he will constantly bring to the forefront. “Don’t get shy on me,” he smiles slow, “been thinkin’ about this for far too long. You don’t know how many ways I’ve imagined taking you. How many nights I spend with my cock in my fist, the sound of you in my fuckin’ ears like you’re right there with me.”

You let out another curse at the visual. All those nights you spent turning alone in your bed, you could’ve been with Bucky. You could’ve had his cock in your fist, could’ve been giving him the real reactions that he so desperately wants.

Bucky pops open the hooks of your bra, carelessly tosses it aside, before he dives in. His mouth latches onto your nipple while his hand gropes you eagerly. Fingers pinching, palms kneading, stimulating every inch of you, before he switches sides. Your nipples are slick with spit as you throw your head back, pushing your breasts more into his mouth, which he accepts with a wet groan.

“Pretty fuckin’ nipples, couldn’t have pictured anything better,” he grumbles, teeth nipping lightly to tug your nipple.

It would be humiliating to hear him narrate all this, but everything that comes out of his mouth is fire on your skin. “More, Buck, need more,” you stutter a gasp.

“Yeah? So needy. God, you’re fuckin’ unbelievable. Look at you grinding your hips down like a slut for me. You want my cock that badly?”

Bucky pulls away for a moment, seeming worried that he has gone a step too far when he frowns to check on you, but you’re still weighed down by your labor breaths, your chest constricting. You put your own hand on the back of his head to push him back towards you. “D-don’t stop.”

You don’t need to ask him twice. He’s back on you, tongue swirling around your peaked nipples, breath hot against the moist skin. Drunk on the feeling, you barely register Bucky laying you down on the couch, stretching you long as he crawls between your legs. He pushes your skirt up to your hips slowly, the fabric tantalizingly exposing each inch of your leg until he sees the damp fabric of your panties.

His thumb digs into the wet spot as he chuckles. “So wet for me already. So desperate. Thought I was the only one who wanted this. But looking at you now, so sweet on me, rubbing your pretty pussy against me before I even do anything,” he groans, breath hot against your skin. His tongue darts out to stroke up your clothed pussy, getting a hint of your saccharine taste.

“Buck,” you whine, fingers burrowing in his thick hair. His bun has loosened now, more of his hair brushing against your legs. “I can’t— I want your cock. Please. Can’t wait anymore.”

“No can do, doll,” he smiles, pressing a firm kiss against your clothed cunt. “Need to make sure I take care of you first. Prep you first. I don’t want to hurt you with my cock.”

The idea of how thick he is, how big, that he has to prepare you properly. You can only weakly nod as he ducks his head again and begins to thumb your clit while he mouths on your pussy, soaking your panties further with his spit. Before long, he’s hooking a finger to drag your panties to the side and touching his tongue to your center. The first stroke has your hips lifting, a gasp yanked out of your throat involuntarily.