🌺Rehtse🌺

The faint scent of lavender and something vaguely floral – Natasha’s cleaner , surely– clung to the sage green guest room sheets. It was a gentle perfume, meant to soothe, but for you, it only amplified the empty and off feeling stirring within . 

Every morning since that awful night two weeks ago, you wake to the unfamiliar softness of a bed that isn't yours, the subtle weight of blankets you hadn’t chosen. Nothing in this room, nothing in this house, felt like it belonged to you.

Your days had become a series of borrowed moments. Natasha’s ivory chipped mugs were now your usual. Her worn leather armchair by the window, bathed in the weak morning sun, was where you scroll through your phone, a futile attempt to fill the deafening silence. Even the way you walk through her apartment felt different, tip-toeing, hesitant—like a trespasser.

The grief was a constant companion nowadays. In the quiet hours of waking, your arm would instinctively reach for the empty space on the bed, a gesture forged by the years. 

Then, as you’d pull on your work clothes, your eyes would scan the hallway for his familiar, worn jacket, the one that always seemed to smell of cheap motor oil and something uniquely him. But there was only the same empty air, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the morning chill.

The phone in your pocket, a constant, humming reminder of your life unspooling, buzzes loudly. 

Bucky. 

Updates from new lawyers he had hired. The initial polite-but-firm detached language of legal proceedings. Each notification was a tiny prick, a reminder of what was breaking between you.

Today though, the same ugly buzz was followed by a distant wail, a rising siren that cut through the morning quiet. Your stomach, as it always did when hearing those sounds, tightened into a knot of pure, unadulterated dread. 

Sirens. 

They were Bucky’s soundtrack. The constant, low-grade hum of his dangerous life, a life you lived with him for so long, the sound and colors of its lights felt imprinted on your heart.

Your first instinct, a reflex as old as your shared history, was to reach for him. To call, to ask if he was okay, to just hear his voice. But the words caught in your throat, the action stopped before it could start. 

Choked by the invisible barrier the lawyers were slowly constructing around you too. Were you allowed to worry about him? Did you still have that right?

Instead, your thumb hovered over and pressed on Nat’s contact. 

“Hey,” her voice came through immediately, a little groggy from it still being early. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” You lied, voice a little too sharp. “Just… heard sirens.” You sighed between words.

A beat of silence. You knew, even without seeing her, that her brow had furrowed. She knew the implication, the history. She’d seen and lived the intensity of your connection, the way his dangers had always cast a shadow over your life together.

“Are you alright?” she questioned, her voice softer now, laced with a familiar concern that was both a comfort and a painful reminder.

“Yeah, fine,” You repeated, trying to add a casualness you didn't feel. “Just… a reflex, I guess.”

“You miss him,” she stated, not a question.

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. The truth hung heavy in the air between.  You looked around Natasha’s immaculately organized living room, the abstract red and black streaked art on the walls, the neatly stacked fashion and travel magazines. It was a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of your former life with Bucky, the constant undercurrent of his work and yours. Here, everything was calm, predictable. 

But it wasn’t your calm. It wasn’t your predictability.

Every creak of the floorboards in Natasha’s apartment felt amplified, every rustle of leaves outside the window louder than needed. The sirens, now fading into the distance, leaving an echo in your ears. Low-level anxiety that was as much a part of you now as your own heartbeat.

You leaned forward, picking up a book from the coffee table, the cover glossy and  vibrant. You tried to read, to lose yourself in the printed words, and photos inside of hills and valleys–but your mind kept drifting back. 

Back to the way Bucky’s hand would rest on the small of your back, a silent reassurance when sprawled across the sofa. Back to the late-night conversations, the shared silences that spoke louder than any words. Back to the undeniable pull, the magnetic force that had drawn you together in the first place, and that now, felt like a gaping wound.

Natasha’s gentle voice pulled you back to the present. “He’s okay, you know,” she said softly, as if reading your mind. “He’s always okay , he’s Bucky Barnes.”

You finally looked up from the pages, adjusting the phone. “I hope so…I really hope so.”

The silence in the house was a physical, pressed weight as Bucky woke with a jolt, the phantom warmth of your body laying beside him, a cruel trick of the rising morning light. 

His hand instinctively reached across the mattress, seeking the familiar curve of your hip, the soft whisper of your breath. Instead, his fingers met the rough, warm fur of Roscoe, who blinked up at him with sympathetic chocolate eyes.

Roscoe, your white coat—black spotted, dog yawned big at his dad emerging from sleep. 

Bucky sat up, the sheets tangling around his bare legs. The room, bathed in the pale dawn, felt cavernous. He swung over the side of the bed, the floorboards creaking and cool beneath his feet. His gaze swept across the familiar landscape of your shared bedroom. It was littered with the ghosts of you.

There, by the door, the small pile where your running shoes usually sat. Now, only one pair remained, his own worn muddied sneakers. On the slightly leaning dresser, a scattering of your soft black hair ties, a few stray bobby pins, a shimmer of glitter from that one cocktail dress– all gone now, packed away, leaving behind empty, dusty spaces that echoed with your absence.

He sluggishly padded into the living room, the morning sun blinding through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was the house you’d bought together, a project of hope and shared dreams. He remembered the day you had gotten the shiny new keys, your giddy laughter echoing through the empty rooms. 

The key ring felt heavy in his palm, a symbol of the future awaiting for you both. He unlocked the front door with a dramatic click and swing, stepping into your new life. 

Your hair lazily tied up in a messy bun with a rogue strand or two falling across your cheekbone, had practically skipped past him, voice ringing with excitement with each bounce.

“Oh, Buck, it’s perfect!”

You immediately kicked off your shoes, leaving them somewhere haphazardly by the empty brick fireplace. 

He ran up behind you laughing, scooping you up bridal style, twirling you around.

The raw, unadulterated joy of that moment imprinted on his mind like a hot iron brand.

“We’re going to make this…our life together… into something amazing, you know that?” he murmured into your hair, the scent of your shampoo, a blend of something floral and sour citrus, filling his senses as he grinned. 

“I know…” You beamed, kissing his stubbled chin. “Now come on! I wanna show you the gold knobs I put in for our bathroom cabinets!” You dropped from his hold and skimpered off. Bucky hot on your heels making you squeal loudly.

You spent the rest of that day as a blur of unpacking about a hundred flimsy cardboard boxes, assembling wobbly thrifted furniture, and, of course, spontaneous bursts of affection. Because moving into a new home…newly married…with the love of your life… WHO WAS SMOKING HOT?? How could you not constantly jump on him??

He saw it all again behind his eyes, so clear, as if it were just yesterday. 

You, struggling with a particularly hard shelf you insisted you get for the guest room, arms outstretched, a smudge of sawdust on your nose, your laughter bubbling as he’d teased you with each grunt and whine you made, twisting the wrench and lifting a heavy piece. 

The way you’d attacked him with a playful kiss in passing, both of you ending up sprawled on the floor amidst scattered packing peanuts and your clothes.

And then, the kitchen table. Your last piece of furniture that was added in the home. A simple, solid reddish oak piece. He remembered the first night you had eaten greasy takeout on it, perched on opposite sides. And later, after the paper dishes and napkins were cleared, he had pulled you onto his lap, your legs tangling, kissing him deeply, a slow, languid exploration that had promised so much. 

The memory of your hands tracing the lines of his face, your soft sighs into his mouth, the feel of your skin against his – it was all still so, so vivid.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories, to push them back into the shadows where they belonged, and failed. 

The silence pressed in again. He needed to move. He needed to do something.

The firehouse was still his sanctuary, his escape. He practically lived there these days, taking on every extra unwanted shift and overtime. 

The sirens and their screams—a welcome distraction from the quiet of his own thoughts. He’d even started sleeping on the worn couch in the break room, the familiar scent of  burnt coffee and ash a comforting, yet also unsavory, balm.

Steve, with his perpetually rumpled uniform and kind blue eyes, had noticed when clocking in that late morning, found his best friend laid out on the sofa. Roscoe napping nearby barking when seeing Steve. 

“You okay, Buck?” he asked handing him a lukewarm mug of fresher coffee then whatever was currently swirling in his current cup. “You’ve been putting in some serious overtime, pal.”

Sam, ever the bear poker, had simply quirked an eyebrow and smirked walking in. “Trying to outrun somethin’, man?”

Bucky just grunted, sitting up, focusing on the flickering flames of the gas stove as he began to heat up a frozen meal. He couldn’t articulate the chasm that had opened up inside him, the raw wound of you. 

His temper, once as steady as a well-oiled engine, had become sharper, more volatile. He snapped at young trainees and dispatchers, his patience worn thin by the relentless gnawing of loneliness and guilt. 

He stirred the pathetic steamed vegetables in the stations beat up skillet, remembering the first time he’d accidentally set an extra plate at home. 

He was making dinner, the ritual of chopping fruit still a comforting, repetitive motion. His hands, moving on autopilot, had reached for the second ceramic plate, the one with the delicate floral rim, the one you always used. And then, the stark, brutal realization.

He’d stood there, the plate in hand, the silence amplifying the sound of his own ragged breathing. The table, meant for two, now felt like a monument to their shared life, a cruel joke.

He’d looked at Roscoe, who was watching him with an expectant tilt of his head, his tail giving a tentative thump against the floor. 

Bucky just sighed, placing his own plate down and then, with deliberate slowness, setting the second plate in front of Roscoe. “Guess you’re eating with me tonight, boy,” he murmured.

 Roscoe, oblivious to the weight of his human’s despair and the action, had wagged his tail more enthusiastically, nudging the plate with his nose as he chows down.

Later, after he’d forced down a few dry and bitter bites, the food tasting like ash, he’d managed to send you a picture. Just a simple photo of Roscoe and Alpine. The dog’s head bowed, enthusiastically demolishing the food from the extra plate. He’d typed out with it: “Someone’s enjoying dinner.” He stared at the message, thumb hovering over the bright green send button, a thousand unspoken words screaming in his mind. 

He sent it. And then plopped on the sofa, the agonizing wait for a reply that may never come passing by for hours. Leaving him alone, again.

The days were empty. Wake up. Go to the firehouse. Work. Come home to the empty house. Feed Ros and Alp. Sleep. Repeat. 

He found himself lingering in places that held crumbs of you. The small, sun-drenched nook by the window where you used to read with your feet tucked beneath you. The worn spot on the love seat where you’d curl up with a blanket and a cheesy rom com. Even the refrigerator, where your favorite brand of farmers market bread and jam still sat, untouched, molding.

Sometimes, he’d catch himself speaking to you, a quiet “Hey,” or a whispered “You wouldn’t believe what happened today.” The words would hang in the air, lost in the vast emptiness, and a fresh wave of grief would wash over him. 

You weren't dead. He knew that. His brain knew but his heart… Not so much.

He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the kitchen table the next morning. He remembered your laughter, the way it used to fill this very space, chasing away any lingering shadows that haunted his mind and sleep. He remembered the way you’d lean across it, your eyes sparkling, to steal a sticky syrup filled kiss.

He missed the chaos. He missed the noise. He missed you.

He picked up Roscoe’s empty plate, rinsing it out, the running water a brief, welcome sound. He looked out the window, the sky a canvas of bruised purples and burning oranges as the sun began its descent.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know what the next day, or the day after that, would hold. All he knew was the relentless march of time, the empty spaces, and the silent ache of a love that was, for now, suspended in the quiet. He was living in the aftermath, a man adrift, waiting for a signal, a sign, anything to break through the profound and suffocating silence he caused.

Natasha, flopped down perched on a stool at the island, wincing with a scrunched nose, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe we order pizza tonight,” she suggested, her voice laced with sympathy.

You fanned the air with a tea towel, trying to dispel the offending smell and whips of smoke of your now burnt toast. “Probably for the best. My culinary skills seem to have taken a hiatus along with… well, everything else in my life.” You managed a weak smile, gaze flicking to the window as a distant police car wailed. 

You didn’t flinch, not anymore at least.

Just then, your phone buzzed on the counter, your heart giving a foolish, hopeful leap before settling back into its usual realization.

It was just a few notifications from apps you noticed. Your gardening app, reminding you to repot your ferns. Your menstrual cycle tracker and Amazon saying a package should come today. And you almost… almost, typed out a message to Bucky. 

“Help me not forget to repot our ferns ;)” 

The words died quicker than the thought on your fingertips, deleting the message just as fast as you had typed it out.

Across town, Bucky’s own phone lay face down on the coffee table. He knew, with an almost obsessive certainty, the exact placement of his phone and the fact it was within arm’s reach.

He glances at it when he makes another pot of coffee, when he pauses his work out at the station, even when he was momentarily alone in the silence of the evening. 

Each time, his thumb hovered, ready to unlock the screen, his pulse quickening at the mere possibility of your name appearing. But the screen remained dark and lack of your presence. 

He ran a harsh hand through his hair, the gesture self-reassuring and utterly useless. He’d just about text you earlier. He had even had the words typed out and everything.The little send arrow beckoning. But he’d deleted it, the fear of intrusion—of being too needy, winning over him. 

You were separated, not divorced. There was a fine, blurry but fine line, and he was terrified of crossing it, of pushing you further away than he meant to in the first place , with a clumsy attempt at what…reconnection? He scoffed at himself. Pathetic.

Natasha cleared her throat, gently pulling you back from your thoughts. “So,” she chirped, voice a little too bright, “I was thinking, we could do a proper girls’ wine night tonight. I’ve got that new Chilean Sauvignon Blanc you like. We can talk… about anything. Or nothing. Whatever you need.”

You forced another smile nodding. “That sounds lovely, Nat. Really.” You appreciated Natasha’s support, the way your friend tried to fill the hollow spaces with laughter and distraction. Natasha was also, you knew, the voice that reminded you of the messy realities of you and Bucky’s situation. 

She’d been through her own separation then divorce, a brutal, affair that had left her scarred but also wiser.

“And we can talk about how… difficult these things can be,” Natasha continued, her attempt steady. “How people change. How sometimes, the people who knew you best, who loved you when you were just… figuring yourself out, are the ones who can hurt you the most deeply.”

You nodded, but your attention had already been snagged by the wail of another siren, closer this time. And ambulance. 

She watched as you looked towards the red and blue, painting streaks across your quivering lips. Another knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. 

“Hey,” Nat said softly. “Are you okay?”

You blinked, focused reluctantly, returning to the present. “Yeah,” you lied through misted eyes, voice thin. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired.”

“Well while you were sittin’ there I called and pizza’s on its way…and then, maybe we just embrace the chaos. Sink into the couch, get properly drunk, and forget all about burnt toast and… you know…everything else.”

You managed a more genuine smile this time. “Sounds like a plan.” 

The pizza arrived, a welcomed yummy distraction. You ate, trying to focus on the taste, on the conversation with Natasha.

You found yourself picking at the crust, appetite suddenly vanishing as Natsaha began speaking—

"You know, sometimes, the hardest part of letting go isn't the big, dramatic moments. It's the small, quiet ones. At least thats how it was when me and you know who decided to split. The ones you used to share without even thinking. Like… like knowing exactly how the other person likes their coffee, and then realizing you'll never make it for them again."

A lump forming in your throat. “I almost called him today,” You confessed, voice barely a whisper as you flicked the edge of your paper plate. “When I burned the toast. I had the words right there in my mouth. ‘You’ll never believe it…’” Natasha put a hand on your arm. “It’s gonna be okay,” she said gently. “It’s hard, so impossibly hard, but…” She cupped your cheek, swiping a tear you hadn't realized fell. “...you will be okay.”

“Thanks Natty” She set down her plate and brought you in her arms as you cried. 

God- you just wanted to see him so bad. Be in his arms. You didn't even need to speak, you didn't want a fight or bicker. You were too tired for that. But just to see him.

That next morning after a quick cold shower and breakfast hastily made and ate. Bucky was staring blankly at a chipped–framed photograph on the mantel. He had a few minutes to spare and decided to turn on the local news to check the traffic but your smile in the photo made him throw the remote, skidding down the hall. He rubbed his face looking through fingers and staring back at him–was your high school prom pic, a blurry, joyous snapshot of two–in love teenagers, impossibly young,  grins bigger than Jupiter.

He remembered that night, the awkward dancing with your clammy hands ,his shaking fingers, the whispered promises of late night donuts at the twenty four hour place after and endless giggles between sways and dips, the overwhelming certainty that you were meant to be together at that very moment. 

He picked up the frame and threw it down on the floor with a clatter, whispering a curse as his eyes filled with tears. 

He grabbed his phone again, this was it. The familiar itch almost unbearable. He thought of you so vividly in this moment, of your warm laugh, of the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy. The way they were when you weren't with him–

he thought.

He opened your contact for the sixth time that day. If he could just say something. Anything. A simple “Thinking of you,” or a silly pic of Roscoe and Alpine–but the anxiety, the fear of you misinterpreting his words, or him misunderstanding your response or…worse–receiving no response at all. It all held him captive. 

He closed the texts, standing to walk to the window, looking out at the city lights as they twinkled on. Roscoe padded over and scratched at Bucky’s leg, making him peer down at the dalmatian. 

“What?....you need to potty boy?” But instead of a tail wag or bark saying “yes” the spotted dog just whined and trotted over to where your shoes lay on the floor, nuzzling them with a fierce certainty. 

“Oh Ros…”

KNOCK. KNOCK.  KNOCK.

next part in progress ->

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That wasn’t good.

You stopped chewing and, as gracefully as you could, spit it into your napkin. “Nope.” You shoved the plate away with enough force that it almost tipped over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but nope. I can’t.”

Bucky frowned when you took a couple of deep breaths and stared at the ceiling. He had to tread carefully. “Did I get the wrong brand?”

“No. This is exactly what I wanted, but now the taste and the smell are making me feel sick.” Your face scrunched up and his heart dropped. You were two seconds from bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for.” Bucky immediately went around the table so he could be beside you. “Hormones?” he asked gently. 

“Hormones,” you confirmed. “And I’d love it if they stopped grabbing me by my non-existant balls.”

“Well, I do know a thing or two about balls since I have them, but I’m sorry to say that I don’t fully understand hormones,” he teased to make you smile. He would forever be in awe of you for carrying his child. “But I have a leg up on Steve because he doesn’t understand women.”

“One could argue that women are meant to be loved, not to be understood,” you teased back.

“I do love you,” he whispered, wishing he could do more.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back. “Think we can order a pizza?”

He kissed your temple. “Whatever will keep you and Sprout happy.”

Bucky’s company and the pizza did just that.

I have been exhausted, and husband!Bucky would be so wonderful. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Very persuasive. 

“You’ve been reading that page for the last five minutes.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t exactly concentrating on the words in front of you, and he knew exactly why. The bastard. 

Gorgeous. Cocky. Bastard.

 “It hasn’t been five minutes,” you muttered, the words starting to blur together. 

“Hmm. You’re right.” Bucky’s lips brushed your neck, your pulse picking up. “I think it’s been six minutes.”

Your head fell back against his shoulder. “You should be reading this,” you reminded him.

“Paperwork is boring,” he whispered, reaching under your skit to tease your clit. “This is much more fun.”

You bit back a moan when he thrust his hips up, making you pulse more around his cock. You had no clue why either of you were pretending to work at this point. To be fair, you did get a lot done earlier in the day before he told you to take a seat. 

You were lucky the Congressman didn’t have you sitting on his cock all day, but would that really be so bad if he suggested it?

“Better not moan too loud,” he teased, his teeth scraping your skin. “Someone might walk in.”

The coil inside you tightened with every touch. “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t want anyone to see how well you take my cock? How pretty you look when I make you lose it?” You whimpered when he rocked his hips again. “Well, even if no one walks in, we can still watch it later.”

Bucky and all his hidden cameras.

Gorgeous. Cocky. Bastard.

I have no problems with this. 😌 Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

She leaned against the doorway of the training room, arms crossed, lips curved into a playful smirk. Her suit clung to her frame, dusted in sweat from the session she’d just finished. Bucky stood inside, shirtless, chest heaving as he caught his breath. His muscles glistened, veins prominent on his arms as he flexed his fingers around the heavy punching bag.

“You know,” she said, sauntering in. “My ex-boyfriend was strong too.” Bucky turned to her, head tilted, an eyebrow raised. “I can perfectly handle you, Barnes.” She added with a sweet fake sense of safety in her tone like she didn’t just challenge a super soldier.

He didn’t smile. Not really. Just gave her that look low-lidded, predatory. The kind that made heat pulse between her legs. “Maybe,” he said, stepping toward her, “but he wasn’t a super soldier.”

She barely had time to breathe before his metal hand curled around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest. The chill of vibranium made her gasp, but the warmth of his body sent a shiver right back through her.

“Let’s see, doll,” he murmured, voice dark, thick with promise.

He pressed her against the wall, lips crashing onto hers with bruising force. She moaned into his mouth, fingers tugging at his hair as he slid his knee between her thighs, forcing them apart. The tension that always simmered between them boiled over, snapping like an electric wire.

Bucky lifted her effortlessly, one arm wrapped under her ass, the other still gripping her jaw as he kissed her deeper, rougher. Her legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct, heat pooling where their bodies met.

“Still think you can handle me?” He growled against her neck, biting down just hard enough to make her squirm.

She gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Try me.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He tossed her onto the training mat like she weighed nothing. She bounced once, heart racing and adrenaline mixing with arousal. Bucky was on her in seconds pressing her down, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, while the other slid beneath the waistband of her suit. “You're soaked,” he muttered, groaning low in his throat. “You want this?”

She arched up, breathless. “Bucky-”

“No,” he smirked, sliding two thick fingers between her folds, teasing her entrance. “Say it.”

“I want you,” she whimpered. “I need you. Fuck, please-”

He pushed in without warning, fingers stretching her wide as she cried out, back bowing from the mat.

He curled them just right, watching her eyes roll back with a satisfied grin. “You’re takin’ me so well already,” he said, voice husky. “Gonna ruin you, sweetheart... gonna make you forget every damn man that came before me.”

And when he finally replaced his fingers with the hard, heavy weight of his cock, she knew he meant it.

Every thrust was punishing, precise. He fucked her like a man who had something to prove. Like he knew he was the strongest man she’d ever had and wanted to make damn sure she remembered it.

By the time he was done with her, she was shaking, panting, nails dug into his back, lips swollen from his kisses. He pulled back just enough to meet her dazed eyes, brushing sweaty hair from her face. “Still think you can handle me?” He asked again, breathless but cocky. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He grinned. “Didn’t think so.”

Her body was still humming thoroughly used, completely wrecked, and utterly boneless when Bucky finally laid her gently onto his bed. The sheets were cool against her skin, contrasting the heat still pulsing between her legs.

He disappeared for only a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. His hair was a mess, chest still rising and falling, but his touch was soft now, reverent almost, as he cleaned her up. She winced slightly as he ran the cloth between her thighs.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low but laced with concern.

She shook her head slowly. “No. Just... sensitive.”

He gave a low chuckle, clearly proud of himself. “That’s ‘cause you took me so good, sweetheart.”

He tossed the cloth aside and laid down next to her, gently pulling her into his arms. She curled into him instinctively, cheek resting against the expanse of his chest, fingers tracing a scar along his ribs. For a few quiet moments, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then Bucky broke the silence, voice tinged with mischief. “So, tell me again,” he said, brushing his fingers down her spine, “your ex-boyfriend was what? Strong?”

She groaned into his chest. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” he grinned, lips brushing the crown of her head. “Because if that was your definition of strong doll, I’m a damn earthquake.” She let out a breathless laugh, swatting at his chest, but he caught her hand easily and kissed her knuckles. “Seriously,” he added, voice turning teasingly smug. “What was he benching? Two plates and a bruised ego?”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, dragging his lips along her temple, “if he ever hears you moan like that for someone else, it might break him.”

She looked up at him with a smirk, eyes half-lidded. “You're evil.”

“And you love it,” he whispered, kissing her slow, deep, and lazy.

The kind of kiss that soothed the ache he’d left behind and promised even more. When he pulled back, his blue eyes were softer, more serious. “You okay, baby?” He asked, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

She nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by how gentle he was now how carefully he held her after tearing her apart. “More than okay.”

He smiled, brushing his nose against hers. “Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m not going easy on you just ‘cause your ex set the bar in hell.”

She laughed again, curling tighter into his chest. “Next time I’m gagging you.”

“Promises, promises.” And with that, he held her close, the teasing quieting into a steady rhythm of touch and comfort. Bucky Barnes might’ve been a super soldier, but in her arms, he was just the man who wrecked her body, teased her heart, and held every broken piece with care.

The next morning, the compound halls were too bright, too loud, and far too long. She took one cautious step out of Bucky’s room, fully dressed, hair brushed, lips set in a determined line. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Then her legs wobbled. She hissed under her breath, gripping the nearest wall like it was a lifeline. “Son of a-”

“Need help, doll?” came his voice, far too smug for this early in the morning.

She turned her head slowly and found Bucky leaning casually against the doorway, coffee mug in hand, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the shower. Smug bastard. “I’m walking just fine,” she said through clenched teeth.

He sipped his coffee, eyes gleaming. “That’s what that is? Looks more like a baby deer learning to stand.”

She flipped him off.

He chuckled and pushed off the doorframe, walking toward her with that confident, post-sex glow that made her want to kiss him and kill him. “You could’ve just said your ex never made you limp like this,” he murmured, brushing past her with a wink.

She scowled. She also blushed. And maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t wait to let him do it all over again.

Then someone detonates a tripwire.

A man you don’t know—sleek suit, slick hair, smarmy grin—steps up with a glass of scotch and a too-long stare.

“You must be Barnes,” he says, extending a hand Bucky doesn’t bother to take. “Heard a lot about you.”

Bucky just hums, noncommittal, squeezing your hip once. I see him. Stay close.

The man’s smile widens. “James Barnes,” he repeats, like he’s testing the shape of the words. “Pleasure.”

The music keeps playing. The lights keep glowing. The whole room keeps chatting and laughing and drinking—

—but your husband goes still.

Utterly, terrifyingly still.

You feel it before you see it. The shift. The ice. The steel.

No one in this world calls him James.

No one except you.

Slowly, Bucky lifts his gaze, blue eyes glacial, expression flat as a scalpel’s edge.

“What’d you just call me?” he asks, voice soft enough to make your heart plummet.

The man—poor, stupid man—laughs like it’s a joke. “Your name, isn’t it? James—”

“That’s not what you call me.” Bucky’s tone doesn’t change, but the air around him does. It thickens. Darkens. You feel him coil under your palm like a predator winding up.

“I— I don’t see the issue—”

“She,” Bucky says, tipping his chin toward you with lethal calm, “calls me James.”

His hand slides from your hip to your waist, resting there with unmistakable possession. You can feel his wedding band press hot against your skin.

“No one else does.”

The man’s throat bobs. “Barnes, I meant no disrespect—”

“You did.” Bucky steps in close enough that the man stumbles back. “Now apologize to my wife for disrespecting her husband.”

The man’s face drains. “Ma’am, I— I apologize.”

You blink, caught between shock and the molten warmth beginning to pool low in your belly. Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off his prey—not even to look at you.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs. Then, still mild as honey, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The man scurries away. Disappears into the crowd.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding—and then Bucky turns to you.

His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tense. There’s a low hunger simmering beneath the ice.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, but his voice is thick, dark with something else.

“I’m fine,” you whisper back. “Are you?”

His hand slides lower on your waist. “Depends.”

“On?”

His mouth twitches—half-smirk, half-threat. “On whether you know what you do to me when you call me that.”

Your face heats. “James?”

He exhales sharply through his nose and grabs your wrist. “We’re leaving.”

“But the gala—”

“Ends the second someone thinks they can use my name like they have a right to it.” His grip is gentle but firm as he leads you out of the ballroom. “That name belongs to you. Only you.”

The minute the elevator doors close, he cages you against the mirrored wall, metal hand braced beside your head, flesh hand gripping your thigh.

“You hear me?” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your jaw. “You’re the only one who gets to say my name like a prayer.”

Your breath stutters. “James…”

He groans—an honest, helpless sound—and lifts you, your thighs wrapping around his waist as he grinds up against the heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it again.”

“James.”

His hips jerk. His composure cracks. “My girl’s playing with fire tonight.”

“You started it,” you whisper, nipping his lower lip.

“And I’m finishing it,” he growls.

By the time the door to your penthouse closes behind you, he’s on you—mouth hot, hands firm, wedding ring dragging down your thigh as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice low, dangerous.

You do, heart hammering as he gathers your dress in his hands, pushing it up until it’s bunched at your waist.

He sinks to his knees.

“James—”

He bites your hip. Not gently.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Keep saying it.”

A moment later, his tongue is on you—slow, greedy strokes that make your knees shake. His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs spreading you for him while he devours you like he’s starved.

You’re already trembling when he pulls back just enough to speak against your skin.

“That man thought he had the right to say my name.” His finger slides into you—slow, deep. “But he doesn’t get to know me like this.” Another finger joins, curling just right. “Doesn’t get to hear you moan it.”

You gasp, arching. “James—oh—”

“Yeah,” he praises, voice wrecked with want. “Just like that. Only my wife gets to say it when she falls apart on my fingers.”

Your orgasm hits fast. Hard. You clench around him with a cry, and he groans against you like he can feel it everywhere.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s standing again—unbuckling his belt, dragging down his slacks, grabbing your hips.

“Hands on the wall,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck. “Gonna remind you why that name only belongs in your mouth.”

You obey, chest rising and falling as he slides into you from behind in one slow, devastating thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groans into your shoulder. “So fucking perfect.”

He sets a pace that’s deep, deliberate—each thrust claiming something that was already his.

His hand curves around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you steady.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

“James,” you breathe.

His rhythm falters—just a stutter, just a moment—and then he’s burying himself deeper, panting into your ear.

“You’re my wife,” he growls, voice shaking. “My woman. My everything. Only you get to have all of me. Even my fucking name.”

You shatter again, and he follows—gripping you tight, groaning your name against your skin as he spills into you.

When your breathing finally slows, he turns you around, kissing you softer than the way he handled you minutes ago.

“You really okay?” he asks, brushing your hair back.

You smile. “I’m more than okay.”

He smirks and kisses your forehead.

“Good. Because if anyone else ever calls me James again…” His eyes narrow playfully. “I’ll end the whole damn gala.”

You laugh lightly. “You already almost did.”

“And I’d do it again,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips. “For you? Always.”

And when he kisses you again—slow, deep, reverent—

you whisper it in his ear just to feel him shiver.

This was for Violet, you told yourself. Totally, completely, one hundred percent for Violet.

The same Violet who’d stood at the mailbox last week and announced to the entire street that “Daddy burns the bottoms of all the Christmas cookies. It’s tragic.”

You’d laughed, made some sympathetic noise, and then gone home and immediately pulled out flour and sugar like your life depended on it.

And okay, maybe you were also weak for the very large, very handsome man who’d moved in with her in September.

Bucky Barnes. Late thirties. Single dad. Wore flannels that strained over his chest and gray sweatpants that should count as a public menace. The HOA pretended to be concerned he’d put up “noncompliant” decorations; really, they just wanted excuses to loiter by his driveway when he carried heavy things.

You’d tried very hard not to stare when he’d hauled a Christmas tree off the roof of his truck like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing, cheeks pink from the cold.

You inhaled, balanced the cookie tin on one hip, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky filled the doorway like he owned it—broad shoulders, scruffy jaw, hair pushed back with his fingers and already falling forward again. He was wearing a dark green henley and worn jeans, one socked foot and one bare, as if you’d interrupted him mid-puttering.

“Hey, neighbor.” His smile was slow and easy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You out here spreading Christmas cheer?”

Your breath puffed white between you. “Something like that,” you said. “Violet mentioned your tragic cookie situation.”

He groaned. “Did she?”

You held up the tin. “I come bearing reinforcements.”

His face softened. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, stepping back and swinging the door wide. “But I am absolutely not turning down free cookies. C’mon in before you freeze.”

Warmth wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, the house smelling like pine and cinnamon and the faint spice of his cologne. The living room glowed with Christmas: too-big tree in the front window, multicolored lights, paper snowflakes under Scotch tape, a lopsided angel on top. Animated snowmen sang on the TV.

“COOKIE FAIRY?” Violet barreled in from the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood. She slammed into your middle, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. “You did it!”

“Hi, bug,” you laughed, juggling the tin to hug her one-armed. “I brought some. Think you can help me eat them?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the tin with both hands like it was a sacred relic. “Dad, look! They’re in a real tin and everything.”

“Nothing but the best for my favorite elf,” you said.

“I thought I was your favorite elf,” Bucky muttered.

Violet gave him a look. “You’re Santa. Obviously.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “Upgraded. I’ll take it.”

He glanced back at you, eyes warm. “Kitchen?”

“Lead the way.” You bent down to pull off your boots.

He stepped behind you without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you around the edge of the rug. It was nothing, really. He touched you like that a lot—steadying you on icy sidewalks, nudging you through thresholds, fingers warm and broad and safe.

Your body, naturally, made a massive deal out of it.

You followed him toward the kitchen archway. Violet scampered ahead, already wrestling with the lid of the tin.

You were just lifting your foot to step through when she shrieked.

“WAIT!”

You froze. Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on your back. “Vi?”

“You can’t go under yet!” she yelped, scrambling off the step stool. She skidded across the floor to the pantry and dove into a pile of boxes and craft supplies. Glitter snowflakes. A garland that had lost half its fake berries. Plastic holly.

And a cluster of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.

Oh.

She clutched it triumphantly. “Gotta put this up.” She ran back, standing on tiptoe in the middle of the doorway. She stretched. The nail above the frame was just out of reach.

Bucky sighed, but his mouth was tipped up at the corners. “C’mere, trouble.”

He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She looped the mistletoe over the nail with grave concentration, tongue stuck out in focus, then patted it.

“Now you can’t go under without kissing,” she declared when he set her down. “It’s the rules.”

Heat shot straight to your face. You suddenly became incredibly aware of exactly where you were standing.

Right under it.

Bucky’s gaze went up to the mistletoe, then down to you, then away so fast you almost heard his vertebrae crack.

“Vi, we talked about weaponized mistletoe,” he said weakly. “You can’t just… ambush people.”

“It’s Christmas.” She shrugged, unbothered. “Anyway, you never kiss anyone, Daddy. It was getting bored.” She hugged the cookie tin and trotted into the kitchen, humming under her breath.

You wished you could join her in obliviousness instead of wanting the floorboards to open up beneath you.

Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pinker than the cold warranted. “Uh. Sorry. She’s been on a holiday rom-com binge.”

“It’s okay.” You forced a laugh, looking up at the plastic berries. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah, that’s what my blood pressure says.”

He stepped carefully through the doorway, avoiding brushing the mistletoe with his shoulder like it was booby-trapped. You followed—definitely not staring at how his shirt stretched across his back—ducking just slightly.

The kitchen was warm and bright, counter already scattered with Violet's craft debris. She’d opened the tin and arranged a dozen cookies on the Santa plate, humming to herself.

“Those snowmen have seen some things,” Bucky remarked, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t be mean, they’re sensitive,” you said. “Besides, you try piping frosting with cold fingers.”

“I never said I could do better.” He reached for one, broke it in half, steam curling from the center. “Oh, that’s…doll. You’re going to ruin store-bought for her.”

“Good,” Violet said through a mouthful. “They taste like sadness.”

You laughed, the tension easing. The next half hour blurred into something easy and golden—coffee brewing, cocoa for Violet, stories about disastrous childhood Christmases. Bucky talked with his hands, wrists rolling, veins shifting under skin every time he reached for the sugar. Violet tried—and failed—to get more sprinkles than cookie onto her reindeer brownie.

Eventually she yawned mid-ramble, blinking slow.

“There it is,” Bucky said softly. “The crash.”

“No,” she argued reflexively, rubbing at her eyes. “I wanna watch the Grinch.”

“You can watch the Grinch tomorrow. Right now, it’s bedtime for elves.” He wiped frosting off her chin with his thumb, kissed her forehead. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be up in five.”

She slid off the chair, clutching another cookie. “Can I say goodnight to the cookie fairy first?”

“Of course,” you said, heart squeezing as she hugged you again. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

She shuffled off down the hall. Bucky watched her go, something soft and fierce all at once in his face.

He looked back at you, shoulders loosening. “I’m gonna go do battle with the bedtime routine,” he said. “If you wanna crash on the couch, I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

“I can walk myself,” you said automatically, warmth flooding you anyway. “But I’ll stick around. You know. In case you need backup against the Grinch.”

He smirked. “Pretty sure you’re the reason she’s asking for a puppy and a pony now, but okay, you can be backup.”

He hesitated, then brushed his fingers over your elbow, just once. “Hey,” he added, voice quieter. “Thank you. For this. She’s gonna be talking about ‘cookie fairy night’ until June.”

Your chest ached. “You’re welcome.”

He went upstairs, his tread heavy and familiar. The house settled around you. Cartoon snowmen grinned silently from the TV in the next room.

You cleaned up without really thinking—stacked plates, ran water in the sink, wiped stray smears of frosting off the table. It all felt domestic in a way that made your heart ache. Easy. Natural. Like you’d always been here.

When you finished, you wandered back toward the living room, tying your hair up off your neck.

And paused under the arch.

The mistletoe dangled above, casting a small, smug shadow on the floor.

You tipped your head back, looking up at it. Stupid plastic thing. Stupid rom-com rules. Stupid way your body buzzed just thinking about Bucky’s mouth on you for more than the brief brush of his knuckles guiding you around furniture.

You were still glaring at it when the floor creaked behind you.

“Victory,” Bucky murmured. “The elf has fallen.”

You turned. He was at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, henley rumpled, hair even messier than before.

“How many stories?” you asked.

“Three. And a song. And a solemn vow to make gingerbread houses tomorrow that could withstand a hurricane.” He padded down the stairs, eyes on you. “You still—”

He stopped halfway through the sentence when he realized where you were standing.

His gaze flicked up. Caught on the mistletoe. Came back down to you.

You felt his whole body go tight.

“Look at that,” you said lightly, your heart hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Ambushed again.”

He blew out a breath, something like a laugh, something like a curse. “Yeah. Seems to be a recurring theme tonight.”

He started to skirt wide, like he had before.

Recklessness surged up under your ribs.

“Aww,” you said, letting your mouth curl into a slow smile. “Is the big brave single dad scared of a little Christmas tradition?”

He stilled.

Slowly, very slowly, his head turned back toward you.

“Careful,” he said, voice deeper now, the word more warning than joke. He closed the distance in a handful of measured strides, stopping just inside the doorway, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You keep tempting an old man like that…”

Your back bumped the opposite side of the frame as you instinctively leaned away and he followed, one large hand coming up to brace on the wood beside your head. He wasn’t blocking your path so much as caging you there, his chest nearly brushing yours, his scent all around you.

“…he’s gonna forget he’s supposed to be the responsible one,” he finished, eyes gone dark.

Your pulse fluttered against your throat. “Since when do old men look like you?” you managed.

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so strained. “You think I don’t notice you?” he asked, low. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me? The way you always just happen to have leftovers, or spare coffee, or—” his mouth twitched “—emergency cookies?”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Maybe I’m just a nice neighbor.”

“You’re a lot of things,” he said. “Nice. Smart. Way too good to be stuck in my kitchen letting my kid con you into crafts. And you’re driving me insane.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I’ve been trying real hard to leave this alone,” he went on, like a confession he couldn’t stop now. “You’re younger. You got your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t sign up for a package deal with a cranky old man and a seven-year-old who thinks glitter is a personality trait.”

“First of all,” you said, voice stronger than you felt, “you’re not old. You’re just…well-marinated.”

His brow shot up.

“Second,” you went on, heart pounding, “you and Violet are kind of my favorite people on this street. And I don’t bring homemade cookies to people I don’t want to impress, you know.”

There. Out in the air, trembling but solid.

Something helpless and hungry flashed across his face.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You’re my favorite,” you whispered. “Both of you. I like being here. I like being with you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t tentative. It was months of glances and almost-touches and late-night fantasies crashing together. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, his other hand sliding to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

You made a surprised noise that melted into a needy one, your hands fisting in the front of his henley. He tasted like coffee and sugar and warmth. The slight scrape of his stubble against your skin grounded you even as your knees threatened to give out.

He pressed in, body pinning yours gently but firmly to the doorframe, thigh wedging between your legs like it had always belonged there.

“Bucky,” you gasped into his mouth when he finally broke for air.

“Been wanting to do that since you brought us that lasagna in October,” he said against your lips, words roughened. “You know that? Walked back into the kitchen, saw the note you left for Vi, and thought, ‘Well. I’m fucked.’”

You laughed, dazed. “It was just lasagna.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t see the handwriting.” He kissed you again, softer this time, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “If you want me to, you say it once and we forget this ever happened. I’ll go back to being your neighbor with the tragic cookies.”

You looked up at him, at the worry buried under the heat in his eyes, and any nerves you’d had burned away.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said. “I want you.”

Everything in him seemed to exhale at once.

“Good,” he breathed. “That’s real good, doll.”

He kissed you again, then again, then along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His hand slid down your side, rough palm cupping your hip. You arched into him, a whimper slipping free when his thigh pressed higher between your legs.

“Look at you,” he murmured, mouth against your pulse. “Already rubbing all over me. So needy.”

“That’s your fault,” you shot back, breathless. “You and your stupid henley.”

He chuckled, teeth scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Stupid, huh?”

“Deeply offensive,” you confirmed, rolling your hips down against his thigh, chasing friction.

He groaned, low and rough, hand flexing on your hip. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna end up fucking you right here in the doorway like a teenager.”

Your brain shorted out on the word fucking.

“Wh-what if I want that?” you managed.

That pulled his head up, his eyes snapping to yours.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice gone dangerous-soft.

“I really, really do,” you insisted, fingers curling in his shirt. “I’ve had…a lot of time to think about it.”

He swore under his breath in a language you didn’t know, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Kitchen,” he decided, like the word hurt. “First. If I take you against this frame I’m gonna put your head through the drywall, and then I’ll have to explain that to my landlord.”

You almost suggested the drywall might be worth it, but he was already guiding you backward with surprising gentleness, his mouth never straying far from yours. You stumbled into the kitchen, bumping the counter with your hip, the faint glow from the living room tree turning everything gold.

He lifted you onto the cool countertop like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

“Last chance to back out,” he said, searching your face.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and tugged him in. “You’re wasting valuable mistletoe time, Barnes.”

His answering grin was quick and wicked. “God, you’re gonna be trouble.”

His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, calloused fingers skimming your skin. Goosebumps rose in their wake. He pushed the fabric up, mouth following, teeth scraping lightly along your ribs, making you gasp.

“Too many clothes,” he muttered, already tugging at the waistband of your leggings.

You lifted your hips to help, letting him peel them down, your panties going with them. The cool air made you shiver; the heat of his gaze made you burn.

“Fuck,” he breathed, taking you in, pupils blown. “You’re so pretty.”

You shifted, suddenly self-conscious and aroused in equal measure, feeling the slick heat between your thighs.

“You gonna just stare at me?” you tried to tease, voice wobbling, “or—”

He gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the counter, dropping to his knees in front of you.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before his mouth was on you.

Your head thumped back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His tongue stroked through your folds like he’d been memorizing you in dreams, slow and deliberate. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, fingers flying to his hair. “Bucky—”

“Taste so good, doll,” he murmured between licks. “Been wondering…fuck…been wondering about this for months.”

Any coherent response dissolved into a strangled noise when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. His hands kept you open, thumbs pressing gently into the creases of your thighs, anchoring you there while he took his time.

He was unfairly good at this—unhurried, entirely focused, like the only thing on earth that mattered was the way you moved under his mouth. He listened, adjusting pressure and pace with every whimper, chasing every gasp like it was a star on some private map of yours.

“Please,” you whined, not sure what you were begging for. More. Less. Everything.

“I’ve got you,” he soothed, one hand sliding up to your stomach, keeping you pinned. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

You did.

A white-hot wave crashed through you, your thighs snapping around his head, heels digging into his back. You bit down on your fist to keep from shouting, a high, broken sound still escaping your throat. He groaned into you, tongue and lips never letting up, riding you through the aftershocks until you were shaking.

When you finally slumped against the cabinet, boneless and breathless, he eased back, licking his lips like he was memorizing the taste.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough, a little smug.

You laughed weakly. “Kind of wanna start a religion.”

“Blasphemy,” he said, grinning as he rose. “We’re strictly a Christmas operation here.”

He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, something heady and intimate in the slick slide of tongues. You felt him, hard and thick, pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans.

You reached between your bodies, fingers tracing the outline, and he groaned, hips rocking into your hand.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You fumbled with his belt, heart pounding. He helped, fingers surer than yours, buckling and unzipping in quick jerks. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, and your brain flatlined for a second.

“You’ve been walking around the neighborhood like that?” you blurted.

His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Had to keep up with the festive décor somehow.”

He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Even in his palm he looked big—thick and long, veins standing out along the shaft, the head already damp.

Your mouth watered.

“Jesus,” you whispered. “That’s…that’s not standard issue.”

He laughed, breathless. “I’ll put that on my next dating profile. ‘Not standard issue.’”

“You better not have a dating profile,” you muttered, fingers circling his wrist, urging him closer.

“You’re bossy when you’re turned on,” he noted, stepping back into the space between your thighs. “Gonna remember that.”

The head of his cock nudged your entrance and everything in you went tight.

“Wait,” you managed, one hand on his chest. “Condom—”

His eyes flicked to yours, serious cutting through the haze.

“I’m clean,” you said quickly. “I get tested regularly. And I’m on the pill. I just…you said…”

That you wanted to breed me. That you wanted to fill me and watch it take.

The words stuck in your throat, your face flaming.

Bucky swore softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “I meant it,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m not making that call for you. You sure, doll? You wanna feel me?”

You nodded, heart in your mouth. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “Inside.”

His jaw tightened, something like awe flickering across his face.

“Fuck.”

He adjusted his grip, the blunt head pressing more firmly. “Deep breath,” he murmured.

You sucked in air, fingers digging into his shoulders.

The first push burned.

Not in a bad way, just—stretching. Your body resisting and then yielding, the thick slide of him slow, deliberate. Your walls fluttered around him instinctively, trying to make room for the intrusion.

“Christ,” he gritted. “So tight. You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how good you’re gripping me?”

You whimpered, biting your lip. “You’re…you’re big.”

“We can stop,” he said immediately, every muscle taut with control. “Say the word, doll. I pull out, we go back to cookies and Christmas movies like this never—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, then winced when it came out too loud.

His eyes blazed.

“Thought so,” he said, voice dropping.

He kissed you as he pushed in further, swallowing your gasp. Inch by inch, he buried more of himself inside you until finally his hips met the curve of your ass, his pelvis flush against your thighs.

You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Stuffed.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You’re…you’re in my lungs.”

“Not quite the anatomy lesson I’d give,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control, “but I appreciate the imagery.”

You flexed experimentally around him and he groaned, head dipping to your shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” he warned. “Or this is gonna be a very short show.”

You smiled, dizzy. “Kinda nice knowing I have that power.”

He lifted his head, eyes hot. “You have no idea how much power you’ve got over me, doll.”

He drew back an inch, then slid in again, testing.

The friction made you see stars.

He started slow, letting you adjust, each thrust shallow but sure, his hands gripping your hips firmly enough you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. The counter creaked faintly under you.

“You okay?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“So good,” you managed. “You feel…huge.”

Pride flared bright in his eyes. “That right?” He shifted, angle changing, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made a strangled sound tear from your chest. “There it is.”

Every drag of his cock now rubbed against that spot, the sensation toe-curling, your whole body clenching around him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching your face. “Taking all of me. Such a good girl.”

Heat rolled through you at the words. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that praise until he gave it to you.

“Like that, huh?” he said, reading you easily. “My good girl. Sitting on my cock in my kitchen like you were made for it.”

Your fingers curled tight in his shirt. “I—Bucky—”

He caught your mouth with his, swallowing whatever sound you made next. His thrusts picked up, faster now, deeper, the wet slide of him inside you obscene.

“You feel this?” he murmured against your lips, hips snapping. “Feel how deep I am? I’m right up against your cervix, sweetheart. Right where I need to be to fill you up.”

Your eyes rolled, the words slicing straight through what was left of your restraint. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Buck—”

“Yeah?” His hand slid from your hip to your lower belly, pressing lightly. You could feel the drag of him from the outside, the firm bulge of his cock pounding into you. “You feel that, doll? That’s me, right here. Stuffing this tight little pussy full.”

It was filthy and insane and you loved every second.

“Gonna come inside you,” he gritted. “Gonna pump you full of me until it leaks out around my cock. You walk home tonight, your panties are gonna be soaked with my cum. You’re gonna lie in bed and feel me still there.”

You made a broken noise, orgasm barreling toward you.

He was relentless now, hips driving into you, the hand on your belly keeping you right where he wanted you while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding your gaze.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, voice harsh. “Say it, doll. Say you want me to breed this pretty little cunt.”

Shame and arousal and something like longing tangled deliciously in your chest.

“I want it,” you choked out. “I want you to…to breed me. Want you to fill me up. Please, Bucky.”

His entire body jolted like you’d shocked him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped his hand back between your legs, thumb circling your clit in snug, ruthless circles. The extra stimulation sent you careening over the edge.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, your muscles clamping down around him, milking his cock. You bit his shoulder to muffle your cry, nails digging into his back, whole body shaking.

He cursed violently, thrusts going erratic.

“Jesus—shit—keep squeezing me like that, doll—”

He buried himself deep with a final, brutal snap of his hips, grinding against you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot pulses of cum flooding you, filling you so full you swore you could feel each warm wave.

“Fuck,” he gasped into your neck, shuddering hard. “Oh, fuck.”

You clung to him, riding out the aftershocks together, the world narrowing to shared panting and the wild thud of your hearts.

He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed pressed to you, chest rising and falling, cock softening gradually inside you. The intimacy of it made your throat tight.

“Still okay?” he murmured after a minute, lips brushing your cheek.

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss. “Yeah,” you breathed. “More than okay.”

He smiled into it.

When he finally eased back, slipping out of you, you made a small, involuntary sound at the loss. Warmth immediately seeped down, slick and obscene.

Bucky’s eyes dropped, watching his cum trickle out of you. His jaw flexed.

“That’s…” His throat worked. “That’s all mine.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I mean, biologically…”

“Don’t ruin my moment,” he said weakly, still staring. His fingers brushed along your inner thigh, catching some of the mess, smearing it higher, back toward your entrance like he could push it back in. “Jesus.”

“You’re making it worse,” you pointed out shakily.

“That’s the idea,” he muttered, clearly not talking about your comfort.

Your pulse kicked when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he’d never seen anything hotter.

“You, uh…you have that look again,” you ventured.

He dragged his gaze up. “What look is that?”

“Like you wanna do something stupid.”

He huffed a laugh, stepping back so you could breathe. “I already did something stupid.”

“Pretty sure we both did something very smart,” you countered.

His mouth curved. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to let you walk home tonight.”

Your stomach flipped.

He grabbed a dish towel, dampened a corner with warm water, then stepped between your legs again, slower now. “Can I…?”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He was gentle, cleaning you up with soft strokes, kissing your knee when you flinched at a residual jolt of oversensitivity. He helped you slide your panties and leggings back up, fingers lingering at your waist.

By the time you were more or less presentable, your legs were wobbly again—for entirely different reasons.

You slid off the counter, immediately sinking into his chest when your knees tried to buckle. He caught you, an arm around your waist.

“Easy,” he teased. “You sure you don’t want me to just carry you home? Less risk of you face-planting in the snow.”

“That’d be hard to explain to Mrs. Hargrove,” you said, words muffled in his shirt. “No, I’m fine. Just…gonna feel that tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, entirely too satisfied.

You pulled back to sock him lightly in the chest. “You’re so smug.”

“Can you blame me?” His grin was crooked and boyish. “I just had the prettiest girl on the block come undone on my cock in my kitchen. Under mistletoe. I’m basically a Christmas legend now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did an embarrassing little swoop at “my.”

You were about to say something equally obnoxious when your gaze flicked past his shoulder.

You could see the living room doorway from here. The mistletoe still hung there, framed by the glow of the tree.

A wicked idea slid into your brain.

“You know,” you said, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt, “we technically only fulfilled half the mistletoe obligation.”

His brows pulled together. “Pretty sure we overshot the obligation, doll.”

“Mm-mm.” You shook your head, lips tipping up. “Everybody does the classic ‘kiss under the mistletoe.’ But I was thinking…”

You trailed off, deliberately letting your eyes drop to the obvious bulge reappearing in his jeans.

His breath hitched.

“There’s another way to…uh…honor the tradition,” you said sweetly.

His eyes darkened, the air between you thickening all over again. “You are going to be the end of me.”

“You already said that.” You slid your hand down his chest, fingers grazing lower, testing. He was getting hard again faster than you’d expected. That did wicked, thirsty things to you. “Consider this my Christmas contribution to the cause.”

He stared at you for a long second, something like worship and pure filth battling in his expression.

“Kitchen,” he rasped. “Door. Now.”

Your pulse spiked. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flared.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

He laced your fingers together and led you back toward the archway. The mistletoe swung gently above, almost innocent.

“On your knees,” he said quietly, stopping just under it, voice like velvet over gravel. “Right here.”

A thrill bolted through you. You sank down, the hardwood cool under your knees, the heel of his puppy socks just in your peripheral vision. This close, he seemed even bigger, his thighs thick, his torso a solid wall.

He cupped your chin, tilting your face up. “You good?” he asked, some of the gravel smoothing into concern. “We can stop. I don’t need—”

“I want to,” you said, cutting him off. “I want to taste you too.”

Something hot flared in his eyes.

“Open,” he ordered softly.

You parted your lips. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and pushed them down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, half-hard and already swelling.

Even after feeling him inside you, seeing him this close made your stomach drop and your mouth water.

He stroked himself slowly, lazily, watching your face. In a handful of pulls he was fully hard again, thick and heavy, the head flushed a deeper shade.

“Look at that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Can’t even get through cleanup without wanting you again.”

“Not complaining,” you said, a little breathless.

He smiled, dark and fond. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”

He stepped closer, thighs bracketing your shoulders, until his cock hovered just a few inches from your mouth.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

Heat punched through you. You laced your fingers together at the base of your spine, shoulders tightening with the position, chest pushing forward slightly.

“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw. “You look so pretty like that. All submissive. All mine.”

He brought his cock closer, the head brushing your lips, smearing pre-cum. “Taste,” he said.

You darted your tongue out, licking a stripe along the underside. He hissed through his teeth, hand flying to your hair.

“Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth, as much as you could, jaw stretching. He was a lot—thick and heavy, crowding your tongue. You relaxed your throat, breathing through your nose, letting him slide deeper.

“Jesus,” he groaned, grip tightening in your hair. “That’s it. Take it, doll. Take it for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking, tongue swirling, experimenting, listening for every sound he made. You couldn’t get all of him inside, not even close, but the way his cock throbbed against your tongue told you he didn’t mind.

After a dozen strokes, he gently pulled back, easing himself from your mouth. You tried to chase him, but he held you back with a hand on your crown.

“Gotta pace myself,” he managed, breathing ragged. “Want to enjoy this.”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you said when he let you breathe, voice rough.

His eyes flashed. “Careful, doll.”

He shifted his stance slightly, widening his feet for balance, then slid his cock along your face, smearing slick along your cheek, your lips. You sighed, eyes fluttering.

Then he took himself in hand and guided the heavy weight of his balls to your mouth.

“Tongue out,” he said softly. “Lemme rest you properly under this mistletoe.”

Heat rush-flooded you.

You stuck your tongue out, flattening it. He lowered himself, his balls settling warm and heavy on your tongue, the soft skin contrasting with the weight behind it. The intimacy of it made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold still.”

You did, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded as he rolled his hips just a little, letting the weight shift, his cock bumping your forehead. You flicked your tongue up, tracing the seam, tasting salt and skin and him.

A low, broken sound tore out of his chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sucked gently, dragging one into your mouth, tongue swirling. He groaned, his thighs tensing beside your head, fingers flexing in your hair.

“You like that?” you asked when he let you breathe again, voice wrecked, eyes shining.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend you, like you’d just done some impossible magic trick.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I like that.”

He nudged forward again and you took him, alternating between sucking his balls into your mouth and licking them, running your tongue along the tender skin, savoring every ragged noise you pulled from him. His cock bobbed against your cheek, leaving streaks of slick you could feel cooling on your skin.

He was talking again now, the words slurred by arousal. “Look at you. Kneeling under my doorway, under my mistletoe, with my balls on your tongue. My sweet little neighbor, such a good girl, letting me use her mouth like this.”

You moaned around him, the praise turning liquid in your veins.

“You’re driving me out of my fucking mind,” he rasped. “You know that? Gonna have to repaint this frame because every time I walk through it I’m gonna remember you right here on your knees, looking up at me.”

You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, drool starting to slick your chin. The way he looked down at you—wild, tender, possessive—made your stomach flip.

He let his balls rest against your tongue again, heavy and full. “Hold them for me,” he murmured. “Yeah, just like that.”

He slid forward, his cock pressing past your lips once more, filling your mouth. You relaxed, letting him guide the pace, the stretch of your jaw borderline overwhelming and exactly what you wanted. With his balls resting on your tongue and his cock sliding in and out, you felt completely used in the filthiest, most delicious way.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned. “I could come just looking at you like this.”

Your hands twitched behind your back. You wanted to touch him, to trace every muscle, to feel the way he shook. But the restraint—knowing he had you like this, knowing you were letting him—made everything hum.

He pulled out again, letting his balls roll off your tongue. You sucked in air, drool shining on your lips.

“Hands,” he said abruptly. “Gimme one.”

You freed a hand from behind your back. He wrapped it around the base of his cock, his larger palm covering yours, guiding you in a slow stroke.

“Squeeze,” he instructed. You did. He hissed. “Good. Look at that. You’re a natural.”

You leaned in, tongue laving over his balls as your hand worked his shaft, the double stimulation making him curse.

“So fucking good to me,” he panted. “On your knees, under my roof, under my mistletoe, letting me put my cock and balls wherever I want. You know how dangerous that is, sweetheart? You’re never getting rid of me now.”

Good, you thought, dizzy and turned on beyond reason. That’s the point.

His breathing stuttered, hips twitching.

“Open,” he said suddenly, pulling your hand away. “Mouth wide.”

You obeyed automatically, lips parting, tongue out.

He cupped your head with both hands, cock aimed at your mouth, balls hanging heavy just above your chin.

“Such. A good. Girl,” he gritted, voice broken, as he slid back into your mouth.

He didn’t fuck your throat, not really—just shallow thrusts, the head bumping the back of your tongue, letting you control the depth. Your jaw ached, your eyes watered, and you never wanted it to end.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Gonna come, doll. You gonna take it for me? You gonna swallow like a good girl?”

You hummed, the vibration making him curse.

He pulled out just enough that the head rested on your tongue, his balls once again dropping onto it, the weight and heat pressing down.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Say ‘ah’ for me.”

You did.

He came with a strangled sound, thick ropes of hot cum spilling onto your tongue, some splashing against your palate, some streaking your lips. You kept your tongue out, his balls still resting there, letting him paint your mouth exactly how he wanted.

He watched, chest heaving, as you closed your mouth and swallowed.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Do it again. Let me see your tongue.”

You opened, tilting your head back just a little. Your tongue was mostly clean, a few pearly streaks glistening that you chased with the tip.

His knees actually buckled.

“Fuck,” he said helplessly. “Marry me.”

You laughed, the sound ragged and delighted, then coughed when a bit of cum went down wrong. He hauled you gently to your feet, big hands steady, thumb swiping at the mess on your chin.

“Easy,” he soothed. “Jesus. C’mere.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth like the whole thing was rewiring his brain.

When he finally pulled back, you were pressed against the wall, his hands on your hips, both of you panting.

“You okay?” he asked for what felt like the tenth time that night, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded, dazed and happy. “I’m—yeah. I’m really okay.”

He laughed softly, forehead dropping to yours. “Good. Because I’m gonna be thinking about that every time I walk under this doorway for the rest of my life.”

You glanced up at the mistletoe. “Guess Violet did us a favor.”

His expression shifted, some of the heat melting into fondness. “She’s never hearing about this particular tradition,” he said firmly.

“Absolutely not.” You snorted. “This is strictly adults-only mistletoe usage.”

He gave you one more lingering kiss, then smoothed your sweater where it had ridden up. “All right,” he sighed. “Before I do something even dumber, I should probably get you home.”

“Dumber than this?” you teased.

He flashed you that crooked grin. “You have no idea what’s on my list, doll.”

He made good on his earlier promise and walked you the thirty feet to your front door, his hand dwarfing yours, the snow squeaking faintly under your boots. The air was sharp and cold, your cheeks still hot from everything.

On your porch, he hesitated, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he said. “So I know you didn’t slip and crack your head on the tub or something.”

“I’m very coordinated, thank you,” you lied. “But…yeah. I will.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You good? Really?”

You nodded, throat tight in the best way. “Really.”

He brushed his lips over yours, gentle and sweet and so at odds with the filthy things he’d just done to you that your heart squeezed.

“Goodnight, cookie fairy,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Santa.”

You slipped inside, leaning back against the door as it shut, your pulse thudding in your ears. You could still feel everything—his weight on your tongue, his cum warm in your belly, the deep, ache-sweet fullness low in your body where he’d spilled inside you earlier.

You washed your face, changed into pajamas with slightly shaking hands, then slid under your covers, phone clutched in your palm.

It buzzed a minute later.

Bucky: elf’s out cold. house is quiet. i miss you already.

You bit your lip, typing back.

You: my knees might never recover from your hardwood floor. but it was worth it

There was a beat.

Bucky: the doorway AND the kitchen counter? i’m gonna have to avoid those at family gatherings now You: we can christen the rest of the house later, it’s fine.

Another pause, longer this time.

Bucky: i meant what i said earlier. pancakes tomorrow. and a date. like…on purpose, not just you rescuing my cooking.

Warmth flooded your chest.

You: i’ll bring syrup. and maybe more cookies. strictly for violet ofc. Bucky: careful, doll. you keep tempting an old man like that and you’re gonna end up with my last name.

Your breath caught.

You stared at the message, fingers hovering.

You: sounds like a pretty good christmas tradition to me.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and steady, wrapping the world in white.

Inside, you fell asleep with the phantom weight of him still between your thighs, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and the image of mistletoe hanging over a kitchen doorway that felt more and more like home.

Not often was the feared boss of New York’s notorious mob, The Avengers, rendered speechless. Although when his cold eyes fell upon your visage for the first time, he fully thought you were an angel, sent to him from above.

His mind had been gearing up to the meeting he had planned with the rival gang, Hydra, here in this neutral spot where hopefully no mobster would dare to open fire, not for his whole world to be suddenly turned upside down in a single second.

Even his right-hand man, Steve, ever glued to his side, noticed the look on his face as his eyes kept on trailing you as your visage disappeared back into the crowd.

And though his feet threatened to shift with the initial thought of coping with such feelings in a gruff manner, Bucky swiftly snuffed out thoughts of kidnapping a sweet little thing such as yourself.

If he was gonna do this, if he was gonna have you, then he’d have to do it right in order to be certain he’d succeed…

He couldn’t risk spooking you in the spirit of the possessive greediness that rumbled inside of him. He would have to find a way to get close to you, become a part of your life, ensure that you were the one before he could steadily begin to corrupt and mould you into his perfect little diamond.

THREE MONTHS LATER

“When did you get a new car?” your squinting eyes darted around the sleek space of the mint condition vintage car that your mother had picked you up in, “and how did you even afford a model like this one? Did you win the lottery and not tell me?”

“In a way, I kinda did,” Vivienne cocked her head behind the wheel, “a friend gifted it to me.”

“A friend gave you this? Wow… what kind of people are you meeting out at sea?”

“Oh, I didn’t meet him on the cruise, honey,” she smirked, though kept the rest of the story at bay as her teeth then sank into her bottom lip.

Taking the hint, your eyes drifted out of the window, though as you watched the city zoom by outside, your weary gaze failed to notice how the car wasn’t rolling in the direction of your cramped little apartment downtown, but instead out of New York entirely.

Letting your head slope down against the glass, a solemn sigh eventually left your lungs as a whisper parted your lips, “…I still can’t believe you didn’t come to my graduation…” you didn’t dare to glance over at your mother. You knew that you should have been grateful for even just a rare gift such as this, her actually picking you up now that you had returned for summer break, but it still didn’t fill the void within your soul.

“Well, I had to work,” she sighed.

“You always have to work…” you felt yourself sink further into the car seat.

“Oh, relax,” Vivienne didn’t even hide the way her eyes rolled, “it’s only high school. My mom didn’t come to my graduation, and I turned out just fine.”

“Yeah, well, you were pregnant,” you pointed out.

“Would you quit your whining?” she then suddenly snapped, “it’s not like I’ve disowned you like she did with me. So what, I didn’t carve time out in my schedule to go see you in a cap and gown? I’m sorry that I was busy working my ass off to pay for that fancy school of yours. How about you instead show me a little gratitude for sending you away to a place like that?” she demanded, as if getting you out of her hair hadn’t been entirely for her own benefit, “huh? Go on.”

Sucking in a shaky breath, you still didn’t meet her glare as you found the words she fished for, “…thank you…”

“That’s more like it.”

And when you suddenly found yourself an hour out of the city, with trees all around the road standing as tall as skyscrapers, Vivienne suddenly turned down a long and curvy road.

Tilting the rear-view mirror, she reapplied her fiery lipstick as the car rolled down the private lane.

“Uhm…” you shifted in your seat as an old manor began to appear at the bottom of the path, “mom, are you sure you’re going the right way?” the intimidating gate that shielded your view suddenly swung open for your vehicle to enter.

“Mhm,” she simply hummed as she remained more invested in her own reflection than her own flesh and blood beside her.

“Can’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

“And ruin the surprise? I think not.”

“But I hate surprises…” you sighed heavily, “come on, mom… I’m tired, I just wanna go home…”

But instead of relieving your stress, she just smirked till the car rolled to a stop on the pebbled and prim entrance that flourished into the grand house before you.

“Well, you’re gonna love this surprise,” she leapt out of the vehicle before coaxing you out as well, “come on!” she snatched up your hand as you cautiously stepped out, your wide eyes cresting up to the home in front of you.

It looked like something out of a fairytale… or a horror movie…

Dragging you along, Vivienne pushed the heavy front door open and tugged you inside.

The echoing entryway was embraced by intricate dark wood panelling, and with the grand staircase that curved in the room, you wouldn’t be surprised if you stumbled upon a literal suit of armour decorating some dim corner in the manor.

“This is our new home!” your mother announced with glee, though your expression remained muddled.

Squinting back at her, you panted, “what are you talking about?” before a figure appeared off to the left.

“Ah, Mrs. Barnes, you’ve returned,” the man, though formal, had the rough palms of someone who could snap your frame like a twig.

“Frankie, why hello, I didn’t know you’d be here,” your mother winked at the gruff figure.

“Well, there was just some, uh, paperwork for the boss to look over,” Frank replied.

“Oh, so he’s in his office then?” she asked, her heels already clacking across the floor and bringing you along with her.  

“Uh, I don’t know if you should disturb him right now, he’s pretty busy–,” he tried to stop her, though didn’t manage to slow down the tornado that was your mother.

As you were dragged through lavish sitting rooms and parlours, you let out a hushed squeak, “mom? What is going on? Why did that man call you that? Barnes? That’s not your name.”

“Well, actually, it is,” she cocked her head before she reached a pair of dark double doors and raised up her manicured hand to tap against it, “hello,” she sang as she swiftly creaked the door to the study open.

Sitting behind a large mahogany desk, a man tore his ocean gaze away from the papers spread out on the table before him. Perhaps in his mid-forties, judging by the wisdom that crinkled in the corners of his eyes and dusted his beard, a rebellious youth still lived on in the tattoos that peeked out from underneath his dark suit, tailored to perfection around his burly frame.

“Viv!” he turned over the paperwork before he rose from the leather chair, “hey,” he uttered to your mom, though his stare lingered on you as you shadowed behind her.

Letting go of you, Vivienne crossed the room and nestled herself close to the apparent man of the house, pressing a brief peck to his cheek before she interlaced her fingers with his own calloused and inked ones.

“Honey?” your mom drew in a breath through her bright smile, “this is Bucky Barnes,” she then casually dropped a bomb that rocked your entire world, “your stepfather.”

Blinking hard back at them, your lungs struggled to expand with air, “I-I’m sorry, what?”

“We’re married,” she went on, and you finally noticed the giant rock on her finger.

“Since when?” you felt dizzy as your eyes narrowed to a squint to try and comprehend the whiplash. The last time you saw her, only a few months ago, there had even in the slightest been anyone in the picture,“I–, u-uh, who–, what?”

Sucking in a breath, Bucky released himself from your mother’s grasp before slipping out from behind the desk to lean his frame against the other side of it, “uhm, well,” he folded his hands together as he began to explain, “your mother and I met just after easter. I know that this is all very sudden with us already being married, but… when you know, you know…” he uttered as he blinked back at you, “and I am sorry that you didn’t know sooner. The both of us did really want you to be there at the wedding, but it all just happened so fast, and we didn’t want to drag you away from school in the middle of your exams.”

“I–…” your head kept on spinning, “…sir–, I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Bucky Barnes,” he extended a rough palm for you to timidly shake, “but you can call me sir too,” he smiled at how sweet the formality had sounded on your lips, “sir, Bucky, Mr. Barnes, you can even call me daddy if that’s what you’d like…”

“Hey,” a deep rumble suddenly emanated from behind you as you carefully poked your head into one of the many rooms in the home, that one in particular housing a large pool table and a tufted leather couch.

“Oh!” you jumped at the voice and snapped the door back closed, “I’m sorry. I was just exploring a bit…”

“Were you now?” Bucky slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“Your home is so big,” you glanced around, partially to avoid the older man’s intense stare, “and beautiful.”

“Well, it’s your home now too, so you’re welcome to explore all you like. Any rooms that are off limits are locked, so as long as you don’t break down any of those doors, then there shouldn’t be a problem,” he spoke of some of the many corners of the manor that you’d already sniffed around, befuddled by the locks, as you were about so many thing about the mysterious wealthy man that your mother had gotten married to. You barely knew anything about him, not why so many scary men lurked around the grounds, or even what exactly it was that he did for a living that paid enough for him to call a palace such as this his home, “how are you liking your room?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you nodded, your tongue swirling around the hard candy in your mouth, making it click gently against your teeth, “thank you so much. I’ve never had one that size before. Usually it’s a struggle to fit more than just a twin bed in there…”

Glance flickering to your lips, your new stepdad then suddenly murmured, “what have you got there?”

“Oh, it’s just this piece of candy,” you sucked down on it, the citrusy flavour melting against your tongue, “there was this little store near school, and I bought a mixed bag before I went back home.”

“Do you mind if I have a taste?” he suddenly asked.

“Uhm, alright,” you timidly shrugged, “let me just go grab the rest up in my room–”

“Oh, no need. I don’t mind sharing,” he then simply held out his palm in the space between you. Taken aback for a second, it took you a moment before you hesitantly plucked it out from where it was resting in your cheek, and placed it in his outstretched hand, “thank you,” he popped it into his mouth before his face lit up in recognition of the classic flavour, “ah, now that’s not just any candy. It’s one of those sour lemon ones where when you get to the centre,” a loud crunch then suddenly echoed from between his teeth, “it’s sweet.”

Your lips promptly fell open as you stared at his chomping smirk, “you’re not supposed to chew it!”

“No?” the faint smile continued to soften his stern features, “well then how else am I gonna get to the sweet bit?”

“By being patient,” a slight chuckle caught in your throat as you blinked up at him. Fishing out the cracked half that was still left in his mouth, he then slipped it back into your palm.

“Nah…” the mob boss crinkled his nose playfully, “being patient doesn’t get you what you want…”

Though when your mother had time off from work, it was usually for several weeks, if not months, when she went back out to sea, it often stretched at least twice as long. But till now, you had always been away at boarding school when she would go chasing her next big adventure, so it never felt the way that it did now that she was leaving you alone in a place that still didn’t feel like home.

You were used to leading a lonely life, in fact, you didn’t really know any different.

But as she packed up her suitcase with all of her new designer clothes, a chilling sternness had washed over her as she fiddled with her glinting ring and gave you explicit instructions to be at your very best behaviour and not screw up the best thing that had ever happened to her.

As you stepped out of the bathroom that sprouted off of your own bedroom, the few water droplets still clung to your skin under your terrycloth robe casketed further down your flesh as you suddenly jumped at the unexpected figure that stood on the other side of the door.

“Wow!” you promptly clutched a hand over your chest in an attempt at calming your spiking pulse, “Mr. Barnes! You gave me a fright!”

“I’m sorry,” he uttered, then began to feed you a lie, “I tried to call out your name, but I guess you didn’t hear me over the running water,” when in reality, your stepdad had crept into your room while you showered and peeped through the ajar bathroom door, his palm tight over the tent in his trousers as he spied on your nude form behind the foggy glass, soap suds hugging your innocent curves the way his own touch yearned for.

“Uhm, did you want something?” you shifted past him to get to the dresser and pick out something to sleep in.

“Not really, I just thought I’d bring you this,” he extended the glass in his hand, “I know that I’m new to this whole parental responsibility thing, but I just noticed that you didn’t drink a lot of water today, so I thought I’d make you chug some before bed. Can’t have you turn into a freaking mummy on me, what would Viv say if she got home and found you all dehydrated like that?” he joked to try and coax you.

“Thank you,” you chuckled softly as you grasped the glass and tipped it up to your lips for a small sip.

“Ah, you can do better than that,” Bucky tilted his head at the few drops you swallowed, “come on, kiddo.”

And as he watched you expectantly, you slowly raised the glass back up to your mouth, the tips of his fingers finding the bottom of it to hold it up till you’d chugged it all.

“Good girl,” he took the empty glass back from you as you wiped the drop of water that had escaped the corner of your lips, “you sleep tight, yeah?”

“Goodnight, sir,” you yawned as he shifted to exit your room, drowsiness suddenly settling over you like a heavy blanket.

But little did you know what the mob boss had actually dissolved into the glass of water… and you’d never find out, as that little pill would keep you far away in your dreams no matter what.

Creeping back into your room, Bucky saw that you’d barely gotten the soft pink covers over your frame before you’d passed out.

The mattress dipped from his weight as he sank down on the edge of it. Gently brushing a few strands of hair out of your face, his fingers then caught the top of the duvet and began to peel it down, revealing the remainder of your slumbering figure.

“God…” Bucky groaned as he gazed down at the way your chest rose and fell calmly with each slumbering breath, “I can’t believe I’ve only known of your existence for a couple of months… feels like I’ve waited an eternity to do this…” he uttered before he finally let one of his palms begin to explore you.

His inked hand looked so wide against you as it slid over your soft nightgown. Greedily discovering the shape of your young body, his touch soon grew impatient as he tugged down your neckline to fully reveal your tits.

A hot breath escaped his lips as he let himself palm them, his fingers capturing your nipples in a pinch before he bowed down to plant a peck to the soft skin. Soon, the peaks were smothered with his kisses, his devilish tongue even flicking out for a taste as he let himself suck on your cute nipples.

But when the throbbing in his pants strained hard enough against the zipper to ache, his lips let go of the little pebble with a pop as his palms found your thighs, splitting them even further.

A soft moan parted his lips when he then pushed your nightgown up far over your hips to unveil the tiny, soaked patch that had already stained the cute cotton of your panties, merely from his light teasing.

Offering his cock a squeeze through his pants, he had never been harder in his entire life as the fucking rock his length turned into as he dipped down to place a kiss over the covered mound of your pure and untouched little pussy. Inhaling deeply against you, his eyes rolled in his skull at your intoxicating scent, and his fingers gave out and finally tore at the zipper of his trousers, freeing his big dick for his fingers to envelope.

As he jerked his fat girth, his other hand slowly peeled your panties to the side, “oh, angel…” his mouth watered as his eyes finally got to see your virgin cunt, “you’re even more beautiful than I imagined…”

He kept his fingers feathery and light as he began to touch you, though not out of fear that he’d wake you up, he had taken care of that problem, but instead it came from a place of pure astonishment, trying to savour the yearned-for moment.

Running his touch slowly through your petals, he gathered up your slick before letting that glistening hand switch out with the one around his cock, instead using your juices as lube to stroke himself with, making each pass echo in heavenly wet slick sounds.

And when he then began to eat you out, he didn’t merely grant himself a taste of your innocence, but instead, the criminal licked at your pussy like he was on death row and this was the last thing he’d ever get to devour. From sucking down on the little pearl of your clit to lapping furiously at your virginal entrance, his ravenous tongue even strayed all of the way down to savour your tight little ass like it was a seven-course meal, all the while his fist twisting up and down the fat length of his cock. He lapped you up like he was dying of thirst and the only thing that could quench the desert inside of him was the sweet nectar that leaked from that pinprick of a hole that was your innocent opening.

Though when he felt himself near the edge, with a groan, he tore himself away and raised himself up to his knees. Scooting closer, he rooted himself so near that as he lavishly stroked himself, the bulbous tip of him hovered right above your glistening cunt.

“Fucking hell,” he tapped the hefty weight of himself against your puffy petals, his glossy precum smearing against your softness with each wet smack, “I am going to destroy you when I finally find a way to fit inside of you, kiddo…” he groaned, as even for the most extreme nympho he had slept with, the third leg he got to call his cock was a challenge to cram inside, “don’t worry, sweetheart,” he dragged his hardness through your slick folds, “I’ll find a way…” he panted with a sly smirk on his lips, “you were made for me, so of course you’ll take all of it…”

And when he finally decorated your pussy with hot ropes of his cum, his broad thumb briefly rubbed it into your puffy clit, before he finally covered you back up with your panties, the cotton immediately becoming completely sheer as his load soaked them.

Tugging your nightgown back down into place, the toasty duvet too returned over your form before he lowered himself down over you to press his lips to your forehead, “see you again tomorrow night, angel…”  

The white and fluffy form of Alpine, the cat that roamed the halls of the Barnes Estate, nuzzled against your leg as you hovered on the other side of your stepfather’s study. It took you at least a minute of gathering up your nerves to finally force your fist to collide timidly against the door, and by then, the feline had strayed in pursuit of the odd mouse lurking downstairs in the wine cellar.

“Yes?” Bucky’s voice emanated from inside.

Cracking it open, you still only peeked your head in, “are you busy?”

Lifting his gaze to meet your own, “no, I’ve got time for you, Come on in, sweetheart,” he waved a hand to usher you all of the way inside, “what do you need?”

“Well,” you averted your gaze, your heart hammering behind your ribcage as you pushed the door shut behind you, “I just–… I would have gone to my mom about this, but she’s obviously not here right now, and I really don’t wanna try and have this conversation over the phone, so…”

“What is it?” the high-backed leather chair that he sat in creaked as he shifted slightly, but when you only let out a sigh and continued to refuse to meet his gaze, his voice filled up the room once more, “come on, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Digging the nail of your thumb into your opposing palm, your voice was almost a whisper when you then uttered, “I think there might be something wrong with me…”

“What do you mean?” you heard him slowly get up from his seat.

“Well, I just–… I have this weird feeling…” you shared tensely.

“Where?”

“Uhm…” still avoiding his stare, you cast your glance up towards the ceiling, “…down there…” your tone trembled slightly as your cheeks went ablaze, “…I’m not on my period, that’s not what it is, but I’ve just been so sore the past few weeks, so much so that underwear has even bothered it… I don’t know what it is…” your eyes finally met his own, tears threatening to roll down your cheeks, “am I dying?”

“Oh, kid,” Bucky’s burly arms then suddenly drew you into a tight embrace, “you’re not dying.”

Your innocent mind didn’t notice the hardness in his pants that poked you as he held you close, though his cock couldn’t help but throb at the reasoning behind your agony, as the mobster hadn’t been able to stop himself from subduing and then visiting you every single night, rubbing your poor cunt raw as he played with you in your sleep.

“Well, you don’t know that!” your bottom lip quivered as you tried to heatedly push him away, “you’re not a doctor–, wait, are you?” you asked in a hazy tone as you still weren’t sure of what his occupation was.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then you can’t know! Maybe I’m sick…” you finally managed to shrivel away from his embrace, “…it’s all tingly, hurts, and there–… I’ve started waking up with this sticky stuff down there…”

“It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay,” he gazed down at you and let his palm coast down your upper arm, “I know a guy,” he uttered, “can get you an appointment with him today if you want.”

Though the corrupt Doctor Reed Richards wasn’t a member of The Avengers Mob, he had still been affiliated with the gang for years, being at their beck and call, whether it was to discreetly patch someone up after a violent shootout or even fake certain documents for them, there weren’t any unsavoury lines he wasn’t willing to cross.

So naturally, a faux little meeting with the feared mob boss and his new stepdaughter was also on the table.

When you arrived, the doctor had suggested Bucky should come along inside of the office just to grant you some comfort since you were so nervous out in the waiting room that you were on the verge of tears.  

He began by asking you a slew of questions, the majority of them not only mortifying, but also exceptionally confusing to you, as virtually all of them were sexual in nature.

Perhaps it was a byproduct of your absent mother fearing you’d follow in her footsteps and get knocked up as a teenager as well, or maybe it was because of the conservative nature of the boarding school that moulded you, but to say that you were clueless on the subject would be the understatement of the century.

When Reed stated that a little examination would be in order for him to properly diagnose you, fresh tears began to well up in your eyes. But hesitantly, you did slip off your underwear and crawled up onto the exam table, the doctor swiftly guiding you to rest your feet in the stirrups and spread your trembling legs as he snapped a pair of black gloves onto his hands.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you failed to notice how Bucky hovered directly behind Doctor Richards, staring as well as he checked and confirmed that your hymen was still intact.

Though when the fake diagnosis finally came, the doctor assured you that it would all be okay as long as you kept up with a very specific treatment regimen. He also stated that it wasn’t something that would be safe for you to handle on your own, as you could really hurt yourself in the process, so if you weren’t willing to go to the hospital multiple times a day, then perhaps having your generous stepfather give you a hand was a good idea.

He then explained how Bucky would have to inspect and even massage you daily. Apparently, sometimes, if the symptoms persisted, you’d need to be massaged several times in a row.

It was all very odd to you, but then again, you weren’t a medical professional, so who were you to question any of it.