🪷

first of all he does not do small. if he’s proposing, he’s proposing. the ring is huge. obnoxiously huge. the kind of rock that makes your friends grab your hand and go “what the hell.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. says something like, “yeah well if i’m putting my name on something it’s gonna be top tier.” acts like the price tag didn’t make the jeweller blink twice. but he’ll spend anything to make his girl happy.

he definitely pretends it wasn’t a big deal. you catch him watching you twist it around your finger in the truck and he goes “what, it’s just a ring.” meanwhile he spent weeks researching cuts and clarity like it was storm data.

he likes that the ring is big. not just because he can afford it, but because it’s obvious. because anyone who looks at your hand knows you’re taken.

he does not call you his fiancé. ever. you’re ‘my girl.’ that’s it. someone congratulates him on the engagement and he’s got his arm around your waist like yeah, she’s my girl. always has been. the word fiancé feels too formal.

lowkey territorial about the ring. if someone grabs your hand for too long he’s right there behind you like careful, that’s custom.

he proposed in a way that felt very him. not overly sentimental in public, but when it was just you two he was quieter than usual. serious. a little breathless. like he’d faced down a hundred tornadoes but this was the one thing that actually scared him.

he absolutely uses the engagement as an excuse to be worse. calls you future mrs miller in that smug tone when you’re arguing. you roll your eyes and he just grins because he knows you love it.

he absolutely uses the ring to win arguments. not even in a serious way. you're mid fight and he just grabs your hand, lifts it between you, stares at the diamond like “huh. crazy how you still said yes though.” you hate that it works.

when people ask about wedding planning he gets all dismissive. says something like she’ll handle the pretty stuff. but then later you catch him looking at venues online. cross referencing weather patterns for the month you mentioned. because of course he is.

he acts like the ring was nothing but if you ever joke about taking it off? his whole demeanor shifts. jaw tight. don’t. just don’t.

he keeps calling you my wife by accident. not in a joking way. just slips out. like it’s already decided in his head.

when he’s tired after a chase he’ll rest his forehead against yours and mumble that “he can’t believe you said yes.” like he still doesn’t fully trust that he gets to keep you.

he gets meaner in that teasing way now that you’re engaged. leans down and murmurs “you gonna behave, or do i need to remind you who bought that ring?” and you hate that it makes your stomach flip.

sometimes he’ll take your hand, thumb brushing over the diamond, and his voice drops just a little when he says “you’re stuck with me now, girl.” and it’s not a threat. it’s a promise.

The work trip had only one goal: It was normal that when people transitioned from the spring to the autumn season, they got sick. You, more than anyone, knew that very well. That was why you took care of yourself as best you could, because you hated injections. It was a trauma you'd had since you were a child, due to your weak immune system. They had to give you shots for almost two full weeks, and for a twelve-year-old girl, you had to admit it was a real trauma. So, to avoid going through the same thing again, you took a packet of vitamin C every morning. And there was no problem with that, because that way you managed not to get sick.

Now that you had a boyfriend like Clark, it was clear that you always sought to take care of both of you. Ever since you moved in with him, you kept up your morning vitamin routine. And even before you found out his big secret—that he was Superman and led a double life—Clark took his vitamin with you. So you would prepare two glasses with the dissolved vitamin powder, and he would drink it without complaint. He never said anything, never grumbled. He just smiled and drank it while looking at you affectionately.

That lasted until he told you his secret, in the middle of the living room, sitting together on the sofa. He looked at you with fear, having revealed something so monumental, as if he thought you might get scared or angry. But you just stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

"So you can't get sick?" you asked, staring at him.

Clark smiled, feeling very relieved to be able to tell his secret to the most special person in his life. "No," he said, and very carefully tucked your stray hair behind your ear.

You frowned, a little confused. "And if you can't get sick, why do you take the vitamin I give you to prevent getting sick?" you asked, looking at him curiously.

His cheeks flushed deeply, so much so that he hesitated a bit before answering. "Well… it's a routine I enjoy sharing with you," he admitted with a slightly shy smile.

You smiled too, because you found it very endearing. From that moment on, Clark stopped taking the vitamin, since he truly didn't need it. But that didn't stop you from still taking care of him just the same. If you went out and it started to rain, you would take off your coat and give him his to put on.

"Beautiful, I don't get sick," he would say, laughing a little.

But you would look at him with those eyes he could never refuse. "But we match," you would tell him. And it was true, because you both had blue coats, so he would put it on just to keep you at ease.

In winter, when the cold was too harsh, you would wrap his scarf around his neck before going out. And on sunny days, you would put on your cap and he would do the same, because you had bought an identical one for him. He always told you the same thing: "I can't get sick. I'm strong." But you still weren't entirely sure. To you, he was still Clark, your boyfriend, and you wanted to protect him just as he protected you.

Even so, for several days you had known that the Justice League was facing a very powerful enemy. The news said Superman was having difficulties, and that left you on edge, very nervous. You worked in a call center office, and whenever you could, you checked your phone. But there was no message from Clark. He had gone three days without rest, and you were very worried about his health. When you got home that night, you realized it would be your fourth night without sleeping beside him. You missed him terribly.

You sighed and paced back and forth across the living room, not knowing what to do. The sun set completely and everything went dark. Then you heard a thud at the window. You saw Green Lantern helping Clark inside, stumbling, almost falling.

"Here's your woman, Clark," said Guy Gardner, the Green Lantern, and then he looked at you.

"Guy? What happened?" you asked, running toward Clark, who was moving very slowly, as if struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

"I'm fine," Clark said, but you heard something off in his voice. You noticed he didn't pronounce the letter 'e' correctly.

"You're not fine," Guy said. "His exposure to the enemy—by the way, we already defeated him—weakened him a lot." Guy placed him on the sofa you pointed to. "And you could say, in human terms, he has a fever."

You looked at Clark, who was pale and shaking slightly. You were about to touch him, but Gardner stopped you with his hand. "He's boiling. He can't cool down on his own until the sun rises in about eight hours," he explained.

You nodded, looking at Clark with concern. "I suppose it's like a human cold, right?" you said.

Gardner nodded. Just then, Clark sneezed. It was such a powerful sneeze that the whole apartment shook, and even your crystal vase fell to the floor and shattered.

"Sorry," Clark said, sniffling hard.

"I'll handle it," you told the Green Lantern, your voice firm.

"You sure?" Guy asked. You nodded again. "Anything happens, you know how to contact us. Good luck with your man and his sudden changes," he said, and flew off swiftly through the window.

You closed the window and started thinking. "First, we'll bring your temperature down," you announced, moving quickly. "I'll get the blankets out here, and we'll change your clothes."

"I'm fine," Clark said again, but his voice sounded weak. Then another sneeze shook the air, and this time a picture hanging on the wall fell down, making you jump. "Sorry," he whispered, sniffling again, a small pout on his lips. He looked like a big child who didn't want to cause trouble.

You ran to the bedroom and brought everything to the living room: blankets, a pillow, his pajamas. First, Clark lay down on the sofa with a pillow, with nothing covering him. You placed a large bucket with water and a lot of ice, too much ice. You reached out to touch his forehead, and barely grazing his skin, you had to pull away immediately. It burned as if you had touched a lit stove.

"Oh, Clark," you said, your eyes wide. "You're super hot. I can't even touch you."

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "I know… it hurts," he whispered, and another sneeze made the windows rattle. This time, a glass on the table fell and rolled across the floor, but luckily it didn't break.

You carefully took the cloth, dipped it in the ice water, and brought it close to his skin. The moment the cold cloth touched his forehead, it started to steam slightly. The ice melted instantly. You had to wet the cloth again and again, nonstop. Every time you placed it, he sighed in relief for a second, but then groaned again as the heat returned.

"Again," he asked, his voice broken. "Put it on again, please." And you did, over and over, without tiring. Your hands were already red from constantly plunging them into the icy water, but you didn't care.

Nearly an hour passed like this. Clark sneezed every few minutes, and each sneeze made the furniture shift slightly or caused something to fall. At one point, he sneezed so hard that the ceiling lamp swayed as if an earthquake had hit.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, his eyes teary, pouting again. His lower lip trembled. "I don't want to break anything, love. I don't want to…"

"It's okay," you told him, gently wiping the cloth across his face. "The things don't matter. You're the one who matters."

When the cloth finally started to stay cold on his skin for longer, you felt brave enough to remove his suit. Very carefully, you began taking it off him. He could barely move, so you had to help him by lifting his arms little by little. You left him in just his underwear, and at that moment, his skin changed completely. Suddenly, the heat vanished as if someone had extinguished a fire.

"I'm cold," Clark whispered, and his voice sounded so small it broke your heart. "So cold, love."

He began to tremble uncontrollably. His teeth chattered together, making a tiny sound. His lips turned purple, and his face became as pale as snow. You touched him, and this time it was like touching a block of ice. You were a little frightened, but you remembered what Guy had told you: sudden changes.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," you said, rushing to get more blankets. You grabbed every single one you had in the closet, even the oldest and thinnest. You piled them on him one by one. First one, then another, then another. Clark was still shivering, so you added two more. You lay down beside him on the sofa and held him tight, rubbing his arms and back to warm him up.

"Don't let go," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, don't let me go."

"I won't let you go," you promised, squeezing him tighter.

Several minutes passed until he finally stopped trembling. He sighed deeply and buried his face in your neck. "Stay with me," he whispered. And you stroked his hair, kissing his head every so often.

Suddenly, Clark coughed. It was a dry, harsh cough, and as he coughed, a blast of icy wind came from his mouth, freezing a patch of the floor. You looked at the ice, then at him. His eyes were wide, frightened.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and again he made that pout with his lips, like a child who has just accidentally broken something. "I don't want to hurt anything."

"It's nothing, Clark," you told him with a calm smile. "I'm going to make you soup and tea for the cough. But first, I need you to blow your nose."

You handed him a clean cloth, and he blew his nose. It was a very loud sound, like a trumpet, and as he did, another sneeze shook the living room. This time, the vase on the shelf fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Oh no," Clark moaned, and a tear escaped down his cheek. "Everything breaks. I'm a wreck when I'm sick, and the neighbors are going to come and complain to you."

You knelt in front of him and wiped the tear away with your finger. "Hey, look at me," you said, affectionate but firm. "You take care of everyone, all the time. Now it's my turn to take care of you. If things break, that's fine. If the neighbors complain, I'll find an excuse. Do you understand?"

Clark nodded, but he was still pouting. "Do you still love me even if I break all your things?"

"I love you even if you break the whole building," you told him, and he let out a weak laugh that ended in another cough.

You went to the kitchen and prepared a hot soup and some tea. When you returned with the bowl and the cup on the small table, Clark was calmer, but still very weak. You helped him sit up a little, placing a pillow behind his back.

"Here, eat slowly," you told him, bringing the spoon closer.

He ate very slowly. Every other spoonful, he would sneeze or cough, and you already had the cloth ready to cover his mouth or wipe his nose. At one point, while eating, he started talking to himself, his eyes half-closed.

"My mom… my mom makes soup like this," he murmured, and then smiled goofily. "But you make it better… don't tell her."

You smiled, knowing he was delirious again. "I won't tell her," you whispered.

"And flowers… you like yellow flowers," he continued, moving his head from side to side. "I'm going to buy you a whole field of them. An entire field just for you. Would you like that?"

"I would love that," you replied, giving him another spoonful of soup.

"And peaches," he added, his eyes glossy and unfocused. "You like peaches. I'm going to bring you peaches from space. The peaches from Krypton are the best… though I don't know if there are peaches on Krypton." He paused, confused. "I don't think there are. But I'll get you some anyway."

You couldn't help but laugh softly. He was so adorable, talking in his sleep. He finished the soup and drank all the tea. Then you used your last remedy: two packets of vitamin C. He took them whole, and as he swallowed them, he made a face like a child given bad-tasting medicine.

"Disgusting," he protested, frowning. "Why do I have to take this if I'm already getting better?"

"Because I said so," you answered, and he made another pout, but this time softer, more like a pretend one.

Finally, he managed to half-open his eyes. They were teary and blue, and they looked at you weakly. He was very depleted. You had never seen him like this, so sick.

"I never get sick because I'm strong," you repeated what he always said, but this time with tenderness.

He sniffled, and that made you smile. "When the sun rises, you'll get better," you whispered, stroking his cheek again.

"I hate being like this," he said in a small voice. "I hate not being able to hug you tight because my arms are shaking. I hate sneezing and breaking things. I hate you seeing me so weak."

"You're not weak," you told him, taking his hand in yours. "You're sick. It's different. And I don't mind seeing you like this, because I've looked like this many times myself, and you never left me alone."

Clark looked at you with his big, wet eyes. "Will you stay with me until the sun comes out?"

"I'll stay," you said without hesitation.

"And do you still love me even when I pout?"

You smiled and touched his nose with your finger. "I love you more when you pout."

He smiled weakly and then yawned. "Take the vitamins again," you said confidently, leaving no room for doubt.

"I just need a little sunlight," he replied, shaking his head slightly, but without letting go of your hand.

"And vitamins," you said, and then yawned without being able to stop it.

"Go to sleep, you're tired," he said, his tone a little ashamed.

You shook your head. "You're here. I've spent three days alone in the bedroom. I want to be with you," you admitted, looking into his eyes.

He nodded, understanding. Then you stayed by his side, curled up next to him on the sofa, one hand on his chest to feel his breathing. Clark sneezed two more times, but they were softer now, and you wiped the cloth without saying anything, just kissing his shoulder. He made a small pout each time, as if apologizing, and you just smiled at him.

The hours passed like that, until four-thirty in the morning, when he finally managed to fall asleep. You fell asleep on the small sofa, with a blanket over you, but without letting go of his hand.

When you woke up, you turned over and felt that you were in your bed. You opened your eyes and sat up immediately, so fast that you felt a little dizzy. You looked at the clock: it was eight-thirty in the morning. You had barely slept four hours. You blinked, trying to wake up properly, and walked to the kitchen. Things were already prepared: bread, juice, everything tidy. Then you turned and saw Clark sitting on a chair, looking out the window. The sun was shining directly on his face, and he looked rested.

You smiled and approached without making a sound. You placed yourself behind him, without moving him. He tilted his head back to see you, and you kissed his forehead. It was normal, no fever.

"Did I wake you?" he whispered, his voice calm.

"No, I just got up and you weren't in the living room anymore," you said, wrapping your arms around him.

"As soon as the sun came up, I carried you to bed and came here to recharge. I didn't want you to sleep badly," he explained. He pulled back slightly and stood up to come closer to you. "Let's go sleep. Yesterday was a very long night for you," he said as his thumb gently traced the dark circles under your eyes. "Thank you for taking care of me," he added, holding your cheeks in his large, warm hands.

You smiled, your cheeks squished by his hands. "I would do it my whole life," you admitted without hesitation.

He smiled and kissed you softly. "Now you have to listen to me when it rains or gets cold, and always take your vitamins," you said, pointing to the spot where the vase and the pictures used to be, which were gone now because they had broken. "Otherwise, next time you'll end up destroying the whole apartment."

"Yes, sorry," he said, laughing softly as he took your hand and led you toward the bedroom.

They lay down together, and he hugged you tightly. You closed your eyes, feeling at peace, and the two of you slept again, finally resting.

Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.

Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.

James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.

He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.

Because you had.

You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.

Even with his corny ass mustache.

It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.

It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”

Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.

And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.

Even more so, his big dick.

If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.

And, yes, there were red flags.

The texts, for one.

In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.

He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.

It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.

It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.

And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.

You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.

Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.

You really, truly believed that.

And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.

You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.

And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.

You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.

james barnes (bucky) Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm

You lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm

james barnes (bucky) Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm Doll? | 10:39pm

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.

You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.

But it didn’t stop.

By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.

You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.

More messages had piled in.

james barnes (bucky) Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm

“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.

You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”

“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”

You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.

“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”

Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.

MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.

Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.

“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.

You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.

You just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm

james barnes (bucky) Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm

You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.

“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.

You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.

“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.

She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.

“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”

“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.

Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”

MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.

You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.

james barnes (bucky) When are you heading home? | 11:02pm Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm

It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.

You im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm

You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.

Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.

james barnes (bucky) I will, sorry. | 11:06pm Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm

You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.

The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.

Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”

They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”

You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.

Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”

You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”

Darcy laughed beside you.

“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”

“—Michelle, please.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”

You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”

“Mm-hm.”

Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.

“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”

You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.

Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”

“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.

“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”

You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.

MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.

Then your shoulders dropped a little.

You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”

“Dump him.”

“Dump his old creepy ass.”

MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.

“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”

Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.

MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”

You turned your head slowly. “A break?”

“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”

You frowned faintly, listening.

“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”

You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”

“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”

Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.

Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.

A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.

“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.

The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.

It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.

The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.

There he was.

Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.

He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.

He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.

When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.

The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.

“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.

“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”

He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”

A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.

He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.

Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.

“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”

He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.

“Another one?” he murmured.

He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”

“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.

He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”

Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.

He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.

You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”

“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.

He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.

He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.

“Bucky, please—”

“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”

As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”

An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.

As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.

Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.

He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.

“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”

“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.

Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.

Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.

“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.

You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.

Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.

Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”

With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.

Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.

You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.

He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”

“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.

You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.

“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.

As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.

He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”

He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”

“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.

“I got you, doll,” he whispered.

And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.

He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.

“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”

He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.

His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.

Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.

“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.

“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”

“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.

The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.

The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.

Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.

For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.

But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.

He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.

He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.

“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.

You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.

“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”

You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.

Then his next sentence caught your attention.

“Think you should move in with me.”

He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.

You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.

“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”

He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.

“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”

You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”

He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”

The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.

His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.

“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”

You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.

Something important.

It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.

Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.

“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”

He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.

He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.

“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”

It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.

His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.

“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”

Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”

You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.

You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.

He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.

He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”

His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”

The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.

His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.

“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.

It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.

He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.

“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”

You said nothing.

Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.

You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.

You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.

And so began the silent treatment.

Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.

He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.

He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.

“You know I love you, yeah?”

You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.

His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?

You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”

He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”

“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.

He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.

At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.

You had no idea where that came from.

His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.

You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.

Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.

But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.

Let him think that.

“A break?”

The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.

Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock. 

Perfect timing, doll, I just—

Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.

He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”

You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”

“—so you’re breaking up with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”

“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.

He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”

“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”

You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.

You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. 

When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.

“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”

You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.

“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.

He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.

“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”

You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.

“Bucky, what are—hmph—”

Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.

What the fuck.

He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.

“Mmph—Bucky—”

“I love you,” he emphasised.

Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.

“And you love me.”

Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.

“I need you, doll.”

And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.

Slap. Slap. SLAP.

Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.

You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.

“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.

It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.

“Don’t.”

The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.

Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.

“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”

You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”

Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.

“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.

You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.

“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”

You scoffed.

Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.

And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.

You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.

His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”

You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.

“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”

Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.

“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”

“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids. 

Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”

And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.

Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.

“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”

He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.

“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”

He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”

You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”

He turned around.

And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.

You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.

“What the fuck!”

But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”

He ignored you.

“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.

You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.

“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”

“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.

And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.

He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”

“Oh my God.”

“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.

But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”

“You counted?”

“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”

You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.

His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”

You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”

“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”

Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”

The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.

“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”

You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.

Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”

“Wait—what?”

You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”

His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.

“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”

“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”

“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”

“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.

Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.

Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.

“For fuck’s sake—”

He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.

You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.

Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.

He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”

His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—

But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.

In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.

Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.

“He pulled out a gun?”

Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.

The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.

Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”

“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”

Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”

You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”

She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension. 

“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”

You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Girl.”

“What?” you said defensively.

“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”

You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”

Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”

“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.

“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”

You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating? 

“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”

She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”

“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”

Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.

“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”

“I probably sounds insane.”

“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”

She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”

You stared at her.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.

Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.

“He must have a big dick, huh?”

The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.

You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”

“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”

“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”

“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.

You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.

She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”

You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.

You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.

“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”

Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”

“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.

Then your phone rang.

You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.

You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.

“He what?!”

The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.

“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”

Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”

You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”

You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.

“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”

Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”

“Tell me about it.”

Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.

You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.

The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.

But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.

The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.

Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.

He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.

His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.

Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.

And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.

There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.

The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.

Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.

The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.

“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.

He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.

The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.

When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”

His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.

And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.

Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.

You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.

You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”

“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”

You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”

“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.

You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.

“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”

if you made it this far… thanks

First class flyer!Scott who lets his fingers brush yours every time you place a fresh glass of liquor, ice clinking, with your sweet smile. It’s supposed to be polite, a professional courtesy, but he can’t stop imagining what it would be like to have those lips wrapped around his cock, a ring of red at the base, your makeup tear-stained while he pushes his cock deep down your throat. 

First class flyer!Scott who watches as your eyes wander to his cock tented in his sweats when you lean down to help him clear his table, giving him an eyeful of that pretty cleavage peeking from the V-cut of your uniform. You don’t get shy, but your smile tips up just a little higher. 

First class flyer!Scott who propositions you for the first time to join the Mile-High Club to which you said fuck you before he bends you over the spacious porcelain sink, the airline-branded Diptyque diffuser, and turbulence that makes his cock vibrate where it’s buried deep inside your cunt. 

First class flyer!Scott who you save on your phone as “8.5” to which he scoffs and says, “How the fuck am I not a ten? You cum every time”, to which you reply, “That’s your dick size, you dumbass.” He smiles smug when he sees that all the other numbers are smaller than his. 

First class flyer!Scott who stops smiling when he realizes that he’s not the only number, which means he’s not the only one you’ve been fucking. He pins you up against his first-class suite door again, rattling it with the force of his thrusts as he sinks his fingers into your thighs, leaving a smattering of bruises that will surely last until your next flight next week.

First class flyer!Scott who immediately books said flight (first class, duh) to make sure that he can refresh those territorial marks until the next time he sees you.

First class flyer!Scott who then spots a “9” the next time you open your phone to show him a picture of your vacation to the Bahamas and asks who that is. Of course, you can’t tell him — airline-passenger privilege or whatever. 

First class flyer!Scott who makes sure you understand that it’s not about “what you have, but how you use it” and he proves his point when you return to your workstation with your hair undone, lipstick smudged, stockings ripped, cum stains on the hem of your skirt and the corner of your mouth, and “9” gone from your contacts list. 

First class flyer!Scott who gets irritated when he sees other men looking at you, eyeing you the same way he’s been doing for months. He blames it on the fact that it reduces the number of times he can make you cum on these red-eyes.

First class flyer!Scott who yanks you into his suite, slamming the door shut without a care whether he wakes anyone up. He loves the sound of your pretty moans but the cabin lights are dim and “you have to keep it down, sweetheart” so he tugs your neck scarf loose and pushes it between your lips to muffle your screams as he stretches you around his cock. Again. 

First class flyer!Scott who doesn’t let you leave despite you insisting that you have to go back to work, and he has to remind you that he’s paid for your time and you’re supposed to guarantee his full satisfaction. 

First class flyer!Scott who chuckles when you call him a “fucking asshole” because he knows all that snark will fall apart into a whine the moment he fucks deep inside of you, his hand buried in your hair. 

First class flyer!Scott who only releases you when you’ve got cum leaking down your legs, embarrassment combined with a happy sex-fueled glow, and enough prints on you to remind everyone else that you belong to someone, when you shakily stumble out of the booth with a smile that you can’t seem to wipe off your face. 

First class flyer!Scott who starts taking his time kissing you, drinking in your pretty moans when you’re situated on his lap while everyone else is asleep. He tucks you to his side, making sure you have enough room to kick off your heels and hand-feeds you fruits from the platter you brought him. 

First class flyer!Scott who plucks your phone from your hand and pulls up your contacts, deleting every number name on that list until you’re left with only his — and he replaces it with his name. 

First class flyer!Scott who is pleased when you roll your eyes at him but don’t seem to complain, instead pulling up the latest blockbuster film on his high-definition TV that you’ve been dying to watch but haven’t had the chance to. 

First class flyer!Scott who finds you sleeping mid-movie with your face in the crook of his neck, your lips warm against his pulse that jumps when you curl into him, arms wrapped around his bicep as you snuggle closer. 

First class flyer!Scott who smiles despite himself. 

First class flyer!Scott who feels his heart beating a little too loud, a little too insistently. Many say that he doesn’t have one, so it doesn’t make sense that he can hear the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump so clearly in his ears. 

First class flyer!Scott who isn’t sure whether he likes this feeling. 

First class flyer!Scott who doesn’t say a word when you slip out afterwards to go back to work, the expression on your face soft when you promise to see him later. 

First class flyer!Scott who can’t even look at you when he exits the aircraft, lest he be tempted to drag you home with him, to tuck you into his bed, in his house, where you would be—

—his. 

First class flyer!Scott who simply nods when you shoot him a bright grin when he comes on board the next time. He misses the befuddled look on your face when he doesn’t look back like he usually does to catch your eye and wink at you.

First class flyer!Scott who keeps to himself for the most part, only calling for service when necessary. 

First class flyer!Scott who pretends to be asleep when you come knocking, ignoring that overwhelming urge to pull you in and slide you under the blanket right next to him, telling you to sleep so he can too. 

First class flyer!Scott who can’t seem to get rid of this itch in his chest, so he wanders out to find another model-like flight attendant — one he would usually flirt with in a heartbeat, but he hesitates to do so today.

First class flyer!Scott who swallows that strange sensation of… guilt in the hollowness of his heart when he invites that stewardess he can’t name into his suite and fucks her until her moans are bouncing off the walls but none of them sound right. 

First class flyer!Scott who sits with that weight in his gut, a knife twisting deeper into his flesh like it’s carving the permanent mark of his sins, as the other girl gets herself ready to go out again. 

First class flyer!Scott who opens the door and sees you. 

First class flyer!Scott who sees the cocktail of repulsion and devastation etched into the lines of your face. The cherry on top — the disappointment that lands heavier than anything. 

First class flyer!Scott who — for the first time in his life — doesn’t know what to do.

+ sam: i cannot stop thinking about scott. he's like a toxic ex i can't get rid of. more to come for him. his characterization will vary depending on how nasty i want him to be heh hope you enjoyed!!!! thank you mai for always matching my freak

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn

The open window is doing nothing at all to cool either of you down or dilute the thickness in the air from how intense your love making is. Sheets hot and sticking to your back, Clark’s body hot and sticking to your front. Completely sandwiched between him and the mattress. Broad, hard shoulders completely covering you to the point if someone came in they wouldn’t even see you. All you can see, feel, smell is just him. The thick scent of pure man coming off him is intoxicating and his breath making your mouth water when you feel it hot against your cheek. He has one hand spread across your back between your shoulder blades to keep all of you pressed against him and the other is hooked behind your knee, pulling your thigh up his waist to get as much of him in you and on you as possible. Switches between sucking on your tongue and grazing his teeth up and down your jaw and neck. It's like he’s experiencing cuteness aggression and just feels the uncontrollable need to completely smush his nose against your cheek so needy you think for a second he might break it. Nudging your head up with it so he can get even closer in your neck and suckle on your ear.

You’re already completely gone at this point, eyes half closed because it’s too painful to not look at him. Eyebrows pulled up and together in a euphoric frown while your hands are undecided, switching between roaming his back and fisting the sheets trying to get a grasp on something. Anything. Him, yourself, reality. He’s pushing up against something that feels so good it aches and he’s so tuned in to what you need his middle and ring finger are rubbing your clit before you can even compose a thought. Not that you could. Clark moaning like a wounded animal at the way it makes you squeeze him even tighter, mumbling all kinds of words and noises into your clavicle. ’Yes, yes yes, oh gosh so good baby. You’re so good for me. Need you so bad, need you closer.’

And then he sits back on his haunches, pulling you up and against him so your ankles are tucked behind him and your arms come up over his neck to thread through his thick waves. Lips latch onto each others and a groan escapes you from the change of position shifting his cock to rest against your cervix, allowing him to slide his tongue against yours and then upwards to lick behind your teeth. A large hand engulfs your waist to keep you to him and he brushes your hair back from where it sticks to your face before he starts fucking up into you uncontrolled this time. Continues circling your clit but faster now, feeling like he’ll die if he doesn’t feel you come around him soon. He always seems so needy at the start anyway but it’s nothing compared to when he gets fully into it with you. Pressing kisses to your nose, eyelids, cheekbones. Licking the sweat that’s gathered on your lower temple and above your top lip. The noises coming out of you now are different than before, slightly pornographic moans are now whimpery uh, uh, uh’s at every thrust. His hips are so fluid where they roll into yours he doesn’t falter at all, so you’re being completely and utterly fucked by him at this point.

And he wouldn’t even do it in a means to and end way either, he has a way of making the most debauched primal stuff tender and intimate. He’d fuck in the most romantic way of just wanting to take you apart and give you the best of the best because in his opinion, that’s what love is. Love is loads of things to him but being fucked until you both feel like you’ve ruined each other for anyone else is something he’s passionate about. His gaze would be so honed in on you with his deep frown and mouth open, panting not from exertion (bc cmon he’s supes) but because he wants to breathe your scent in as much as possible and your heartbeat is bursting in his ears like his favourite song. He's so deep and just completely all over you inside and out, there isn't a part of you that he isn't touching. You feel him throbbing where he’s pressing against your clenching walls and your thighs are wet with your mixed arousals, both feeling so close to the edge now.

One, two, three thrusts and you’re gone, squeezing around him and losing all sense of anything but him and the euphoria between your legs. Thighs clamping around him and head falling back while you let out a loud long noise that somewhat resembles his name and a curse. The way you cumming around him sets his off every time. Literally without fail. Every. Single. Time. Head tucked between your breasts as he whimpers loudly and lets go. Hips finally falter and he gives a single deep thrust as he spills inside you as deep as he can go, continuing to give a few more thrusts to ride both your orgasms out and push more of his cum deeper. Presses his forehead against yours while you both breathe shaky breaths into open mouths to collect yourselves, laying down so you’re on top of him and running his fingers down the nodules on your spine as you come down. Not ready to leave your body yet. If it was up to him he never would.

A/N - Hi to anyone who made it to the bottom, thanks so much I hope you enjoyed. Been years since I wrote anything for tumblr and my first time ever writing for Clark so I hope it wasn't too uneven and shit lol :) Always open to asks if anyone thinks I can bring it to life! And as always, please like and share when you enjoy something. It makes a big difference on here!

Bucky’s Blooms prides itself on its customer service, fresh floral arrangements, and client privacy, but damn, if this particular client isn’t getting under Bucky’s skin with his orders. Besides the fact that the man is clearly cheating on his wife and some other woman, he doesn’t tip Bucky’s delivery driver, Joaquin, when he orders the flowers.

“I’m not driving up to Tribeca and then all the way to Forest Park with no tip again, man,” Joaquin grumbles as he starts on the familiar bouquets. “That’s a trek on a light traffic day.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “Why don’t you man the shop for a bit? I’ll make these deliveries. Besides, I need to stop in Bushwick for more craft paper and some other supplies.”

“No, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go. I apologize for complaining,” the young man says.

“Really, Joaquin, it’s fine,” Bucky assures him. “I need some fresh air, anyway.” He finishes the bouquets, signs off on the handwritten notes with Your Husband and Your Man while trying not to let a shiver run down his spine at the two-timer, and heads out to the delivery van. “Be back in a couple hours,” he says as the shop door shuts behind him.

The drive up from Brooklyn to Tribeca isn’t far, but can take a while with traffic, so Bucky turns on the radio to tune out the noise in his head. It’s not his first time seeing something suspicious like this in the floral business. He's had to write his fair share of questionable notecards, but the fact that this particular client is so smug as to order the bouquets under his real name (yes, Bucky looked him up) on the same day every month, and even have the notecards spell out the situation for him is brazen and stupid and downright awful. He decides right then and there to tell the women about the situation, client privacy be damned.

The “wife” isn’t home when he delivers the bouquet, so he leaves it with the doorman and makes the trip back down to Queens. It’s a nice enough neighborhood, but clearly very different from where the man lives with his wife in Manhattan, and Bucky wonders how they met. They’re clearly from two very different social circles. He double checks the address on the GPS as he looks out the van window at what appears to be a bakery. The address matches, so he shrugs and grabs the bouquet.

As he walks through the bakery doors, he’s hit with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. It’s strong, and reminds him of something his mom used to bake years and years ago.

A head pop ups from behind the counter with a wave. “Welcome in! Let me know if you have questions- oh,” you trail off as you notice the flowers in the man’s arms. “Are those for me?”

Bucky steps up to the counter and eyes your nametag before nodding. You’re beautiful. “Looks like it,” he mutters as he hands the bouquet to you across the counter. The bakery is quiet and empty, and Bucky clears his throat. “I, uh- I own the shop,” he says, nodding to the flowers. “My assistant usually delivers them, but, uh- it’s me today.” Why is he rambling?

“Well, thank you. They are beautiful as always,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the roses. Your eyes flutter open and Bucky thinks his heart stops. You’re something else, and he almost completely forgets what he came here to tell you.

“What is that smell? It’s so familiar, like…” he searches the recesses of his spotty memory for something nearly gone.

“It’s cinnamon coffee cake,” you say. “Fresh out of the oven.”

“Coffee cake,” Bucky says with a nod and a solemn smile, remembering how his mom used to bake that for special occasions. Sometimes there was no cinnamon, but it was better when there was.

“Would you like a slice?” You ask, setting the bouquet on the counter. “It’s still quite hot, though.”

“I- I’d love one. Thank you,” he says, pulling out his wallet to pay.

You wave at him to put it away. “On the house,” you say. “I know the drive out here is far from your shop.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. It’s nice to get out of the store sometimes,” he says as you put a steaming slice of the cake in front of him on a Robin’s egg blue plate. “Wow, well, thank you.” Bucky makes a mental note to put something in the tip jar by the register before he leaves.

“I’m going to get a vase for these,” you say as you walk to the back of the bakery. Bucky blows on a piece of cake before taking a bite. It’s perfect - better than his mom’s was, actually. You come back with a milky white vase covered in a strawberry print and put the roses inside, fan them out, and set them on the counter. “Beautiful.”

“Do you want anything for the road?” You ask, nodding toward the glass case of baked goods.

“Actually, I need to tell you something,” he says, wringing his hands together nervously. “And I know I shouldn’t from a legal and business standpoint, but I can’t in good conscience keep deliverin’ those bouquets to you and not say something. You seem like a sweet person. You deserve to know.”

Your stomach plummets and your heart starts to race. Echoes of your mom and sister and friends saying things like “too good to be true” and “he’s probably married” play through your head like a film reel.

Bucky senses your anxiety and clears his throat, rethinking if he (a complete and total stranger) should tell you this awful news or not.

“Just tell me” you mutter, gripping the edge of the counter for moral and physical support. “Just say it.”

“He’s married,” Bucky says calmly, setting his fork down on his plate. His eyes search yours, which are quickly filling with tears.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “And how do you know? You know for certain?”

“He sends two bouquets every month - one to you, and one to his wife,” he says. “Joaquin usually delivers them both, but the asshole never tips. That’s why I came today.”

You lean back against the counter, the pit in your stomach growing by the second. He was supposed to pick you up tonight to drive up to the coast for a weekend away at his cottage. You’ve never once been to his place in the city - not once. For months. That should have been a red flag, but he’s been so charming. You ignored all the signs. And now here you are, faced with the cold, hard truth in the form of yet another bouquet of perfect roses from Your Man. “I- uh, I’m not sure what to say,” you tell the man sitting in front of you. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I’m sorry I had to,” he says solemnly.

“I’d rather know now, you know, than… later.” After you’ve fallen deeper in love with the dickhead. You look back at the roses and shrug. “I can’t get rid of them. They’re too beautiful. Maybe I’ll just pretend they’re from someone else,” you say with a pained laugh.

Bucky smiles at your resilience and nods. “Just pretend they’re my payment for this delicious coffee cake. Just merchants trading goods.”

You genuinely laugh at that and nod. “So, you’re Bucky?”

“I’m Bucky,” he says, offering you his hand to shake. “I wish we were meeting under any other circumstance.”

You shake his hand - it’s warm and calloused. Bigger than yours. “Me too.”

“Are you going to be okay today?” He asks, putting both hands in his pockets. You now notice the glint of a prosthetic on his left and look back to his face.

“I’m going to be just fine,” you assure him.

“Okay, well,” he starts, looking back to the glass of the bakery case. “I’d love a couple biscottis for the road. Dealer’s choice.”

You smile through your sadness and walk around the counter, placing two into a paper bag for him.

“I’m paying,” he says, waving his wallet around.

“You’re not. I owe you one,” you say, crossing your arms.

“You’re stubborn,” he sighs, shaking his head. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and slips it into the tip jar anyway before stepping back from the counter. He knows he should say goodbye. This interaction is over, but there’s a tug in his chest that won’t let him walk out. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Aren’t you from Brooklyn?” You ask. The chances are slim to none that you’ll ever see him again.

“Yeah, but I have a feeling you’ll get flowers again,” he says as his back hits the door to exit the bakery. “Take care.”

———

One Month Later

The bell above the bakery door chimes as you’re elbow deep in a tub of frosting. “Welcome in,” you exclaim, not looking up from the counter.

“D’you have any coffee cake?”

Your head snaps up at the deep voice. He is standing there with a bouquet of pink lilies and a smile. “I told you you’d get flowers again.”

The End

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

That’s how the soft launch began.

His first attempt? A blurry photo of two mugs on the kitchen counter. One clearly his “World’s Best Avenger” cup, the other… pink, floral, very not his vibe. The caption was just:

good coffee ☕

Within five minutes, the comments exploded.

that’s Y/N’s mug, right?

BUCKY WHO’S THE GIRL 👀

soft launch spottedtttttt

Bucky groaned, tossing his phone aside. “They’re not supposed to know yet!”

“Who isn’t supposed to know?” you asked, padding into the room.

“…Nobody. Nothing. Drink your coffee.”

Attempt number two.. a selfie in the gym mirror. He looked good hair tied back, sweat on his chest but what gave him away was the reflection behind him. A flash of you, sitting cross-legged on the mats, scrolling your phone.

good workout today 💪

Sam commented: bro that’s literally Y/N behind you lmao

Natasha: soft launch failing spectacularly

Tony: congrats on the new girlfriend, tinman. do we send a fruit basket?

Bucky considered deleting Instagram altogether.

But he kept trying.

A photo of two shadows holding hands.

Your hand tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie.

A dog-eared copy of your favorite book on his nightstand.

Every. Single. Time. The comments knew.

And honestly? He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all you.

One evening, you scrolled through his latest post a close-up of your hand resting on his thigh during movie night. Caption: relaxing.

“Bucky,” you said, fighting a smile. “This isn’t a soft launch anymore. It’s a screaming launch.”

He groaned. “I just wanted to keep you to myself a little longer, doll. Didn’t wanna share you with the whole internet.”

Your heart melted. You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “Or… you could just admit you’re obsessed with me.”

He smirked. “Yeah. That too.”

The very next morning, he gave up.

He opened Instagram, snapped a photo of you half-asleep on his chest, tangled up in his hoodie, hair a mess, face peaceful. His metal hand was curled protectively around you.

Caption:

no more soft launch. she’s my best friend, my peace, my safe place, my favorite person in the world. mine forever. ♥️

The comments section went feral.

OKAY HARD LAUNCH ALERT 🚨

they’re disgustingly cute, i’m crying

sam when he sees this: [insert meme of someone gagging]

Sam himself: BRO WHAT THE HELL IS THIS MUSHY CRAP 🤢

Natasha: took you long enough.

You woke up to the notification pinging nonstop. “Bucky,” you groaned, “what did you do?”

He kissed your forehead. “Told the world the truth.”

And honestly? You couldn’t even be mad.

Because the truth was .. you’d marry him tomorrow, paper ring or not.

✦✦✦✦ ✦✦✦✦

💌 tagged babies💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @sebastians-love @lilulicious @themareverine @oscarssebastian @escuzimwa @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @bvcks-cc @onyx8514

It had been by mistake, really, that you'd found out about James. After your parents' nasty divorce, they'd liquidated their assets and gotten the hell out of dodge, to opposite sides of the country, leaving what was supposed to be their retirement home to you. Your job being remote made the move easy. You could dial in from anywhere, really, so why not a sleepy little town? It was nice enough, you supposed, but your first time seeing it was when you pulled the U-Haul truck into the driveway to start unloading.

Your neighbours were nice, if a little nosy, but you didn't foresee any real friendships there. But the house on the hill—you could see it peeking through lush trees—its roof crested with ravens, seemed interesting. You thought that maybe, as you drove past it for your first grocery trip, a young and hip whimsigoth might live there. It was a far-fetched hope, maybe, but so far everyone you'd seen in this town was married with kids, or an empty nester. You hadn't seen any twenty-somethings at all.

You weren't one to back down from a challenge, so you packed some muffins (store-bought—you weren't about to waste time in the kitchen if they were to be rejected) into a basket and set about heading up to the hill.

It had been the beginning of fall, at the time, but it seemed like all of the trees on the property had begun their change of green to yellow and orange earlier than the others in town. You wondered if it had something to do with being at a higher altitude. There were no cheery lawn ornaments like the homes near yours. No wind chimes or ceramic frogs or funny little gnomes. The grass had been cut, but it was mostly blanketed by leaves. Distantly, you realized all you could hear was the rustle of the branches in the breeze. There were no chirping birds. Tipping your head back, you saw the row of beady eyes on you, a silent brigade of midnight black ravens considering you, tilting their heads, snapping their beaks curiously.

There was no driveway, no garage, and also no car parked on the street. That was really what made you pause. But you braved the porch step, the wood so faded it looked gray, and fixed your fingers around the heavy knocker. It protruded from a ram's head, the ring clasped in its jaw. Maybe the homeowner was a pagan, or something.

There was no doorbell, so you knocked with enthusiasm, hoping it was loud enough. All the windows were covered by gauzy curtains in wine red or a faded cream, so you couldn't see in. The thin strips of glass on either side of the door were of the stained variety, different pieces making up a pattern you couldn't quite catch. All you could tell was that it looked dark inside.

You waited, tapping your foot against the soft wood. There was no welcome mat, either. Yet you hesitated to believe that the house was abandoned, because otherwise, who had taken care of the lawn? After a full minute of standing still, listening to the house, trying to tell if someone was coming to answer, you knocked again. The knock knock knock sounded like the banging of a gavel.

It seemed to do the trick, though. Another thirty seconds of waiting, the house completely silent, and then the door flew open. You stared in surprise at who stood before you.

He looked a little young to inhabit the place alone, as he blinked eyes of crystalline blue at you. But that wasn't what had you trying not to gape at him. No, the man before you stood in pajamas of black silk, an eye mask pushed up over his forehead, his brown hair sticking every which way. "I don't want whatever you're selling. And please, be considerate. I was resting."

His words curled around you like smoke, and it almost made you shiver. You didn't think his tone was meant to be seductive, but for some reason, it had you flushing. So, this mysterious stranger must work nights, or something. "Oh, I—I'm not trying to sell anything. I, um, I just moved in? Down the hill." You jerked a thumb behind you, as if he needed the clarification. "Just introducing myself."

He peered at you sleepily, looking largely unimpressed. "Are those meant to be for me?" His eyes travelled down from your face to the basket.

You'd forgotten it had been resting in the crook of your arm. "Oh, um, yes!" You unfolded the checkered dishtowel on top to reveal the muffins. "Best way to get into people's good graces is with food, yeah?" You were aiming for upbeat, though the feeling felt like it had been leached from you the second he'd fixed you with that disdainful look.

"No, thank you." He said tersely.

Of all the people you'd imagined to live here, he wasn't one of them. "N—no?" Who the hell rejected muffins?

You felt yourself deflate, your spine curling to hunch in on yourself. Rejection never felt nice. But then you remembered, as he went to close the door, that you weren't some pansy. He was already looking at you like you were slightly more stupid than the general population. You drew yourself to your full height, though he was still taller than you. It didn't matter that he'd been polite. You knew he was just trying to get you to go away.

"Is that all?" He asked, clearly ready to close the door in your face.

"I guess so," your eyes narrowed. "But for future reference, the considerate thing to do is take the damn muffins. I don't need to know if you immediately throw them in the trash."

He remained unperturbed. It was mildly infuriating. "Alright. Goodbye."

Before you could blink, the door was closed. You felt like the ram's head was judging you. "Dick." You muttered, turning on your heel.

You thought you heard something on the other side of the door, but decided not to pay it any mind. It wasn't until you'd reached the gate that you heard the door open again, followed by that same seductive lilt: "Close, but my name is actually James."

You didn't see James again for a couple of weeks. You didn't want to ask your other neighbours about him, but you certainly didn't stop them when they brought him up. From what you'd come to understand, people hardly ever saw him. In fact, you were probably the person that had spoken to him the most in recent months. He worked nights somewhere, though no one knew where. But it sounded like his house and lawn were always in pretty pristine condition, though no one ever actually saw him out there doing maintenance. He was, in large part, a great big question mark to your small town.

You planned to never interact with him again. The key word there was 'planned'. But one night, just as you were planning to cozy up on your new couch and watch an episode of the police procedural you'd been hooked on, there was a gentle knock on your door. You snuggled your cardigan around yourself—it was a wearable blanket, really—and padded to the front of the house. You assumed it was a neighbour with leftovers—they really loved bringing you food, pitying your single status.

It was dark out, the sky the blue of a jewel, but your porch light washed everything with yellow. You were more than a little surprised to see James standing on the other side. He was wearing a long black coat over what looked to be tailored trousers and an expensive looking shirt.

"Hello," he said.

Just the one word sounded musical. You kept your arms crossed over your chest. "Hi."

"I wanted to apologize for my behaviour the other day." it had been weeks, but you let it slide, curious as to where this was going. "I realized I never even asked for your name." He looked at you expectantly then.

Well, if you were going to be saying his name in vain, you supposed it was only fair… You gave him your own in a short, brisk tone. You didn't like how you felt when he repeated it back like a caress.

"Did you come all the way here just to ask for my name?" You shifted your weight, staring up at him.

"No, I thought we might get to know each other better. May I come in?" He all but crooned.

He must have thought that turning on the charm would get him into your good graces. "Um, no."

If you'd had your phone on you, you would have taken a picture of the clear shock on his face. "nNo?" He repeated, incredulous. The silky seduction had melted away.

You frowned. "No. Why would I, a single woman, let a strange man into her house at…" you glanced at your watch, "eight o'clock at night? Sounds like a recipe for danger, don't you think?"

It was very obvious to you that James had had no doubt in his mind that you were going to let him in, and this roadblock was something he hadn't considered. He didn't know how petty you could be. The crease in his brow smoothed out, and he met your eyes. You believed that his stare could have been hypnotic, if you weren't already disillusioned by his charm. He said your name again, and it gave you goosebumps along your arms. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. I unfortunately tend to be a tad irate when roused from sleep."

His tone was interesting, to you. The words he used, even. He didn't talk like anyone else you'd met. He fixed you with a pleading look. "I'm not a danger to you. I'd just like to talk to you. Please, can I come in? It's a bit cold."

You felt the irritation pass across your face. If he thought his handsomeness and dulcet tone could make you bend, he was wrong. "I already said no, dude. Come back tomorrow in the light of day and maybe we'll talk."

That was when you saw the frustration in his gaze. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing it all the more, the toes of his shiny black shoes kissing the threshold of your home. For a split second, you thought he might force his way in. "I can't. I'm… indisposed. until evening."

You shrugged, unwilling to feel bad for making things difficult. "Well, I guess we'll never get to talk, will we?"

With that, you closed the door in his face, much like he'd done to you. You refused to shoulder any guilt. You didn't have to be nice all the time, and certainly not to him. Still, you, thought, as you made your way back to the living room, to the cozy cocoon of the couch, you wondered why he'd been so insistent.

You were surprised when you heard a knock at the door the next day. It was a little earlier than the day before, but it was still night time, and you were still unwilling to let James in. He stood on your porch looking totally out of place next to your rocking chair. "Hello. I came earlier today." he began, his tone pleasant, hands behind his back. "May I come in?"

You didn't hide your ire this time. "Do you remember what I said yesterday, or do you have selective memory?"

His mouth opened, then closed, a flash of something in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher. Finally he said, though you detected an edge to his voice, "Yes, but like I told you, I was regrettably tied up."

"And like I told you, I'm not letting you into my house at night."

You caught the gleam of his teeth in the lamplight. He looked like he wanted to snarl at you, to snap. You got the feeling that it was a herculean effort for him to stay composed. "Would you listen, please?" he asked, his eyes locking onto yours. "I am not a danger to you."

For a moment in time, you felt suspended in honey. It had the cogs of your brain turning very slowly. He did seem harmless enough. Maybe social cues were hard for him. Maybe he just needed someone to take a chance, seeing as your neighbours hadn't tried to befriend him. Maybe you should invite him in, offer him some tea and a slice of cake. Maybe you could be friends after all. He gazed at you imploringly, eyes like shards of ice. He ran his tongue over his teeth as you considered, and that was what snapped you free of your stupor.

"Sounds like something a dangerous person would say." you bit out, feeling lightheaded and woozy. "Now go away, or I'll call the cops."

"Oh, you're a dreadful woman." He complained.

It almost made you laugh, the whine that escaped him. It made him sound like a little boy that hadn't gotten his way. "I'm merely trying to rectify the misunderstanding we had, and you're being incredibly unreasonable." he continued, spreading his hands.

At this, you couldn't help but smile. "You do realize that we could just talk right here, right? I mean, we're talking right now. And unfortunately for you, I thrive on being unreasonable."

"Horrible girl," he murmured. "Alright, have it your way."

You thought he meant that the porch discussion was a go. But no, instead he turned with a flourish that made his coat flap like a cape, and he stole down the steps and to the pavement, walking away without a second glance.

What a strange, strange guy.

You didn't see him again after that. Briefly, you'd worried that he'd try this line of questioning every night until you gave in (which you didn't believe you would), but the next night, there had been no knock at the door, and neither had there been the one after that.

You only enjoyed a week of quiet evenings, though. You had been informed, through word of mouth by your neighbours, that the water would be shut off tomorrow morning for a few hours. Apparently, most of your suburb went to the town hall meetings. It was old fashioned, you thought, to have to learn that information by being there rather than receiving a notice in your mailbox. And unsurprisingly, your mind slid to the house on the hill, to James.

You sincerely doubted that he would know about it. and against your better judgement, you thought it was only right to let him know. Begrudgingly, you made the trek to his house just as the sun had begun to set. You waved to your neighbour as you passed, pointing at James's house, and they nodded, continuing to hose down their car.

You didn't really think you were in danger. Especially not in daylight. But it didn't hurt to let people know your whereabouts, just in case.

The air was crisp and cool. Half of the homes on your walk had already decorated for Halloween, with pumpkins on their doorsteps and cobwebs strung across their windows. It crossed your mind that you'd have to buy a box of candy to give out, this year, rather than your usual wager, which was to keep it for yourself and hide with all the lights off.

When you got to James's house, you heard the mournful hoot of an owl, though you couldn't see one. It was still light out, just barely, his house awash in blazing orange. You caught the faintest glow from behind the set of cream coloured curtains on the left side of the house. So, he was home, and likely awake, if the theory of him working nights was to be believed.

When you went to knock, however, the ram's head greeting you like the last time, you paused. Right by your sneakered foot, in an uneven splotch, was a dark stain, about the size of a baseball. It was soaking into the wood, an unsightly mark. Your eyes trailed back the way you'd come, your body turning to the steps you'd just walked up. They were smaller, in an uneven line, but they were there. You saw them disappear off the path and into the grass. Your focus returned to the biggest one, right next to you, right at the door.

It could have been anything. Motor oil, black coffee, ink. The fading light made it hard to tell. But something in your gut said that it wasn't. Screw the ram's head. You settled your hand on the blackened handle and tried it. The door gave way under your fingers.

It opened like a yawning mouth, to a hallway with a runner of crushed velvet. The walls were a deep mahogany. A slightly dusty chandelier of crystal glimmered above your head. The floor was dark, but if you squinted, you could make out the trail. "James?" Your voice was more quiet than you'd meant for it to be, but you felt like it was all you could manage.

You suddenly envisioned him working in the garden, perhaps cutting himself with shears, and coming inside to try to dress the wound. It could have been anything, really. But you followed the path through a dated sitting room—the room with the cream curtains—and to a kitchen.

"Oh, fuck."

You didn't realize the words had escaped you until James's eyes, bright and alive, settled on yours. You were much more focused on the blood coating his mouth and chin. Specks of it splattered the collar of his shirt. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the doe, its leg still twitching, laying prone on the kitchen island.

It was a horrifying, gruesome sight. So were the red tinged fangs protruding from James's mouth. The entire thing was like a scene from a horror movie, and you'd never much cared for those.

James stayed put. "Don't scream," he said softly, "I'm usually much more tidy than this, but I have been incredibly hungry as of late."

He looked woeful, like a fallen angel, one hand extended towards you like he could hold you in place from there.

You didn't scream. You couldn't. Any air you'd had in your body was trapped somewhere you couldn't access. Your legs had locked up too, a bad sign. You had no idea how fast or strong he was, and instinct told you to run. You watched, disbelieving, as he wiped at his chin with his thumb. There was still an obvious streak of crimson there, and you both knew it.

"You are incredibly calm for someone witnessing this for the first time." He observed.

"Who says I'm calm?" As it was, your voice sounded shaky.

"I can hear your heart. I can smell your fear, but you haven't overreacted." He looked at you curiously. "Though perhaps you are in shock…?"

"Are you going to kill me?" you breathed. It was suddenly very, very clear to you that this was something you should never have seen.

He had the gall to laugh. "No, of course not. Not unless you share what you've seen."

You didn't believe him—why would he spare you under the promise of keeping such a horrifying secret? Sensing your doubt, he smiled. You didn't know if he was banking on his handsome features, but crusted with blood and giving you an eyeful of his fangs wasn't helping his case. "The pretty new neighbour found dead in her home? I feel that would invite more questions than I'd care to answer."

He'd stayed put at the counter. He watched your gaze move, against your will, to the doe. "Don't look at the animal, look at me," he murmured.

You were afraid to. Instead, you focused on the doe's ear, letting your vision tunnel. "If I run, are you going to chase me?"

"Will you keep my secret?" He sounded almost amused.

"Yes." You didn't know if you meant it yet, but it was the only right answer, the only way you could see yourself getting out of this house.

"Then no, I won't chase you. I'm not very good at that game. I get a bit… competitive."

At this, you did look at him. It made you inhale sharply, that statuesque beauty marred by blood. "So I can just… go? You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He spread his hands. "Come now, I believe we have a bit more of a conversation to get through first, no?"

"What's there to discuss? It's clear that you're a—"

"Don't say the term you're thinking. I don't much care for it." He said, dismissive.

You could only blink at his casual demeanour. Vampire danced on the tip of your tongue. You felt like you need to say it, to confirm it for yourself. But he continued. "Creature of the night is more apt. At least I think it is. I do more things than drink blood. I still have a soul." He sounded almost… delighted to be able to talk about this.

"Please," he said, gesturing to you—no, behind you. "Wait in the sitting room while I dispose of this," He patted the doe's flank, "and we can speak this further."

You took a stumbling step backward. He said your name, and you looked up. "Don't run," he said, mouth curling into another smile. "I'll be most disappointed."

You ran.

As soon as he'd begun to heft the deer over his shoulders, you had shuffled into the living room and waited until you heard the back door open. Then you bolted, finally finding your strength. You streaked through the door, letting it bang behind you, and pelted down the path and across the street. You felt like you were bounding down the hill at the rate of a bullet. The sun was gone now. All you could think was home, home, home.

You were breathing hard as you crashed through the door. Your hands shook as you locked it and leaned against it, your mind tumbling wildly. As soon as you were able, you staggered around the house, drawing your curtains. You pushed your dining table in front of the door, then turned on all your lights. You needed it, to feel safe. Of course, light didn't equal armor, but the illusion of it made you feel better.

It occurred to you, as you stood in front of your knife block, that you might actually be safe. It was night time now, yes, but… the two times James had come around, he'd asked to come in. He'd never forced his way through the door. Maybe it had just been him maintaining his façade of politeness. But maybe… maybe that old folklore was true? Maybe he couldn't come in unless invited. You decided it was a possibility, but you weren't about to blindly trust in it.

It was a good thing you had nowhere to be tomorrow. You had a feeling you were about to settle in for a long night of guard duty.

James had hoped, as he'd gone into his backyard, that you wouldn't run. He'd hoped you'd have a little more sense, a little more curiosity, to stay and talk. But he wasn't surprised when he heard the patter of your feet, the distant swing of the front door. He'd merely sighed as he began the long trek into the woods behind his house.

He thought, as he dug a shallow grave for the doe, that you had handled it remarkably well. You hadn't passed out or screeched in fear. You hadn't fallen to your hands and knees and begged for your life. And, he thought with reluctance, clearly you had some sense of instinct to protect yourself. You'd gone to the one place he couldn't simply enter.

The moon was low and round in the sky as he stood in the street in front of your house. Everyone here seemed to have a bedtime of nine pm. The road was quiet. He was in no danger of being hit by a car. He observed your house, the soft glow of lights on in every room. He could sense you, sense your heartbeat. He couldn't make out the churning of your thoughts. He had the vain hope that you would be more reasonable the next day. If you were going to keep his secret, it was only right that you knew all the facts.

But still, he watched your house for a little longer, every detail of it as clear as it would have been to you during the day. He listened to you moving around inside, a mouse in your cage. He wondered what tall tale you were telling yourself, what you were spinning to make it all make sense. The thought made him smile. Whatever it was, it was probably wrong.

You slept a little bit, after the sun came up. You'd camped yourself out in the living room, seated on the floor with your back against the couch. The knife in your hand clattered to the floor, and it roused you from your dozing until you crawled up onto the cushions and napped until mid-morning. You didn't really want to be conscious, at the moment. You were still wrapping your head around what you'd seen.

You didn't really believe James when he said he would let you live as long as you kept his secret. What was in it for him? There was no reason for either of you to trust each other. And what you'd seen of him so far wasn't entirely promising.

When you finally started your day, you remembered there was no water for the next little while, and you stood staring blankly at your shower, which you'd have to go without. Distantly, you thought James must be sleeping. It was a bright, clear day. His 'night shifts' now made sense, at least. The sun must be a real vampire deterrent. At least it meant that you were safe, for now.

Your day passed by slowly, which you were grateful for. You were anxious about nightfall. You had no idea whether he'd decide to show up at your door, try to convince you again to let him inside. You remembered the blood on his skin, the clear blue of his eyes, like he was fully alert. It made you consider the fact that he didn't hear you enter his house. Had he been taken over by blood lust, consumed by the taste and smell, to the point that he hadn't noticed? It was hard to believe.

When the sun melted away, you prepared to be vigilant again, though you knew you couldn't keep it up forever. As it was, you ended up falling asleep sometime in the night, only to wake up sore from sleeping on the floor. Your bones creaked as you stood and stretched.

When you left your house, intent on heading to the store for groceries, when morning came again, you found a note tacked to your door. It was on clean white parchment, tidy handwriting at its center.

You are formally invited to dine with me this evening. I promise that you aren't on the menu. - James.

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. At the invitation, and at the poor joke. It did nothing to reassure you. Your first thought was to crumple the note up and fling it into his yard as you went past. You hesitated though, your hand not quite making a fist, not quite creasing the paper. Instead, you walked it back inside and left it in the dish you usually kept your keys on.

You weren't going to go, you decided. It was foolish. And there was no time indicated on it, either. Evening could mean four o'clock or eight o'clock, and you weren't keen to venture outside at night, not anymore.

But as you went about your day, the idea kept writhing in the back of your head. What if you brought yourself some protection? What if you went, but stayed firmly on the doorstep, firmly in the sunlight, where he couldn't get you? If that idea was true. You found yourself picking up more garlic than you needed to buy. If only you knew how to get your hands on some holy water… or a stake.

It was with great reluctance that you found yourself at the scene of the crime. You must be stupid, you decided, as you stepped onto the porch in the golden sun. It was just after five. A small assortment of things were hidden in your purse. You hoped you didn't have to use them. The bloodstain was gone from the wood, like it had never been there at all.

You didn't have time to knock, though you'd stood out there considering for a good few minutes. As soon as you raised your hand, the door opened, though James wasn't standing on the other side—at least, not where you could see. "Please, come in," You heard from behind the door.

You scoffed. "Not on your life."

You heard him make a tsk sound. "You're in no danger. I've left the curtains to the dining room open. you'll be perfectly safe in there."

You wanted to be suspicious, but you detected no lie—you'd seen yourself that the heavy red fabric you were used to seeing hadn't been blocking the window. You were quick, guard up, to scramble into that room. You heard the echo of the front door closing. And, with some dismay, you could smell garlic, along with butter and rosemary. So, the half-crushed bulb in your purse would be of no use to you, you surmised.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and you suppressed a shudder. The last time you'd been in there… Well, you'd rather not think about it. Especially not if you were expected to eat something. The wallpaper in the dining room was dated. It had probably been red once, but now it was a faded pinkish colour. The damask pattern was almost invisible to your eyes. The table was made of dark, polished wood, with matching chairs, the cushions made of golden fabric. It was a room made for lively dinner parties, you thought, the table easily able to seat eight people.

You chose a chair right near the middle, letting yourself wear the sunlight on your skin. Tiny dust motes danced through the air. "Do you drink wine?" James called, his voice echoing through the house.

Yes, you did, but something told you that you should have your wits about you for this meeting. "Water is fine."

You drummed your fingers over your thighs. It felt strange to sit here, waiting for him, for whatever he was going to bring out. What if it was something drenched in blood?

You were about to find out, you supposed. James came in carrying a pitcher of water first, filling a glass and setting it down for you. You gave him an uncertain smile, but waited until he'd gone again before picking it up and squinting at its contents. There was no telling if he'd drug you and drink you dry.

After sniffing the rim and deeming it safe—or so you hoped—you took a sip. It tasted just like the water at your own house. You took it as a good sign.

It was only a couple more minutes before he came back with two white plates. The first one he placed in front of you with flourish, the second directly across the table, before taking a seat. That side, you noticed, was just barely out of the sun. You hid a grimace. You'd be subject to that piercing stare, that catlike smile, the entire time.

You were mildly surprised by your dinner. It was a beautifully seared steak, nestled between roasted potatoes and asparagus. It looked like something from a recipe book. James was already cutting into his, a decidedly rare one, by the look of the piece he speared and put in his mouth.

"You can eat real food?" You asked, not reaching for your knife and fork, not yet.

He smiled, amused, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. "Yes, I can. Though it's not very fulfilling."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes roamed the room as he thought of how to answer, before settling on you. "For you, I suppose it would be like chocolate. You can eat it and survive on it, barely. But it doesn't benefit you at all."

It was an adequate answer. "And the sun?"

He laughed then, before chewing on another piece of steak. "If you're asking if I'll turn to a pile of ash, the answer is no. But it can be extremely uncomfortable for me. Like a sunburn. It will make my skin peel and flake, and I'll become quite ill. I am able to withstand it more than I used to, though."

It was curious. James was answering your questions with seemingly no caution, like he believed you'd never repeat what you learned. Like he was certain. His eyes flicked to your plate, still untouched, before settling on you again. "Is it not to your liking?" He considered you for a moment. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"No," you picked up the knife and fork hastily, "I'm not. This is all just very weird. I'm sitting across the table from a va—"

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided, waving a finger. "We don't use that word, if you please."

You cut into your own steak. It was—thankfully—not nearly as rare. As you eyed his plate, you felt his own could have still been mooing in the field it came from. "What's your aversion to that word?" You met his stare as you took your first bite.

And damn it all to hell, you had to suppress a moan. Who knew that an ageless being could cook a steak so well?

Though you gave no outward reaction, James still seemed to know that you were enjoying the food. He seemed utterly delighted, in fact. He didn't respond until you'd stabbed a potato onto your fork and really began to chow down.

"The word carries a… negative connotation, for me. I was turned against my will." He looked to the window suddenly, his expression wistful. You suspected his mind was far away.

"I at death's door, you see. And then I wasn't, but I was reliant on that coven for decades. It isn't something I would wish upon my worst enemy."

You sat in the silence of the admission. You wondered how long ago he'd been turned, how long ago he'd been free from the rule of other vampires. You weren't exactly sure how open he would be. Instead of digging into his past, you sipped your water and asked, "Ever kill someone?"

He made an amused sound, though not quite a laugh, his gaze snaring you once again. "Of course I have. There's a steep learning curve. The human body is oh so delicate." His eyes roamed over your neck. "But I haven't in recent years. Most of my kind hunt for sport. The thrill of the chase, the unique taste of fear. It is a mere appetizer before the main course. I, however, prefer to leave my prey alive. I'd rather keep my sources around for repeat visits, rather than have to find new ones each time."

"And the doe?"

The half-smile he gave you then wasn't quite enough to bare his fangs, though his teeth still glinted. "I was very hungry. I hadn't eaten for a while. It can sometimes be easier to hunt in the woods, hidden by the trees. I didn't want to wait until dark to let myself into somebody's home."

At this, you couldn't stop yourself from gaping at him. "You don't—you don't mean that you take blood from people in town, do you?" Surely not. Qouldn't that have been the first thing your neighbours told you?

Your gobsmacked expression had James letting out a laugh, the sound rich, musical. Enchanting, really. "Why travel far when I have a veritable buffet right down the street? Though you shouldn't worry. They've all invited me in. They just didn't know that once they did, I was free to come and go as I please. And they don't remember, afterwards. I'm very good at what I do, now."

The knowledge made you drop your fork with a clatter. "Was that what you were going to do to me?"

You remembered his insistence at coming in.

He had the decency to look chastised, borderline embarrassed. "I apologize for that. As I told you, I was utterly ravenous. And you're new, fresh blood. I admit I was curious to know your flavour." He paused, before adding, "I'll do my best to behave myself around you, but you should know never to invite me in. I can't make the promise that I won't still try one day, if I'm desperate."

It should have scared you. But the second half of his admission, the gentleness with which he said it, had disarmed you. He seemed to be able to tell. "At least you're honest," you finally said.

"You aren't afraid. Why?"

"How do you know I'm not?"

He sat back in his chair. "I can get a glimpse of emotion. If they're strong, especially. But you aren't afraid. And your heartbeat is strong, healthy. You're taking this very well. Why is that?"

You shrugged. "I wish I could tell you. I don't really know, myself." You voice was little more than a whisper, your thoughts turning inward.

Because the truth was, you didn't know. For all that he was being perfectly gentlemanly right now, you'd seen him with blood on his mouth. He'd just admitted to you that he'd wanted to drink yours, to leave you none the wiser, a stupid little snack roaming around town. But there was something about him, about the way he'd spoken so openly, that had you believing him. You shouldn't have been sympathetic, but you thought that maybe he was lonely. If the only other vampires he'd known had been bad ones, it was no wonder he kept to himself. And you didn't doubt it was difficult to make friends with prey, because that was what you were. You'd grow older, and he'd stay the same. He probably wouldn't live here forever, not if he didn't want people to notice that fact.

You'd both lapsed into silence, your plates untouched. You were the first to resume. "So, what does this make us? This unholy alliance. Am I supposed to be your friend now?"

James considered you. "I suppose it does. I haven't had one in a very long time. I don't know whether I'll be very good at it."

The answer was melancholic. You wondered if he was thinking of that person right now, his last friend. "I guess we'll find out."

Against all odds, you did settle into some semblance of a friendship. You would visit him in the day, if he was awake, keeping to sunny spots of his house. He'd given you a grand tour, though he'd kept you at arm's length and stuck closely to the walls. He'd opened every set of curtains so that you would feel safe.

The attic had been your favourite room. The window was circular, made of stained glass, like the ones at the front door. The floor and walls were a grayish wood, and there was a grand piano tucked away in one corner. Various chairs, lamps, and side tables were clustered together. Much of it was turn of the century. You'd dragged your fingers along the keys, more noise than melody. "Do you play?"

"I used to." He admitted, leaned up against the wall out of the sunlight. "I was the entertainer for my coven most nights."

You knew that those weren't fond memories for him, though he still hadn't told you much more. "But you kept the piano?"

"I try not to think of it very much, but it's a hard aspect of my past to leave behind." He admitted.

Aside from the attic, it had been interesting, delving into his possessions. You'd seen many things that looked like they belonged in museums. looking through his armoire, you'd found remarkably well kept clothes from over a century ago. Judging by the way he continued to dress now, you believed he had a soft spot for the time he'd left behind. His current attire was much more modern, the tailored trousers and shirts, but everything carried an echo from the romantic period.

You could imagine it easily, James strolling a street at night, the roads lit by oil lamps, cobblestones slick from rain. And he would have been dapper in a top hat and long coat, a handsome young man on the hunt. You believed that smile could open doors without him having to say much of anything.

You liked listening to him when he talked. Sometimes, he sounded like someone from today's time. But most others, his speech was antiquated, like something he'd never quite shaken off. It was one of his more endearing qualities. He spoke like he'd come out of a classic novel.

James came to you, sometimes, though you kept it to your front porch. He hadn't asked to come in since the first time, but you would catch his eyes straying to your door while you talked. You didn't know whether he was curious about your own belongings, about how you decorated, or if it really came down to wanting to drain you dry.

You continued to dance this strange two-step with him, as the leaves turned brown and brittle. As Halloween passed, and you and he walked through town, looking at the groups of families decked out in costume, the decorations strung up in storefronts—everyone here seemed to take part, really. James almost fit in completely that night, standing beside you. He'd worn his more dated clothes. He looked like he was in costume. Of course, only you knew that it was the real him. The most you'd managed for your own costume was a headband complete with sparkly red devil's horns, picked up at the dollar general.

He'd smiled at a woman as you'd stopped at a crosswalk. You could see her flustered smile. If it had been daylight, you were sure you would have seen a blush across her cheeks, too. "Was that you using your evil powers on her, or is that just a quality you have?" You'd asked him, glancing sidelong.

The smile he'd given you was decidedly more toothy, his canines visible. "I've always been charming, creature of the night or not."

"Right…" your tone was dry, but it was only to cover your own reaction to his attention. You'd never admit it out loud, but sometimes looking at him was like staring directly into the sun. He was wildly dazzling, especially when he was having a good day.

On a good day, he was charming. It was dangerous, actually. More dangerous to you than his fangs or his speed or strength. It was dangerous because he had the ability to make your head spin with nothing more than a rakish grin and a few choice words. His chivalry was also unmatched.

But you also knew him enough by now to know there were an equal amount of bad days. He'd vehemently denied it, but when he was approaching hunger, he was quite difficult to deal with. Petulant, fussy, and altogether irritable, you'd send him away from you and tell him not to contact you again until he could act right. He'd usually part from you with a frown and a muttered, "You are a wretched girl. I'm being perfectly reasonable."

He would never admit to you that you were right, every time.

You couldn't get a sense of how often his feeds were. You didn't know if it depended on amount or the span of time, and you didn't want to ask. But you always knew when he had. Over time, his eyes would become less blue, more an icy gray. It would draw you back to when you'd discovered his true nature, to the piercing shade of blue they'd been after he'd drank from the doe. Blood brought life back to him, in a manner of speaking. You kept the knowledge to yourself.

After the year's first frost, you started seeing Christmas decorations popping up. The town square, a place that was known for holding events during holidays, had lights strung into its trees. It started to get darker earlier. It would soon be too cold to sit with James on your porch. Your visits would be more limited.

But for now, you kept to walking around town with him. You were safe among other people. As it was, you were listening to him complaining about the cold. You hummed, hands in the pockets of your puffy coat. "I would have thought you'd enjoy the winter."

He frowned at you. "The cold makes my reflexes slower. I may not be able to stand in the sun, but I crave the heat. Why do you think I chose a home with such a large fireplace?"

It was an interesting aspect to learn of. "How much slower?"

"Hmm?"

"How much slower does it make you?"

He exhaled with an irritated whoosh. "It depends on how cold it is, how hungry I am. I would still be faster than you," he said, looking you up and down, "but not by too much. If you had a stake, you'd have a better chance of using it."

You raised a brow. "Is your weird, witchy hypnotic power still strong?"

Because yes, you'd learned about that. He'd explained that it was something to do with pheromones and eye contact, though you didn't really understand. And you'd refused a demonstration.

"Yes, unless the person I'm using it on is strong willed. And we already know that you are."

"We do?"

At this, he looked guilty. "Well, yes. The first time I asked to be invited in, I, ah…" He ran a hand over his mouth. "I tried it on you. I wasn't at my full strength, but I still should have been able to overpower you. But you have a strong mind. I couldn't bend you to my will."

You scoffed, shaking your head. You weren't offended, not really. You could have guessed as much. "Just for that, I feel like I should be allowed to take a stab at you just once."

"Mmm, maybe one of these days, you will."

His comment drew you both inwards, for a time. Already you rejected the notion. You couldn't imagine a circumstance that he would allow himself to be so hungry and also in your presence, to the point of real, mortal danger. Of course, it was a possibility, a small part of you argued. But knowing him, knowing how his mind worked, at least a little… No, you didn't believe there would ever come a time where that would happen.

You'd just walked the perimeter of the square with him, passing by what was now a quite dead rose bush, sagging against a small cluster of nearly bare trees. James's gaze settled somewhere around your shoulder. "Hold still," he instructed, hand reaching for you, "you've got a leaf in your hair."

You shouldn't have felt such a prickle of awareness. You couldn't detect the touch of his fingers between your strands of hair, pulling the offending foliage free. The following touch, however, the barest brush of his fingertips on your neck as he pulled away, had you holding your breath. Inexplicably, you felt your heartbeat speed up. If he heard it, which you guessed he did, he was kind enough not to comment.

You pivoted, needing to break the contact. "Does hot chocolate do anything for you, or does it hold no appeal?" You asked, willing your voice to come out evenly.

He watched you for a moment, thoughtful. "It's not my preference, but I suppose I could be persuaded."

The trust between you had grown, though you were still careful to heed his warnings. James had asked you once, playfully, if he could come in after he'd walked you home. You'd almost said yes, not wanting the conversation to end there, your fingers frozen from being outside, but you'd denied him, like you promised you would. He'd given you a satisfied look, like he was proud of you for passing the test.

That didn't mean there weren't a couple of times where it hadn't been so light and breezy.

To your knowledge, James had used his power to get himself access to a few homes in the neighbourhood. He would go in when necessary, take what blood he needed, and steal away into the night once more without a trace of what he'd done. But you had a feeling that sometimes, James ignored his thirst in order to spend time with you. It was made more obvious one evening, when he was bidding you goodbye. Or well, he was supposed to. You were caught off guard when you turned to say goodnight after unlocking the door. Suddenly, he was right there. You caught his scent, smokey and warm, as he leaned over you, one of his hands finding purchase on the brick by your head. His voice was a low rasp by your ear. "We've had such a wonderful evening, my darling, why end it here? Let me come in with you, hmm?"

You felt like you'd had too much to drink, though you hadn't had a sip of alcohol. You were off-kilter. He certainly didn't stand in such close proximity to you like this often. You should have seen the signs of his hunger earlier—his eyes had been a more glacial gray, and he'd been a bit fidgety—but you had been distracted by the lighthearted debate you'd been having about what made books classics. He, being around for the birth of many of them, had had some interesting takes. And that was one of the things you loved most about being in his company. the ease of which you could let a conversation whisk you bad in time. He made you feel almost like you'd lived it, too. And now, you were dealing with the consequences of his company.

You came to your senses, though just barely. His eyes were boring into yours, but the briefest flicker of his teeth showed in your periphery. His mouth was just slightly open, and you got the idea that he was breathing in whatever intoxicating aroma your blood gave off, coursing through your veins like a current. You put a hand up, brushing the lapels of his coat. Of course, you'd be no match for him if he really wanted to bite you, but your hand on him seemed to give him pause. "I'm afraid I can't do that, James. When's the last time you ate?" You kept your voice soft, unguarded. You didn't want him to feel any guilt.

He blinked once, like he was breaking the spell, and then closed his eyes. You saw the guilt anyway. "I'm—I'm sorry, I forgot myself. I'll go."

He had put distance between you in the span of a second, already on the street. He turned to walk up the hill. "James?" You called out, tentative.

He didn't speak, but he stopped to turn and meet your eye. "It's okay. just please go and eat."

He nodded once, a complicated mix of emotions crossing his face, and then kept going. Even though you were friends, you were both very aware that he was predator, and you were prey, and that wasn't likely to change, no matter how comfortable you felt.

He was much more careful after that. You almost never saw his eyes as anything other than blue, and you started to wonder if maybe he was taking care to drink every time he planned to see you. It was sort of flattering, though you'd never tell him that. You got the idea that he wouldn't be very happy, if he knew.

You'd never asked James about his time with his coven. You knew it was a sore subject, and didn't want to risk upsetting him. You figured that if it was a story worth telling, he would come to you when he was ready. You could only tiptoe around the subject.

Your hunch was right.

Cold, crisp morning light filtered in through the attic window, and you stood in the center of it. James was tucked away in the shadows, dragging an idle finger across the piano keys. Even though he wasn't playing a composition, it still sounded musical to you, each note precise. "I know you said that you mostly played for others," you said, treading carefully, "but did you have any favourite songs?"

James shook his head. "They all played much the same to me. But my coven's leader preferred Horowitz or Rachmaninoff. We had private audiences with them many times."

It was the most he'd told you so far. You warred with not wanting to push it, and being wildly curious. You settled for the safest question you could ask. "I take it you played at your leader's request, then."

"Yes. Though they were more demands than requests." He pressed down on a key, the low thunk ringing across the room. "One could never say no to Johann."

Johann. Immediately, you didn't like the man. "And if you did?"

James sounded very far away, when he responded. Like he was coming to you from a different stretch of time. "Then you would learn what true pain felt like."

It was a foreboding answer. You stood in the silence, unsure what to say, but James turned on the bench to face you. His fingers played some sort of melody, even though he was no longer looking at the keys. "There's no use telling you his name, because you'll never meet him, but I supposed it makes the whole thing easier to tell. When I was with him, he ruled with an iron fist." His eyes flicked away, a distant expression painting his face. "Some of our kind don't care to use their power to make their feedings more pleasant to the host. Some drink up the pain and fear as well as the blood." He looked directly at you. "To Johann and his underlings, it was a fun, sick sport. Many of them were old enough to forget what humanity was."

There was a warning in those words, you were sure. James was telling you that while he might be affable and pleasant to interact with, there was potential that he wouldn't be, one day. That he would become a true monster, a yawning pit of hunger in the place of a soul.

"But not you?" you asked. In many fictional vampire tales, you remembered them saying that blood lust was an untameable beast.

He twisted away, back to the keys. "No, not me. My transformation was… traumatic." He laughed, though it was flat. "They usually are. But I refused to be like him, like them. It was my only way to defy him, to keep my conscience. I thought I would die under his rule, and I often thought my actions to resist were pointless. I didn't have any hope of being free." The admission sank in your gut like a stone. "It was pure luck that I got away, and that I managed to stay away."

You itched to cross the room and slide onto the bench beside him. To hug him and tell him that as long as you were around, he would only have blue skies and better days ahead. But you refrained, glued to your spot in the sun. There was nothing you could say to take from the decades of torture he'd endured. All you could do was make sure there was no way for it to happen again.

You both let the topic drop, unwilling to press on the wound anymore than you already had. He'd already given you much more than you'd ever expected to get. You admired him, cast in shadow. His side profile, the shape of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead, only to be raked back by his nimble fingers. The cut of his clothes, so unlike what other men wore. He was like no one you'd ever met before, no one you would ever meet again. Your very skin felt warm at the thought, but you pretended it was just the sun heating you to your bones, instead. "What matters is that you are away. This town doesn't even have a population of twenty thousand. And unless Johann is looking to join the HOA meetings, this place probably won't be very interesting to him."

You didn't now what spurred it on. You'd known James for a full season, now. Christmas had come and gone, and he'd respected your wish to not exchange presents. Instead, you'd shared dinner on Christmas Eve before you left town to stay with your mother for a few days. It was the night before you were due to come back to what had become a cozy little town, to you. You had been trying to curb your enthusiasm, but your excitement to see James again couldn't be cured.

It started when your head hit the pillow. The sheets were cold, and you shivered, burrowing deeper under the blankets. The moon peered through the edges of the curtains, and you shifted away from the window, intent on sleep. And you fell through the layers of wakefulness, teetering right on the edge of deep, dreamless rest.

But you felt more than heard the rustle of fabrics. Distantly, with your last bit of awareness, you imagined it to be your own sheets, shifting with your movement. You thought you could almost smell something smokey, woodsy, rich. It was familiar. You couldn't place it. The tethers of consciousness were beginning to snap, but some part of you was still clinging on. The sigh, the soft murmurs were whispered to the recesses of your mind, like a caress. You thought you heard your name, but it was mumbled. A comforting touch, trailing along your skin like soft sparks of electricity. The graze of something against your neck. You felt it twice, three times more, before there was a firmer press. You thought it would hurt, the pressure, but instead, it felt like a release of every fear, every worry, tension you didn't even know you were carrying. Your own voice, slurred and thick as syrup.

"James."

You woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, a hand flying to your neck. It was smooth, untouched, no slick blood. No wandering hands on your body. The air smelled clean. You'd dreamed it, dreamed him.

You should have been unnerved, uncomfortable with the idea. But your body, traitorous as it was, only felt a buzz of energy, a surge of contentment. A thread of… longing. You'd never asked James if being bitten was painful. He'd alluded to using his influence to make it as pleasurable as possible for his hosts, but you had no idea what that truly meant. Especially since his influence seemed to slide off you like water off a duck's feathers.

Would it really be so bad, to offer a vein to James? If he'd been feeding from the other residents in town like he said, he must have had some semblance of control. No deaths had been reported. The only murder you'd seen had been the deer. You had a feeling that causing the end of a life, at least a human one, would haunt James. Despite his lack of social gatherings, you knew that he enjoyed being among the living. You could see it every time you went out together. You thought that perhaps he yearned to soak up the sun with you sometimes, when you mentioned going shopping in the middle of the day, or walking your neighbour's dog as a favour. Was there really a threat of harm in being another source for him?

You rubbed at your neck again with a heavy sigh, before curling up in your bed once more.

Sleep was not to be had after all, it seemed.

You took care to erase the dream from your mind. To your credit, you greeted James normally, upon returning to town. You went for dinner at a popular restaurant as soon as the sun went down, and he asked you questions about your family, eyes curious in the candlelight. For all intents and purposes, your return was as unceremonious as it could have been, both of you on your best behaviour. But still, as you filled the silence, the thought began slinking around in the back of your head like an unwelcome guest.

You waited until you'd both ventured back outside. You paused under the awning as James reached to fix your scarf, fishing it from the collar of your coat to lay it properly around your throat. You'd become used to such ministrations, though sometimes you could feel your heart skip a beat. His tongue poked out just a little as he concentrated. "I think this colour suits you quite well," He said, straightening. "It brings out your eyes." His hands lingered a moment longer than they needed to.

You tucked your chin into the plum coloured cashmere. "This was one of my Christmas gifts."

The streets were mostly empty, the lamps dotted along the sidewalk illuminating the way. It was around a twenty minute walk, to make it to your house. Gallantly, James offered an arm, and you folded your gloved hand around it, leeching some of his body heat. The twinkle of stars overhead seemed to make the snow sparkle. You hesitated before speaking. "When you use your influence to feed… Is it taxing, for you? Does it take a lot of energy?"

You felt his eyes on you, but kept staring ahead. "…It depends," he started slowly, "on who I'm influencing, and how weak I am. I've built up a good enough rapport with most of my hosts. It's as taxing as lifting a pebble, for them. For you, to truly bend you to my will, it would be more akin to pushing a boulder uphill. I could do it, but it would take time and focus. There are some rare humans with such iron wills that it would be as difficult as trying to move a mountain. It's easier to go for a weaker, more malleable target than expend my energy working on a stubborn one. It takes less effort than physically overpowering someone, but it can still be draining."

"And… Have you ever had a host that you didn't need to manipulate? That just… offered themselves up?" You could hear with your own ears how unsure you sounded.

At this, James looked at you until you met his eye. "No, never. Any human that's done that has had some sort of altering of the mind. Some of my kind will push hard, even when their target is weak willed. And pushing too hard can splinter a human's psyche, damage them completely." He paused, swallowing, looking away. "Johann used to do that, sometimes. Keep the human around, half-gone and pleading to be useful, until he got bored of them."

An bird cawed as you passed the last of the shops, and you saw the brush of inky black feathers in one of the trees. You were starting to get towards the residential part of town. You hadn't truly thought through how you would offer your… services, as they were. But now you felt too afraid to. Not because you were scared of James, but because you were afraid he would say no. He hid it well, but he treated you as delicately as spun sugar. Even if you told him that he wouldn't have to try manipulating you, that you were willing, you knew he would turn inwards, blame himself for making you think it was okay.

Still, as you traversed, arm in arm with him, you considered it. Maybe you'd be able to work up the nerve, at some point, but it wouldn't be tonight. The tiny shred of your thoughts that you kept locked away peeked out then. They were the ones that made you imagine the sensation of James's mouth on your neck, his hands on your body, the way he might say your name. You desperately willed the ideas to dissipate into mist. You doubted he was interested in you that way anyway. A part of you bitterly thought, from time to time, that you were only close because you'd happened to divulge him of his secret. As far as you knew, you were the only human soul to know of his true existence.

You shifted the conversation to something lighter, instead focusing on what had gone on in town while you'd been away. "I take it you completely ignored the fireworks display that they put on for New Year's?"

He scoffed, drawing you closer when a heavy gust of wind buffeted you. "So much excitement over some loud noise and repetitive lights. I've never quite seen the appeal."

January brought some of the coldest temperatures you'd seen since moving here. And what better way to pass a day off than to while away the hours until nightfall than to lose yourself in the town's library? James had told you a little of the town's history, something he'd looked into during his endless spare time, and it was the perfect day for you to do so, as well. You'd already finished your work for the day. Remote jobs certainly had their perks. So you'd braved the subzero temperatures and settled in one of the wingback chairs near one of the big windows, flecks of snow idly swirling by.

You got lost in the archives. Newspapers going back one hundred years were still mostly preserved, with old, yellowed photographs of earlier residents. You noticed relatives of your neighbour, Virginia, easy to spot by their light hair and tall statures. Some last names stuck out to you as well, and you traced your finger over the likes of Wilson and Parker. Some of their offspring still lived here, too.

It was downright cute to read about winners of the annual gardening competitions—something that still went on to this day—as well as to spot when new traditions had been formed. You liked knowing more. If you were going to stay here for a while, it was nice to brush up on the town's history. At the very least, it would give you something to talk about at the next gathering you were invited to, rather than standing awkwardly to the side or clinging to a passing neighbour.

When you deigned to look outside again, night had already fallen, a soft dusting of snow across the pavement. The wind shook the branches of the trees planted outside. In the summer, the area in front of the window was an outdoor reading nook, but now, the benches were blanketed by ice. You stretched, standing and shuffling the archives into a neat pile to give back to the librarian. You weren't surprised to find James lingering by the front desk. He'd known of your plans, had offered to meet you when he woke up. He still looked adorably sleepy, his hair a bit of a mess, though you didn't know if it was bedhead or the result of the weather. He straightened when he saw you, brushing his hands down the front of his coat, though the fabric was already perfectly smooth. "I'll warn you, it's quite biting out there," He said by way of greeting, already extending his arm for you to take.

You waved a hand, unbothered. "Yes, well, I'm not as… delicate about the cold as some people."

He huffed when he pushed at the heavy doors. "You really are a wicked girl. I'm merely sensitive to it."

You weren't able to keep a straight face, nor hold in your laugh. "Sensitive is certainly one way to put it."

You loved moments like this the most, where there was nothing heavy to discuss. as much as you were unfathomably curious about James and his entire sordid tale, what you really enjoyed were the pockets of time that you spent together with no agenda other than each other's company.

The wind whistled as you cut through it together, up the main street. There were no cars or other people out tonight. Really, it was too cold to be traipsing about. Your fingers and toes were already starting to tingle with discomfort. You kept your head bent against the frigid air, your forehead practically touching James's shoulder from how closely you clung to him.

James's change in demeanor was as abrupt as a shift in the air. One moment, your laughter had been carrying across the street, and the next, you could feel the change in his body, muscles coiled with tension. It was like when you could feel the sky, close and low, an impending storm on the horizon. "No… I was so careful," He murmured to himself.

You didn't have time to ask him before your senses became aware too, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up in warning.

There had been no one there in one breath. By the next, he was standing a little ways away, under the intersection's stoplight. Tall, imposing. If Dracula had been based on anyone, it would have been him. He was stick thin, his long coat hanging off his frame. He was built more like a scarecrow than a man. You could make out his widow's peak even from the distance at which you stood. You didn't understand how he could look so sickly, the heavy circles under his eyes making them look sunken in. His skin was pallid—you could still tell, even though the only light was coming from the moon. You would have thought someone who took blood and life so voraciously would look to be in better health. You wondered if it had something to do with his humanity, or lack thereof.

You knew who he was, without having to be introduced.

"Ah, Bucky. it's been so long, my old friend. I've been looking for you for quite a while." He stood in the middle of the black street, the moon low and full, painting him in ivory.

Johann, in the flesh.

There was no time to run—no use to try. You knew you wouldn't get a single step before Johann would be there, snapping your neck as easily as a twig.

"Don't call me that," James snarled, teeth bared. You were rattled. You'd never heard him so affected before. He'd stepped just a little bit in front of you, your hand falling from his arm, like he was preparing for a fight.

"You've brought us a nice meal, I see." Johann was observing you, paying no mind to James. He cocked his head to the side like a magpie spotting a shiny trinket.

James reached behind him, finding your wrist and gripping tight enough to bruise. It wasn't on purpose. You believed he might have been as scared as you were. "Play along." It was whispered so quietly, you thought you'd imagined it.

To Johann, he said, tone firm, "I don't share my food. This one's mine; This whole town is."

Everything about you and James screamed tense, but there was nothing you could do except follow along with whatever he decided to do. You'd long since thought that James was a lover over a fighter, and you supposed you were about to find out. You didn't know if Johann would entertain the notion or not. He steepled his fingers together under his mouth, his eyes still on you, before making a soft tsking sound. "Ah, Bucky. You always were such a valiant boy." His tone was mildly chiding, like he was scolding a pet or a small child. "But do you really think I've come to you alone?"

James's fingers flexed on your skin. Whatever look passed on his face amused Johann. "Yes, yes. I've brought a few of your old friends with me. You remember Margaret, I'm sure? Aldrich? You always used to have fun together. Ivan too, yes. He's such a fan of quaint little hovels like this one." At this, he glanced around, his look of disdain clear.

The next thing he said was in a hushed whisper, almost too faint for you to hear, but it sent a chill racing down your spine. "If you don't wish to complicate things, you will give me the girl as an offering for forgiveness, and you will come along when I have finished here. Or would you like to see how many families we can eat our way through instead?" Johann smiled, then, like he was doing James a simple kindness.

You waited, your every cell singing with fear. But not for yourself. It had taken James years to get away from his coven. You were sure it would destroy him to go back. But he would do it, if it meant keeping you, and everyone else, safe. The silence made your skin hurt. Whatever Johann could see in James's eyes, he revelled in it. "I'll do you a courtesy, give you a day to decide, yes? Let this one," he gestured to you, teeth on show as he grinned, "say her goodbyes. That's the same courtesy I afforded you, you'll remember. I let you lay side by side with your loved one. Until then, Bucky. And do take care to be prompt. You know how much I hate being made to wait."

He was gone with a swish of his coat, like you'd imagined him there. Like he'd never been. The cold night came rushing back to you. You were shivering, shaken. Your teeth clicked together, the rattling uncontrollable. You weren't sure if it was due to shock or the weather.

You hardly noticed James's arm coming around your shoulders, tucking you close, nor the brisk pace he set. He didn't stop until you were blinking into the warm yellow light of the chandelier in his foyer. It looked so merry, the glow, that you really did start to wonder if you'd dreamed Johann up. It took a few minutes of him standing in front of you and rubbing his hands up and down your arms, inviting heat back into your body, before you zeroed in on the matter at hand. "They can breach your house. Invitations don't work for you, do they?" You asked it, but you already knew the answer.

"Yes, that's right."

"Come to mine, then. We'll be safe there while we figure out what to do." It was the easiest thing you'd ever offered up.

James gave you a searching gaze, hands stilling on your shoulders. The worry in his eyes was as clear as a neon light. "I told you never to invite me in."

"I trust you, James."

He looked wounded when you said it, instead of pleased. "No," He said brokenly. Saying your name seemed to cost him something, the way it was wrenched from him like it was a piece of his soul. "You should go. Once you're inside, you'll be safe. I can take care of it on my own."

He was putting on a brave face. It made you so impossibly sad. You knew that by 'taking care of it', he'd go to Johann. He'd bargain in some way to spare you, and sentence himself to more misery. And you were sure that this time, Johann would ensure that no repeat attempts to escape would work. "No. Come with me. Stay with me, please. You'll be safe too. He won't be able to get to you."

His touch on your face was hesitant, gentle as a butterfly's wing. Your lids fluttered at the feeling. "I need to keep everyone else safe. I can't do that if I'm with you. And what good is my life if I let humans die in my wake, when I'm the one he wants?"

You put your hand over his, holding tight, like if you were strong enough you'd be able to keep him there. "Let me do something. Let me help you."

James closed his eyes, like it was painful to look at you. He leaned forward, his forehead tipping to yours. "I promised you that you wouldn't be in danger. I have to keep that promise, you dreadful girl."

You felt tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, your throat tight. You had a horrible feeling that if you let him out of your sight, you'd never see him again. "James," you breathed. It was all you said. You couldn't force any of the other things you wanted to declare out. The words coated your tongue, your teeth, instead.

"Let me take you home." Home was imprinted in your skin, his lips brushing your forehead before he pulled away from you.

"Why did he call you that? Bucky?"

He flinched, eyes downcast. "It was something… something my sister used to call me. That's all. He used it to mock me."

It wasn't all, not by a long shot. But a story from the past wasn't going to help you, not now, and he'd already suffered enough. He swept his thumb across your cheek. "Let me take you home," he repeated.

You let him. James kept you bundled in his coat, the extra layer saving you from the biting temperature. Its hem reached your ankles as he walked with you, his steps quick, his hand firm on your back. You hurried down the hill together, to your house. When you unlocked the door and stepped in, you turned to face him. He gripped the lapels of the coat, more to steady himself than anything, but you imagined for a moment that it was because he couldn't bear to go. "He won't act right away. He likes to play with his food. He'll give me tonight, but it's all I have. I need to prepare."

"What are you going to do?"

He hesitated; he was considering lying to you. But his face softened. He was giving you the truth, instead. "I don't know."

He was letting go of you too quickly. You scrambled to catch at his wrists. "James," your voice was more steady than you felt, "I'm inviting you in. Please come in."

It felt like the air around you shuddered, like some great beast you couldn't see was shaking itself free of chains. You thought it impossible for James to look any more heartbroken, but his expression was more stricken than before. "You shouldn't have done that."

"It's a precaution. If your plan doesn't work, come here. Please. Please promise you will." You refused to let go of him, not until he agreed.

He hung his head. He was quiet for the space of three uneven breaths, before he whispered, voice catching on the wind, "I promise, you horrible, wretched creature."

It made you smile, despite the situation. You had never minded when he called you that. You dropped your hands from him, even though your body was shrieking at you to drag him inside. "I'll see you." You spoke like it was gospel. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He couldn't bring himself to be honest that time, so he chose the lie. "Tomorrow."

And then he was gone, the only evidence of him being there the scent of him, and his coat, still wrapped around you.

You paced in your kitchen. The cheery white and blue back splash bore witness to your strides as you thought, chewing on your lip. You had to help him. You couldn't just sit by and let him go back to Johann's coven. It wasn't fair, for starters, and it was just so morally wrong that it left you feeling like you needed a shower, as if you could scrub the idea of it away.

James would be furious if you used yourself as bait, you knew.

But you would be furious with yourself if you didn't do something. There were too many things to consider. Each idea you dreamt up was discarded in a steadily growing pile. Johann was very obviously a god compared to you. Even James would struggle to take him on. There was little that you could do. And you would probably fail.

You'd risk yourself for his freedom. You had this blind faith that he'd save you, if he could. That was what he was trying to do right now, by making you stay here. But even if he couldn't, you didn't care, if it meant that he could evade Johann. It was startling how sure you were. That you'd risk your life for him, without a second thought.

You clipped the corner of your counter with your hip as you turned sharply. Your eyes drifted up, not really seeing at first, but then they caught sight of your fireplace, across the house, in the living room. Tiny as a sprout, an idea started to take shape. You had no idea if it would really even have a chance at working. But as it began to form in your mind, wild, unfiltered hope started to build.

It felt like one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, to keep away from you. James had resisted contacting you for the rest of the night. He knew you wouldn't sleep, knew that if he just stood on your porch step and knocked, you'd welcome him with open arms. He couldn't do that. Not when he wasn't sure that he'd be strong enough to leave you when it came time to. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough. And he couldn't risk damning you. This penance had to be taken alone.

He worked through the night, quick and quiet. Just because he didn't enjoy the hunt like most others, didn't mean he lacked the skills. And he'd always been good at hunting big game. It came at a cost—it always did—but each kill he made brought him closer to the goal. Thinning the herd wouldn't solve the problem, but he was damn well going to make sure he did something about it before he condemned himself.

James was not strong enough.

He'd worked through the night, right up until first light. He felt himself dragging, but wouldn't allow himself to sleep the day away. He was too worried to do that. He was out of his house, a smudge of dark against the snow, as soon as the sun had started to dip away. He ignored the queasy ache he felt as the light grazed his skin, and kept at the job.

But then, right as the moon made her debut, he found himself on your street. He stood there, looking at your house. The shape of the roof, the dark gray of its shingles. The brick, which had been painted white by the previous owners. Your big rocking chair on the porch, its tasselled red cushion. James thought it would be the last time he saw it. He thought he'd already seen you for the last time, the night before. This was to be his final, silent goodbye. But then he saw a shift in the curtains upstairs.

You saw him. Of course you did; you'd been looking outside all day, sequestered safely indoors. Just because James couldn't handle the sun well didn't mean that Johann suffered as much.

You were moving down the stairs, shoes scuffing on the carpeted runner, and flying to the door as quickly as you could. You didn't want him to go before you could say something. You put one foot on the threshold, and—

"Please don't come out." he called, but his voice was soft, hushed, like he didn't want to disturb your neighbours. "It's not safe."

Your foot hovered there, defiant. You set your jaw. "I'll do what I like, unless you come in." You rested the toe of your shoe on the porch, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

He could see you were serious. You were surprised that he didn't try harder to sway you into staying in. You felt a pang in your chest, when he got close enough. His eyes were the silver of steel, flinty and tired. He didn't look well, not at all. His clothes seemed to wear him, instead of the other way around. You plucked at his sleeve with your fingers. "Come."

A sigh, a murmured, "terrible girl," but he allowed you to pull him in behind you, your hand slipping to his.

Having James in your house didn't feel any different than it had with him out of it. There was no ripple of awareness, no notion of a protective shell. The invitation has done it all, the day before. Just James, on the beige rug that hid the scratched floorboards. Just James, outlined by the open door, the black night, until you closed it, the lock snapping with a clunk. Just James, bleary-eyed and still, looking only at you, instead of the basket of laundry at the base of the stairs, or his coat that he'd left you with hung on one of the pegs on the wall, or the bills on the side table that you hadn't dealt with yet.

"You need to eat." Your voice betrayed your concern. You crossed your arms, unable to tear your eyes from him.

"There's no time for that. I don't have the wherewithal to hunt, let alone use my influence."

"I'm right here."

You'd finally said the words. They didn't seem the register, the meaning behind them, at first. Confusion furrowed his brow, and you longed to smooth it with your thumb. Then, all at once, realization crossed his face, horror passing soon after it. "Don't say that."

"James, please. You look like you're going to pass out. I'm here, and I'm telling you it's okay. Please let me help you."

He turned away, a hand covering his eyes. "No."

You didn't even think about what you were doing, but the next move you made was to close the distance between you and wrap your arms around him. Your forehead brushed his jaw. You felt it tense against your skin. "You're going to give away your freedom for me." You sounded braver, more sure, than you really felt. "I won't let you do that without offering something in return."

He'd stayed as still as a statue while you'd embraced him, but his body was warm. He settled, infinitesimally, into your hold. Slow as molasses, you felt his arms encircle you in return. You felt the shudder of his sharp inhale, heard the low sound in his throat, because that breath had made him inhale your scent. You wondered how enticing you smelled right now, when he was at his weakest. "You don't even have to influence me. I want to help you, James. Please let me."

"I…" He breathed into your hair.

Then he was really holding you, his arms firm, his hand stroking up and down your spine, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. "You would do this for me?"

"I trust you. You won't hurt me. and you need this. I'd do this for you. I'd let you drain me dry, if it would give you a fighting chance." The admission floated free, tangled around you both like a thread.

He shifted until he was cupping your face, making you look him directly into those wide, gorgeous eyes. "I won't take a lot. Just what I need to… to get by." He swallowed hard, your eyes flickering to the movement and back.

"I want you to be at your strongest. Do what you have to."

Still, he hesitated, tucking you hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing against you skin. You fought a shiver of delight. You hadn't realized how much you'd been craving the touch, any touch, from him. He trailed his hand from the shell of your ear down to the side of your neck, tapping his fingers gently. It was an idle rhythm, one that took a second to identify: it was La Vie en Rose. He'd played it once or twice in front of you, though never in full, and it was a song that you'd always liked. The melody played in your head, in time to his fingers. You felt your shoulders loosen from their tense, tight position, your head tilting a little to the side. "Relax, darling girl. Just relax."

He might not have been using any influence on you, but you could have been fooled. Your body seemed to uncoil at his words. The hand at your neck stopped tapping, turning into a soft caress. You almost wanted to close your eyes. You saw his fangs from the edge of your vision as he bent his head. "Your scent has always been breathtaking to me," His murmur, by your ear, made your stomach do a somersault. "I could smell you as soon as you moved to town. I've never been so seduced by one person's blood before."

You could feel your heart rate picking up, and you knew that James could, too, a breathy chuckle escaping him. "I told you to relax."

"I'm trying," you muttered, though you didn't sound very convincing.

It was infinitely harder to relax at the brush of his mouth right under your ear. You didn't know at first if it was supposed to be a kiss, or if he was just breathing you in. You became more certain at the soft, unhurried trail he left down your neck. It took everything you had to hold back a whimper. Your hands came up shakily, landing against his chest. You didn't know if you wanted to grab him, to hold on, or not. You felt like your atoms would shake apart and reduce you to nothing.

The first graze of James's teeth was welcome. The kiss he placed was messier, more open-mouthed. Your face grew warm at the idea of there being a mark left behind, the reddish colour of a hickey blooming in his wake.

The second touch of his canines was more firm. You didn't quite realize when he'd bitten you, at first. It was more like the prick of a thorn. You'd thought this would be the worst part, his fangs sinking into your flesh, seeking the red river beneath your skin. But instead, your eyelids fluttered closed, your mouth parting on a sigh.

You couldn't feel the blood leaving your body. You weren't really aware of anything, for a long, long time. Only James, one hand secure around your waist, the other cradling the other side of your neck, his lips at your throat. The quiet sounds of satisfaction he made, almost like a purr, his chest seeming to rumble beneath your splayed hands. Your head began to loll. You were sinking into a state of contentment you could only have dreamed of. Nothing else mattered except this. You wanted to curl closer, to lay against his shoulder, to become completely boneless in his wake, and let him take, and take, and take.

There was a small whine of displeasure that sounded like it came from a tunnel, a long way away. You didn't realize that it came from you, because James had stopped feeding. You swayed slightly on your feet, his tongue against your skin. Surely he wasn't done already? Why, he must have only just started! "James," your voice was slurred—you couldn't even tell if you'd spoken out loud or if it was in your head.

A gentle, fleeting kiss was placed over the spot that he'd pierced. "You're alright, my love. You'll be just fine."

At this, your eyes did close, and you felt yourself lean forward—or maybe you were falling—until your cheek rested by his collarbone. You felt very, very tired. The world went topsy-turvy for a moment, and it took a few long seconds to register that James had picked you up, swinging you into his arms, and was walking you into the living room. He was careful when he put you down on the sofa. Your hand shot out when he released you, touching his jaw, his chin. "Your eyes are blue again." Your voice sounded fuzzy.

They'd never looked so blue, you thought. Such a brilliant colour, rich and warm. And you were the cause. You gave him a lopsided smile. Worry creased his brow before he willed it away. "Lay back and try to rest. I may have taken a little too much, but you will recover. I swear it."

"I wish you could stay," you murmured, allowing him to push you back against the cushions.

"I wish I could stay, too." He held your hand in his, thumb rubbing across your fingers, before kissing your knuckles.

The resignation in his eyes felt like it could tear you in two. Distantly, a tiny part of you began to scream, to try to shake you back into wakefulness, into focus. "Do you have a plan?" You asked. You were forgetting why he needed one. Something important…

"To keep you alive." He started to let go of your hand, and you held fast, your other one coming down to stop him.

"I spent last night killing members of the coven one by one. They were scattered around, but I still managed to scent them and destroy them. I couldn't risk them coming back here on their own time, once I'm gone."

The explanation rang a bell in your head. That was right. The reason behind him drinking your blood. He was going away, to protect you. He lifted your hand again, though this time it was to look at your watch. He made a noise of frustration. "I have to go now. My time's almost up."

"Don't go." You pleaded. but you were too weak to put up any semblance of a fight. Even if you had been, it wouldn't have mattered. You were no match for him.

"I have to. For you. Remember? That's what this is all about." He touched your brow, your cheek, your jaw, like he was committing the shape of your features to memory, something to keep him alive once he was gone from you.

"Please don't leave me, James." Your voice sounded small, almost childlike.

He looked at the floor, but not before you saw the flash of anguish in those brilliant blue eyes. "I must. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

James tilted your chin up with his fingers, and pressed one final kiss to the corner of your mouth. You wished you'd had the wherewithal to pull him closer. "Our time together has been some of the best of my life. Please don't let my departure dampen your spirit. You are much too special to mourn someone like me." Then he stood, quick as a bolt of lightning, moving from your grasp. It took effort to sit up again, to try and reach for him, and he had already rounded the back of the couch, striding to the door, before you could try to stop him.

He gave you one last look at the door. If one look could speak, a novel would have poured forth, sprouting into existence, the pages filling with words upon words upon words. You could almost hear them, in the stretch of time where his hand found the lock and twisted.

And then there was nothing but the silence of your house, your slow, sad heartbeat, and a feeling of melancholy so strong you would have fallen to the floor if you'd been standing.

It took much longer than you liked to stop your head from swimming. You felt dizzy, like everything was just slightly off-kilter. But you didn't have time to waste. You had even less time than you'd hoped for. You knew James would likely go hunting for Johann, rather than just meet him. He might be giving in and offering himself up, but you doubted he'd simply lay down and show his belly.

You had the distinct feeling that Johann would know if you left the safety of your house. He expected James to bring you along, anyway, for you to be a sacrificial lamb. Well, you'd already decided that you would be. Just not in a manner that he might expect. If you were to die tonight, you wouldn't be the only one.

The walk uphill was hard. Harder still with what you carried with you, stolen from your neighbour's back porch. Your muscles felt like jelly. Each step was a battle, but you had to keep going. It was the only thing you could do, now. You should have felt the cold, but it didn't bother you as much as you thought it should have. You had a task in mind, and you'd damn well make sure you finished it.

James's house loomed at the top of the hill. Snow covered the roof, and like the first time, a group of ravens observed you curiously. They flew away as a group, a series of flapping wings and eerie caws, as you stumbled up the front steps. It was like they knew what was about to happen, and wanted to get the hell out of dodge. The gargoyle above the attic was a silent sentinel. Your footprints on the snow path were uneven. You were so, so tired.

The ornate looking key was made of iron. It fit in the lock easily. You'd had it since the day before, feeling it in James's coat when you'd hung it at your door. The ram's head kept a watchful eye on the street as you pushed through the door. Snow and slush slid off your boots and onto the rug. It was an antique, golds and reds and blacks in an intricate design, kept as clean as the day James had bought it. The velvet runner stretched down the long hallway.

The fireplace still had logs in it. You were glad—you didn't have the time or the energy to spend building it. You were anxious as you waited for the flames to catch. Once you were satisfied, listening to the crackle and pop! of the wood, a merry little tune, you moved to the next part of the plan. Your load became lighter as you traversed the stairs, weaving a path through the rooms. By the time you made it to the attic, you were able to discard what you'd been carrying, tucking it out of sight behind the piano.

The trips from the attic to all the other rooms in the house were the most taxing. Some lamps were small, the kind you'd imagine belonged on a nightstand. crystal and stained glass, oil and gas. Others were bigger, as tall as you. Lugging those around with both hands had you almost meeting your end at the bottom of the steps prematurely. But you managed, miraculously. You could imagine the cheery glow from outside. It might have looked like James was entertaining guests, from the way each room was lit up.

You stood in the sitting room for a few long minutes, feeling woozy. You might not have been able to smell the evidence of what you'd done, but it was making you lightheaded anyway. Or maybe that was the adrenaline you'd used up. But it wouldn't be long, now.

In fact, it wasn't long at all, as you stared into the flames. He didn't announce himself, only swept through the front door with ease, a brush of his coat, the tap of his boots.

Johann stared at you curiously. "Hello, little mouse. You came out of your house. Where is your protector?"

You made yourself look into those bottomless pits he called eyes. "Ridding the world of your kind, I'd expect." Your voice sounded thin, even to your own ears. At least if Johann killed you, you wouldn't be a very satisfying snack. You doubted you had very much blood left to give.

"And so you decided to offer yourself up to me here? How very poetic. What a gorgeous tableau it will be, for him to find your body here, in this place he calls home." You wouldn't describe the expression on Johann's face as a grin. It was too grotesque, too alien, to be called that, all teeth and no feeling.

His hands flexed at his sides, involuntarily. You thought he might be imagining squeezing the life out of you. "Come and get me then."

"Oh, sweet creature," he crooned, "I enjoy the chase much more. Run, little mouse. Let me enjoy the hunt."

It seemed that Johann was too excited by the idea to notice what you'd done. It had been your biggest gamble. Just because you couldn't smell it, just because it was odorless to a human, didn't mean it was that way to a vampire. But it seemed he was too distracted by you. So you'd give him the chase that he wanted. You needed him closer, anyway.

You slipped away into the kitchen. You couldn't hear Johann as you moved through the room, coming out into the dining room. The glow of the lamp in the corner bathed everything in yellow. You made your way back to the foyer. You couldn't anticipate the blow, but you definitely felt it in your ribs when you made impact with the wall. The gilded frame beside you shuddered and fell from its hook. Johann was silent as a wraith. But he let you go, watched with satisfaction as you wheezed, pressing a hand to your side. "Come now, little mouse. I want to taste your fear."

It was grim. You'd had a feeling he'd want to do it this way, to break you down until you were nothing, until you were battered and bloody, before sucking out your life. He let you dart away, halfway up the stairs, before a strong hand curled around one ankle and pulled. Your chin met one of the steps with a clatter, your eyes watering immediately. Your teeth rattled. Your ribs shrieked in protest. You clawed your way up, staggering to the landing.

And so the game went on.

Johann would let you get a little ways away before throwing you into walls, against furniture. Before yanking a handful of hair from your scalp. Before grasping at your wrist so tightly that you felt your bones bend a little before they snapped. Your scream was a long way off. It sounded like it came from under water. Blood had started to pour steadily from your nose. The last push had sent you face first into an ornate mirror. Your head was ringing.

You couldn't keep going. The spare room was where you decided to take your final stand. Decked out in blue and gold, the colours made brighter by the lamps dotted about, you made it to the window. You couldn't see the moon anymore. It was covered by the clouds, like it didn't want to bear witness to your death. You felt like you were going to throw up, you were so dizzy. Pain wracked every nerve. You had no idea how you were standing upright.

Panic finally started to take over when you couldn't get the window open. It was stuck fast, and you couldn't use the force that you needed with a broken wrist. Your nails started to splinter and break as you pulled and pushed, willing it to open, praying that it would.

"Little mouse, you are a fool to think you could get away from me. Where would you go? The only way out that way is down. Is that your wish?"

Johann was a spindly shadow in the doorway. Your fingers, slippery with blood, left marks on the white paint of the windowsill. Yes, your plan had been to go down. To make it out onto the overhang and try to scuttle down the gutter. It had been your only potential escape route. But it seemed the window had taken an oath to stay closed, and it would be keeping its promise.

Johann inhaled, eyes growing heavy. "Ah, there it is, little mouse. I wish you could smell it. Your fear is so exquisite."

He took his time, steps slow, as he crossed the room. You sagged against the window, too tired to move.

"Did your dear Bucky tell you that he begged me to save his sister? He thought I was an angel come to rescue them from harm, when we met."

His joy made you feel unbearably ill. "All that blood. What a wreck, that train collision. So many dead. So many dying."

Johann stopped in front of you. You had to crane your neck to meet his eyes, and it made your head throb. He looked behind you, then. His teeth gleamed. "Well, he's come just in time to see you meet your end."

Oh, no.

You'd hoped that James wouldn't have to see it. You didn't have time to register Johann's hand around your neck. One moment, you could breathe, and the next, your life was being squeezed out of you. And suddenly, you were cold.

The shattering glass didn't register for you for a long moment. But then you became aware.

Johann had slammed you through the glass. Blood was running from the back of your head, coating your neck. And he was holding you, dangling you like a worm on a hook, outside the window. Your hand scrabbled weakly at his wrist. "Do you remember, Bucky?" He laughed when you wheezed. His voice carried across the night. "Your darling Rebecca? She tasted so sweet when she screamed. I've never quite tasted a terror like hers, not since. But yours," He focused on you, instead of James, somewhere down below. "Yours might be close, little mouse." The curtains billowed around you, drawn out by the wind.

Your was name was shouted with a panic you should have felt. Instead, you were strangely blank. The pain in your ribs, your wrist, your head, fell away to a far-removed sensation. The cold was from the winter air, you thought. But it could have been the feeling of death's fingers reaching for you, too.

You let your hands dangle uselessly at your sides. Your fingers shook as you reached into your pocket. Your legs pinwheeled like they were trying to tread water, like they were seeking solid ground. "Shall I drop you, little mouse? Shall I let him try to catch you? Let him hold you as you die?"

Flick, flick, flick.

Whoosh.

The curtains turned gold, and so did Johann's coat. The lighter in your hand fell away, clattering off the roof and disappearing below. The fire was greedy, seeking anything it could reach.

He dropped you with a howl, his hands coming to his clothes, trying to pat at the fire, but it was no use. He was kindling in that room of gas and oil, the propane you'd lugged through the house. The fire was infinitely more hungry to feed than he was.

Your knees slammed against the overhang, jarring you and slowing your fall.

But you did fall. Gravity was a merciless goddess. She pulled you through the air. The house looked like a small, blooming sun. You didn't remember hitting the ground. All you could register was James, his arms around your prone form, his hands wet and red, his eyes wet too, and so, so blue. His mouth formed words, but you couldn't hear them.

Your plan had worked, and it was all you had set out to do. James would be free, now. A long, dark sleep sounded very nice, indeed.

James didn't know who had called the fire department. A neighbour had seen the house light up like a torch, he supposed. He heard Johann's shrieks of agony as he cradled you, tried to keep you conscious, but it was no use. The sirens racing uphill were all that kept him from panic. Johann was ashes by the time the firefighters pulled out their hoses.

You were light as a feather when James lifted you and brought you to the ambulance that had followed the firetruck up. They wasted no time. As soon as they saw you, they got right to work. The noise and chaos was deafening. James focused on your thin breaths instead. He thought you might have still been alive by sheer will. He'd caught you, but you'd both hit the ground hard, anyway. If he was injured at all, he couldn't tell. You were the concern. If you died…

The questions started as soon as the ambulance raced away. The local police were staring in amazement at the tinderbox on the top of the hill. James used any influence he had to pass off the most believable lies he could think of. It came down to him deciding on you house sitting for him while he was out of town, and an intruder breaking in. He couldn't explain the fire quite as well. It was chalked up to stray embers from the fireplace and the foolish amount of old lamps he'd collected.

As soon as he was able, James made it to the hospital. Your chart was very long. Internal bleeding, broken bones, a hell of a concussion… not to mention the blood loss. You didn't smell like yourself right now. The transfusion had muddied your scent, for the time being.

Your neighbours dropped by—half the town did, really—to drop off baskets of fruit and muffins, cards with well wishes, flowers and teddies. And James accepted them all on your behalf. It was the most the residents had seen of him. You hadn't woken up yet, but he wasn't concerned. You deserved to rest, after what you'd accomplished. You deserved everything.

He took the time to watch you, to listen to your breaths and your heartbeat, a cadence so familiar to him he could have played each beat on his piano. But the piano, like everything else in the house, no longer existed. Still, he tapped the matching rhythm against his knee, loyal at your bedside.

The day that your eyes fluttered open, James had already been gazing at your face. The bruise on your chin was so dark it almost looked black. He had no idea what Johann had done to give you that specific injury, but the doctor had said you were lucky you hadn't broken your jaw.

James scooted his chair forward until his knees brushed the bed and its starchy white blanket. His hand found yours, and he squeezed gently on your fingers. You did your best to squeeze back. You blinked at him, weary. "Did I actually survive that?" you croaked, your voice like sandpaper.

"You did." He helped you sit up enough to drink some water.

"Cool." You said with a wince, reaching a tentative hand to touch your ribs.

James gave you a look that was so severe, you shrank backwards. "You are the most foolish girl I've ever met. What were you thinking? You very nearly died." His anger was a quiet thing, but it was there all the same.

"Yes, well, I did factor that possibility in, you know. Figured it was worth it if I took out that monster in the process." You grimaced at the thought.

"How did you even…?" He shook his head in amazement.

At this, you had the audacity to look smug. "Virginia told me that she had bought this fancy, odorless propane for her husband's barbeque. I wasn't sure if it was really odorless, but it was the only thing I could get on such short notice. I guess I'll have to reimburse her…"

"That was so incredibly reckless."

You nodded sagely. "Well, so is collecting like, a million oil lamps. Probably wouldn't have been so flashy if I hadn't put those everywhere." You paused, out of breath. He could tell it was difficult for you to speak in your condition, but he had a feeling you wouldn't take kindly to being told to stay quiet. "I take it your house is toast, then?"

He nodded, bringing your hand to his mouth. He rested his lips against the backs of your fingers when he spoke. "It's barely more than a frame."

"That's okay. I have more than enough furniture at my house. You're not going to need much. Well, except for a new wardrobe."

You were talking like it was the obvious conclusion. That James, with no place to call home, would stay with you in yours from now on. He stared at you, wide eyed, at your easy smile. Your reaction to his expression was delayed, but your mouth flattened into an uncertain line eventually. You sounded decidedly more shy when you added, "If you want to, that is."

"Wretched girl. I'll go wherever you go, wherever you are. For as long as you'll have me."

It wasn't even close to what James wanted to say. He wanted to prostrate himself at your feet, to worship you until the end of time. And to keep you by his side for lifetimes upon lifetimes. He'd had the tentative, traitorous thought for weeks, but he'd never entertained it. It wasn't the time to now, either. But it cemented itself in his mind much more firmly.

"Be careful what you say. Forever is a long time." Your smile was back, a soft, sure thing. Like maybe you had a thought as to where his mind was at, even if he hadn't spoken it aloud, and you didn't mind one bit.

"Not with you. Forever won't be long enough."

The first time Bucky Barnes asked you for help with his phone, he looked like a man about to be executed.

It was three months into your relationship—if you could call it that, back then. You were still in that floaty, uncertain space where every text felt loaded and every accidental brush of fingers sent your heart skittering. He'd shown up at your apartment door with his jaw set, shoulders tense, and the Stark-issued smartphone held out in front of him like a dead fish.

“I need you to do something,” he'd said, flat and miserable.

You'd blinked at him. “Okay. Are you okay?”

“No.” He shoved the phone into your hands. “The screen changed. I don't know how. I can't make it go back. I've been trying for three hours.”

You'd looked down at the screen. It was, inexplicably, set to a photo of a cat wearing a tiny sombrero. You had no idea where it had come from, and you were absolutely certain Bucky didn't either. You'd bitten the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood, because if you laughed, he would leave. You knew him well enough by then to know that.

“Okay,” you'd said, very seriously. “This is an easy fix. Come sit down.”

He'd sat on your couch like a soldier awaiting orders, knees apart, hands resting on his thighs, watching your every move with the kind of laser focus he usually reserved for potential threats. You'd talked him through it slowly—settings, wallpaper, choose a new photo—and when you'd handed the phone back to him with a plain black screen, he'd let out a breath like you'd just defused a bomb.

“Thank you,” he'd said, quiet and gruff. And then, after a long pause: “I hate this thing.”

“I know,” you'd said. “Do you want me to show you again? So you can do it yourself next time?”

He'd looked at you for a long moment. Something soft had passed over his face, there and gone like a shadow. “Yeah,” he'd said. “Okay.”

That was the beginning of it. The thing between you. Not love, not yet—but the roots of it, pushing down through the dark soil of his reluctance and your patience, twining together until you couldn't tell where one stopped and the other started.

Eight months later, Bucky Barnes still hated technology. He just hated it a little less when you were involved.

He had a laptop now—a basic one, nothing fancy, because he'd refused to let you buy him anything expensive. He used it for emails badly, for video calls with the team reluctantly, and for watching old movies... his secret pleasure, though he'd never admit it. He had a tablet that was gathering dust on his nightstand because he kept forgetting to charge it. He had a smart TV in his apartment that he operated exclusively via the physical buttons on the side because the remote had too many options and he didn't trust anything that listened to him.

But his phone—that, he used. Mostly for you.

You texted him throughout the day. Silly things. Photos of your lunch, a weird cloud you saw on your walk, a meme that made you think of him. He didn't always respond, but he always read them. You knew because sometimes he'd show up at your door with the exact snack you'd mentioned craving, or he'd look up at the sky and say, "That's the cloud?" like it was personally offensive to him.

And you called him. Every night, before bed. Not long calls—neither of you were talkers, not in that way—but there was something about hearing his voice, low and rough through the speaker, that made the distance between your apartments feel smaller. He'd tell you about his day in short, clipped sentences, and you'd fill in the gaps with your own rambling stories, and somewhere in the middle of it, he'd start to relax. You could hear it in his breathing. The way it slowed. The way he stopped holding himself so tight.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he'd say at the end, every time, and you'd curl around your phone like it was him.

You never told him that. It would have embarrassed him. And Bucky Barnes, you were learning, was a man who carried enough embarrassment already—for the things he'd done, the things he didn't understand, the way the world kept spinning and leaving him behind. You weren't going to add to it.

So you helped him when he asked. You showed him how to clear his notifications, how to download a podcast, how to mute a group chat that Sam had added him to against his will. You never made him feel stupid. You never sighed or rolled your eyes. You just took his hand and placed it over the screen, and guided his fingers where they needed to go.

“See?” you'd say. “You're doing it. You're fine.”

And he'd look at you like you'd given him something precious. Something he didn't have a name for.

Bucky was alone in his apartment. You'd gone to bed early—a headache, you'd texted, nothing serious, just need to sleep it off. He'd called you anyway, just to hear your voice, and you'd sounded tired but sweet, and he'd told you to drink water and take something and text him when you woke up. You'd promised you would. And then the line had gone dead, and his apartment had felt too big and too quiet all at once.

He sat on his couch for a while, not doing anything. Just sitting. His phone was still in his hand and the screen was dark, and he was thinking about you.

He did that a lot lately. Thought about you. It was annoying, honestly. He'd spent decades learning how to be still, how to empty his mind, how to exist in the space between missions without wanting anything. And then you'd come along with your soft hands and your patient voice and your habit of leaving your tea mugs everywhere, and now he couldn't stop wanting. Wanting to see you. Wanting to hear you. Wanting to touch you.

He looked down at his phone. The lock screen was still that plain black wallpaper he'd set months ago, the one you'd helped him choose. Functional. Boring. Safe.

He pressed the side button. The screen lit up, and he was confronted with his own reflection—faint, ghostly, superimposed over the black. He looked tired. He always looked tired.

He thought about your face.

He had photos of you on his phone. You'd taken them yourself, mostly, or sent them to him from your own camera roll. There was one of you at a farmer's market, holding up a ridiculously large zucchini like a trophy. There was one of you asleep on his couch, mouth slightly open, hair everywhere, a throw pillow clutched to your chest. There was one you'd taken in the mirror of his bathroom, making a silly face, and he'd looked at it so many times that he'd accidentally memorized every pixel.

He wanted to see your face when he woke up.

Not just in his mind. Not just in the hazy space between dreaming and waking, where you were always just out of reach. He wanted to press a button and have you there, looking back at him, telling him without words that the day was worth facing.

He opened his settings.

It took him a long time. Longer than it should have. He had to backtrack twice, had to Google something (which he hated doing, because the internet assumed he knew more than he did), had to sit with his frustration and breathe through it the way his therapist had taught him. But he didn't give up. He kept going, one clumsy thumb-press at a time, because this was for you. This was about you. And you never gave up on him.

Finally—finally—he found it. Wallpaper. Lock screen. Choose photo.

His heart was beating too fast. That was stupid. It was just a phone. It was just a picture. But his hands were shaking as he scrolled through his camera roll, past the blurry shots of nothing, past the screenshots of things you'd sent him, until he found the one he wanted.

It was a photo you'd taken of yourself. Just your face, close to the lens, soft smile, eyes crinkled at the corners. You were wearing his hoodie—the gray one, the one that smelled like him—and your hair was messy, and there was a smudge of something on your cheek. You'd sent it to him with no caption, just the photo, and he'd stared at it for ten minutes straight before he'd remembered to breathe.

He selected it. Adjusted the crop so your face was centered, so you'd be the first thing he saw every time he woke his phone. Saved it. Locked the screen. Pressed the button.

There you were.

He stared at you for a long time. Your smile. Your eyes. The way you looked at him even in a photo, like he was someone worth looking at. His chest ached. It was a good ache, mostly. The kind that meant something had settled into place.

He didn't text you. It was late, and you were asleep, and your headache was probably gone by now but he didn't want to risk waking you. He just looked at your face one more time, then set his phone on the coffee table and went to bed.

For the first time in a very long time, he didn't dream of falling.

He forgot about it. Not the photo—he didn't forget about that. He saw it every time he checked his phone, and every time, something warm and private unfurled in his chest. But he forgot that other people might see it. That other people might notice. He'd been so focused on the act of doing it himself, on the small victory of figuring it out without your help, that he hadn't considered the consequences.

The consequences, as it turned out, had a name. Sam Wilson.

It was three days later. Bucky was at the compound, which he hated, sitting in the common room, which he hated more, waiting for a briefing that had been delayed because someone—probably Sam—had lost a file. And he "hated" him even more because of that. He was scrolling through his phone, not really paying attention, when Sam dropped onto the couch next to him with all the grace of a falling piano.

“Hey, man. Have you seen the—” Sam stopped. Looked at Bucky's phone. Looked at Bucky. Looked at the phone again.

Bucky looked down. Your face was smiling up at him, soft and happy and completely unmistakable.

“Barnes,” Sam said slowly. “Is that—”

“No,” Bucky said, too fast.

“I didn't even say anything.”

“It's not what you think.”

“Bucky. Your lock screen is a picture of your girlfriend.”

Bucky locked his phone. Shoved it in his pocket. Stared straight ahead at the wall, which was beige and boring and mercifully free of Sam's smug face.

“That's adorable,” Sam said. “That's genuinely, genuinely adorable. I'm going to tell everyone.”

“You're not going to tell anyone.”

“Yelena is going to lose her mind.”

“Sam.”

“You know how much she adores your woman. She's going to frame it. She's going to make it her own lock screen. She's going to—”

Bucky turned his head. His expression was flat, unreadable, the kind of look that had made men in the forties cross the street to avoid him. “I will throw you off this roof.”

“You won't,” Sam said, entirely unbothered. “You like me too much.”

“I don't like you at all.”

“You changed your lock screen, man. By yourself. For a woman. That's growth. That's character development. I'm proud of you.”

Bucky's jaw tightened. He could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, and he hated it, hated the way Sam could see right through him, hated that this small private thing was no longer private. He'd wanted to keep it. Just for himself. Just for you. The knowledge that he'd done it alone, that he'd pushed through his frustration and his shame and his fear of looking stupid, and he'd figured it out, and now your face was there every time he woke his phone, telling him without words that he was capable. That he could learn. That he wasn't broken.

And now Sam was going to turn it into a joke.

“Leave it alone,” Bucky said quietly.

Something in his voice must have shifted, because Sam's expression changed. The teasing didn't disappear entirely—it never did, with Sam—but it softened at the edges. He leaned back against the couch and let out a long breath.

“I'm just messing with you,” he said. “It's cool. It's good. She's good for you.”

Bucky didn't say anything.

“I mean it,” Sam said. “You actually smiled the other day. Like, a real smile. I almost called a doctor.”

“I smile.”

“You grimace. There's a difference.”

Bucky snorted despite himself. “I smile when you're not around. You irritate me.” Sam grinned, and the tension in the room cracked, just a little. They sat in silence for a moment, the way they sometimes did—two men who'd been through too much to need words all the time.

“She doesn't know,” Bucky said finally.

“Know what?”

“That I did it myself. She always helps me with the phone stuff. She doesn't... she doesn't know I figured this one out.”

Sam looked at him. Really looked. “So tell her.”

“It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid. It's sweet. It's stupidly sweet. But it's not stupid.”

Bucky pulled his phone out of his pocket again. Unlocked it. Your face appeared, and he felt that same warm ache in his chest, the one he still didn't have a name for.

“Maybe,” he said.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “That's the spirit, Grandpa. Now come on, we've got a briefing. And try not to look at your phone during it, because I will call you out in front of everyone.”

Bucky stood up. Followed Sam toward the conference room. And if he happened to look at his phone one more time before he walked through the door—if he happened to trace the outline of your smile with his thumb, just for a second—well. That was nobody's business but his own.

You found out four hours later, because Yelena Belova had the emotional restraint of a caffeinated ferret and zero concept of privacy.

You were at your apartment, grading papers (you taught part-time at a community college, something Bucky still couldn't quite wrap his head around because you were so smart, why were you wasting your time on nineteen-year-olds who didn't do the reading?), when your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Hello, Bucky's girlfriend. This is Yelena.

You stared at the message. Then, before you could respond, another one came through.

Unknown Number: I am texting you because Sam is a coward and will not give me your number. So I took it from his phone while he was in the bathroom.

Unknown Number: Do not tell him. It will be funny later.

You were already smiling. You'd met Yelena exactly twice, and both times she'd managed to steal something off your person without you noticing—a hair tie the first time, a pen the second. You liked her. She was terrifying in a way that felt almost familiar, like a cat who might let you pet her belly but might also shred your arm to ribbons.

You: Hi Yelena. What's up?

Yelena: I have information.

Yelena: Important information.

Yelena: About your boyfriend.

Your heart did a little skip. Not a bad skip—Bucky wasn't the type to keep bad secrets, at least not from you—but a curious one. You set down your red pen and gave the conversation your full attention.

You: What kind of information?

Yelena: He changed his lock screen.

You: Okay?

Yelena: To a picture of you.

You: ...oh.

Yelena: OH.

Yelena: That is all you have to say? "Oh"? I expected screaming. Or crying. Or at least a reaction of some kind.

You stared at your phone. Your face was warm. Your chest was warm. Everything was warm, actually, and you weren't entirely sure you were still breathing.

Bucky had changed his lock screen. By himself. To a picture of you.

Bucky, who got frustrated when his voicemail box was full. Bucky, who had once thrown his phone across the room because autocorrect changed 'okay' to 'leaky.' Bucky, who needed your help to download a PDF. That Bucky had sat down, alone, and figured out how to change his lock screen, and he'd chosen a photo of you.

You: Are you sure? He really doesn't know how to use it.

You: Except for calls.

Yelena: I saw it with my own eyes. Sam saw it too. He is being very annoying about it. He keeps saying "character development" and I do not know what that means in this context but I assume it is teasing.

Yelena: I am not teasing. I am reporting facts. The facts are that your boyfriend is soft and in love and does not know how to hide it.

Yelena: It is disgusting. I love it.

You: He didn't tell me.

Yelena: Of course he didn't tell you. He is a man. They are idiots. You have to go to him and kiss him very hard and make him admit that he did it because he wants to see your face first thing in the morning.

Yelena: That is what I would do. If I had a boyfriend. Which I do not. Because men are idiots. People in general.

Yelena: Except you. I like you. Not like that but you're okay. Fuck, this is why I don't like the "relationships" thing.

Yelena: Anyways. Go. Now. I will track your phone to make sure you are going the right direction.

You laughed out loud. Your apartment was quiet around you, the last of the evening light slanting through the blinds, and you were supposed to be grading ten more papers before bed, and none of that mattered anymore.

You grabbed your keys. Your jacket. Your phone, which was already buzzing again with what looked like a map from Yelena—she'd actually sent you a map, with a highlighted route from your apartment to Bucky's, complete with little knife emojis marking potential shortcuts.

You: I'm going now. No need to tell me where he lives. I know that by memory.

Yelena: Good. Send me updates.

Yelena: Not the sexual ones. Just the emotional ones.

You: I'm not going to send you ANY updates.

Yelena: Fine. Be boring. But I will know anyway because I have access to all security cameras within a three-mile radius.

You weren't entirely sure she was joking.

Bucky's apartment was a fifteen-minute walk from yours. You made it in eleven, because you were practically jogging, because your heart was pounding and your palms were sweaty and you felt like you were sixteen again, giddy, idiotic and terrified and hopeful all at once.

You knocked on his door. Waited. Heard his footsteps—heavy, deliberate, the gait of a man who'd spent decades learning how to move silently and now didn't bother because he was home, because he was safe, because he was yours.

The door opened.

He was wearing a faded henley and sweatpants, his hair loose around his face, his vibranium arm catching the low light from the hallway. He looked tired. He looked beautiful. He looked confused.

“Hey, honey” he said. “Was gonna call you but... I thought you were grading—”

You kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't the kind of kiss you usually gave him, soft and slow and careful, because he was still learning that he deserved softness. This was a kiss with teeth behind it, a kiss that said I know and I'm here and you did that for me all at once. You pushed him backward into the apartment, kicked the door shut behind you, and kept kissing him until his back hit the wall and his hands came up to your waist like he was trying to anchor himself.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed against your mouth. "Not that I hate this surprise but why—”

“You changed your lock screen,” you said.

He went very still.

“You changed your lock screen,” you said again, pulling back just enough to look at his face. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, and there was a flush creeping up his neck that made you want to bite him. “By yourself. To a picture of me.”

"Who told you?" he said flatly.

“Lena.”

“Of course it was Yelena.” He closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the wall. “She texted you, didn't she? Since she got a phone she's been very into that thing, searching new things.”

“She sent me a map.”

“A map.”

"With some heart with fire and knife emojis."

He opened his eyes. Looked at you. And despite everything—despite the embarrassment and the frustration and the fact that his private little secret was now very much not private—the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I'm going to kill her.” he said.

“No, you're not.”

“I'm going to kill her and then I'm going to kill Sam and then I'm going to move to a country without Wiffy.”

“Wi-Fi, baby and no, you're not going to do any of those things.” You stepped closer, pressing your body against his, and his breath hitched. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were still hovering at your waist like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch. “You're going to show me.”

“Show you... what?” He asks and a small grin appears on his face.

“The lock screen. I want to see it.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn't look at it as he handed it to you. He looked at you, watching your face, and there was something vulnerable in his expression—something raw and uncertain that made your chest ache.

You pressed the side button and the screen lit up. And there you were.

It was the photo you'd sent him weeks ago. The one in his hoodie, with the messy hair and the smudge on your cheek. You remembered taking it—you'd been half-asleep, curled up on his couch, and you'd pointed your phone at your face and smiled without thinking, because he'd just kissed your forehead and told you to stay the night, and you'd been so happy you thought you might burst.

You hadn't known he'd kept it.

You hadn't known he'd looked at it.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

“It's stupid,” he said quickly. “I know it's stupid. I just—I wanted to see you. When I wake up. Before I go to sleep. I wanted—”

You kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that said everything you couldn't put into words, the kind that made him melt against you, the kind that made his hands finally settle on your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“It's not stupid,” you said, pulling back just far enough to speak. “It's the least stupid thing you've ever done.”

“I didn't ask for help,” he said. His voice was lower now, rougher. His thumbs were tracing circles on your hip bones through the fabric of your jeans. “I figured it out. On my own.”

“I know.” You smiled at him. Your eyes were stinging, which was ridiculous, but you didn't care. “I'm so proud of you.”

He made a sound. A small one, barely audible, like something had caught in his throat. And then he was kissing you again, harder this time, and his hands were no longer hesitant. They were everywhere—your hips, your back, sliding up under the hem of your shirt to press against the bare skin of your waist.

“Tell me,” he said against your neck, his voice rough. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not quite a bite, and you gasped. “Tell me again.”

“I'm proud of you,” you said, and he groaned, low and deep, his hips pressing into yours. You could feel him through his sweatpants, already half-hard, and the knowledge that you had done that, just by showing up, just by knowing, just by praising him, sent a thrill down your spine. “I'm so proud of you, Bucky. You did that. You learned something new. You did it for me.”

“Everything,” he said, and the word was muffled against your skin as he kissed a trail down your throat, across your collarbone, his hands sliding lower to grip the backs of your thighs. “I'd do everything for you.”

You pulled his face up so you could look at him. His eyes were dark, blown wide with want, his lips red from kissing, his hair falling over his forehead. He looked younger like this. Softer. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.

“Show me how you did it,” you said.

“What?”

“The lock screen. Show me how you changed it. Walk me through it.”

He blinked at you, clearly thrown. “You already know how to change a lock screen.”

“I know. I want to watch you do it.”

Something shifted in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or gratitude. Or love—that quiet, steady love that he still didn't know how to name but showed you every day, in every small thing he did. And beneath it, something else. Something hotter. Something that made his hands tighten on your hips.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Okay. But not here.”

He took your hand and led you away from the wall, through the living room, toward his bedroom. You followed without hesitation, your heart pounding, your skin tingling where he'd touched you.

His bedroom was dark, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the blinds. His bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, and there was a book on his nightstand that you'd recommended to him months ago, still marked about a third of the way through. He was trying. He was always trying.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you down beside him. His thigh pressed against yours, solid and warm. He pulled out his phone. Unlocked it. And then, slowly, deliberately, he walked you through the steps.

“Settings,” he said, his thumb moving over the screen. His other hand rested on your thigh, high enough to make your breath catch. “Wallpaper. Add new wallpaper.” He glanced at you. “I had to Google that part.”

“You Googled it?”

“I didn't want to ask you. I wanted to do it myself.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. “And then?”

“And then I went to my photos. And I found the one I wanted.” He pulled up the photo and held the phone so you could see. His thumb traced the edge of the screen, right over your face. “I cropped it so you'd be centered. So I could see your face.”

“Bucky.”

“And then I saved it. And now...” He locked the screen. Pressed the button. Your face appeared, soft and smiling. He set the phone on the nightstand and turned to face you fully, his hand sliding higher on your thigh. “Now you're there, honey. Every time.”

You stared at the phone for a moment. At your own face, captured in a moment of unthinking happiness. At the way his hand rested on your leg, casual and possessive, like he was holding you even when he wasn't.

Then you looked at him. Really looked. At the man who had survived the unsurvivable, who had crawled through decades of darkness to end up here, on this bed, with his hand on your thigh and your face on his phone.

“I love you.” you said.

The words fell out of you. Unplanned. Unfiltered. You hadn't meant to say them yet—it felt too soon, or maybe too big, or maybe you were just scared of what would happen if you put that kind of weight into the world. But they were out now, hanging in the air between you, and you couldn't take them back.

Bucky went very still.

The phone was forgotten. The world was forgotten. His eyes were locked on your face, wide and dark and unreadable, and for one terrible moment you thought you'd made a mistake. That you'd pushed too far. That he wasn't ready.

Then his hand came up to your face. His flesh hand, warm and calloused, cupping your jaw like you were something precious. His thumb traced your lower lip, tugging it down just slightly, and he was looking at you like he'd never seen anything so beautiful in all his long, long life.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I love you so much.” The words came out rough, cracked at the edges, like they'd been buried for a long time and he was still digging them out. “God, sweetheart. I love you so much. I don't... I don't know how to do any of this. The phone stuff, the feelings stuff, any of it. The only thing I know is that I love you. And I want to learn. I want to learn everything, if you'll teach me.”

You kissed him. What else could you do, with your heart so full it felt like it might split open?

The kiss deepened. Slowed. Became something else entirely—something hungrier, needier, the kind of kiss that had hands wandering and breath hitching and clothes starting to shift. He pulled you into his lap, and you went willingly, straddling his thighs, wrapping your arms around his neck and threading your fingers through his hair.

“I want to show you,” he murmured against your mouth. His hands slid under your shirt, palms flat against the bare skin of your back, and you shivered. “How much. How much I love you.”

“Show me, please.” you said.

He started with your shirt.

Not fast. Not impatient. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands already at the hem, his eyes asking permission even though he didn't need to. You nodded—a small, breathless thing—and he lifted the fabric slowly, dragging it up over your stomach, your ribs, your chest. The air hit your skin and you shivered again, but not from cold. From the way he was looking at you. Like you were something holy.

The shirt came off over your head, and he tossed it somewhere behind him without looking. His hands came back to you immediately, palms flat on your bare waist, thumbs tracing the line of your bra. He didn't move higher. Didn't push. Just looked.

“So beautiful,” he said, and his voice was wrecked. “Every time. I can't believe I get to look at you.”

You reached for the hem of his henley. “Your turn.”

He let you pull it off and then he was bare-chested in front of you, and you took a moment to look back. The scars. The muscle. The place where his left arm met his shoulder, the seam of metal and skin that he still hated but that you had kissed a hundred times. You put your hand there now, right over the join, and he exhaled like you'd touched something raw.

“I love this,” you said. “I love all of it. I love you.”

He kissed you again, and this time there was no softness left in it. This was a kiss that burned. His hands were everywhere—your back, your ribs, the curve of your ass—and you were arching into him, grinding down against his lap, feeling him hard beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He groaned into your mouth, and the sound went straight through you, pooling low in your belly.

“Sweetheart,” he said, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you said. “I just want you.”

“I'm yours,” he said, and the words were so simple, so honest, that your eyes stung. “I've been yours since the very first moment. Tell me what you want me to do, honey.”

You reached between you and pressed your palm against him through his sweatpants. He gasped—actually gasped—and his hips bucked into your touch.

“This,” you said. “I want this. I want you inside me. I want to feel you.”

He made a sound that was almost a whimper. His hands tightened on your hips. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. But slow. I want to go slow.”

“You always go slow.” You say and smile at him.

“Because I want to remember it.” He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. “Every time. I want to remember every time.”

He laid you back on the bed, slow and careful, like you were something precious. The sheets were cool against your bare back, and then he was over you, warm and solid, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He kissed you again—deep, languid, the kind of kiss that was meant to take its time—and his hands started to wander.

He undid your jeans. Button, zipper, the slide of denim down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help him, and he pulled them off, along with your socks, your underwear, everything. He sat back on his heels and looked at you—really looked, from your flushed face to your parted lips to the way your hands were reaching for him.

“God,” he said. “You're perfect. You know that? You're fucking perfect.” He was out of breath.

“I'm not,” you said, laughing a little, that annoying timid tone in your voice for a bit. “I'm really not.”

“You are to me.” He leaned down and kissed your stomach, just above your navel. Then lower. Then lower still. “You're everything to me.”

He took his time. He always took his time. But tonight, there was something different in the way he touched you—something reverent, something desperate beneath the patience. He learned you with his hands and his mouth, found every place that made you gasp, made you moan, made you say his name like a prayer. And when you were shaking beneath him, when you were so close you could taste it, he stopped.

“Bucky,” you begged. “Please.”

“Please what?” He was smiling. The bastard was smiling. His lips were wet just like his beard, his eyes dark, and he was smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Please. I need you. I need—”

He kissed you then, hard and deep, and you felt him smile against your mouth, sharing your taste. “That's what I wanted to hear.”

He stood up just long enough to shed his sweatpants and his boxers, and then he was back, skin to skin, and the heat of him was almost too much. He settled between your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he looked down at you with an expression so tender it made your chest ache.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you. I love you so fucking much, love.”

“I know,” you said. “I love you too. Now please—”

He pushed inside you, slow and steady, and you both groaned at the same time. The stretch of it, the fullness, the way he filled you completely—it was almost too much and not enough all at once. He paused when he was fully seated, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” you said. “More than okay. Move. Please move.”

He moved slowly at first, deep strokes that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his shoulders. His metal forearm was braced beside your head, the plates shifting with every thrust, the hand was tangled in your hair, holding you like he was afraid you'd disappear. His flesh hand started making circles in your bundle of nerves, slow at first, knowing the rhythm you love. You held onto him, your legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting more, wanting everything.

“You feel—” he started, and then broke off with a groan. “You feel so good. I can't—I'm not going to last—”

“Then don't,” you said. “I'm close. I'm so close. Just—”

He changed the angle, shifted his hips, and suddenly he was hitting somewhere new, somewhere that made stars burst behind your eyes. You cried out—loud, too loud, you didn't care—and he covered your mouth with his, swallowing the sound.

“That's it,” he murmured against your lips. “That's it, sweetheart. Let go. I've got you."”

And you did. You let go, falling apart beneath him, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. He followed right after, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering, a low, broken sound escaping his throat.

You held each other through it. Through the shaking and the aftershocks and the slow, steady return to reality. He didn't pull away. He stayed inside you, his weight on top of you, his face hidden in your neck, and you stroked his hair and waited for his breathing to even out.

“I love you,” he said again, his voice wrecked. “I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” you said, and kissed his temple. “I know. I love you too.”

You lay there for a long time, tangled up in each other and the rumpled sheets. His head was on your chest, and you could feel his heartbeat slowing, syncing up with yours. His metal arm was cool against your ribs, a familiar weight, and his flesh hand was tracing lazy patterns on your hip.

“Sam's going to be insufferable,” he said eventually.

You laughed. The sound was muffled by his hair, but he felt it, and he smiled against your skin.

“Yelena's worse,” you said.

“She's going to want updates.”

“She already asked for updates. I told her no.”

“Good.” He lifted his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, drowsy, the hard edges smoothed away by exhaustion and satisfaction. “This is ours. Not theirs.”

“This love is ours.” you said and smiled at him.

He kissed you, soft and slow, and then settled back down with his head on your chest. His phone was still on the nightstand, its screen dark. But you knew that when he woke it up tomorrow morning—when he pressed that button and saw your face—he'd smile. And maybe he'd roll his eyes at himself. And maybe he'd feel a little silly, a little soft, a little like the man he used to be before the world broke him.

But he'd smile. And that was enough.

Five days later, Sam walked into the common room to find Bucky Barnes sitting on the couch, staring at his phone with an expression of profound annoyance.

“What's wrong with you now?” Sam asked, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

“The wallpaper changed again,” Bucky said flatly.

Sam leaned over his shoulder. The lock screen was no longer a photo of you. Instead, it was a photo of a cat wearing a tiny sombrero—the exact same photo that had started this whole thing, months ago.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Then Sam burst out laughing. Loud, obnoxious, can't-breathe laughter that doubled him over and made his eyes water.

“I'm going to kill her,” Bucky said, but he was smiling. Just a little. Just enough. At least in front of Sam.

“She's going to be your wife someday,” Sam wheezed. “You know that, right? You're going to marry that woman, and she's going to change your lock screen to a cat wearing a sombrero too big for its body for the rest of your life.”

Bucky looked down at the photo. The cat was cute, he supposed. Stupid, but cute. And he could change it back. He knew how now. He could go into settings, choose a new wallpaper, put your face back where it belonged.

But first, he was going to call you. And you were going to laugh—he could already hear it, that bright, unself-conscious sound—and you were going to say, "Yelena must have gotten into your phone," and he was going to pretend to be annoyed, and then you were going to say something soft and sweet that made his chest ache, and he was going to forget all about the cat.

He unlocked his phone. Ignored Sam's lingering laughter. And called you.

You picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, handsome,” you said. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Why would something be wrong, honey? I just wanted to hear your voice.”

And in the background, he heard you smile.

Two years have passed and there was a different apartment. A different phone. A different name on the lease—both of yours, now.

Bucky woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and your body warm against his side. You were still asleep, your face pressed into his shoulder, your hand resting over his heart. The morning light caught the ring on your finger—simple, gold, perfect—and he still wasn't used to it. Still caught himself staring at it like he couldn't believe it was real.

You were his wife and he was your husband.

The thought still made his chest ache in the best possible way.

He didn't move. Didn't want to wake you. Just lay there, breathing, listening to the soft rhythm of your breath, watching the way your lashes fanned against your cheeks. You'd fallen asleep in his arms last night, tangled up and exhausted in the best way, and he'd stayed awake for a while just to watch you. Just to remind himself that this was real. That he was allowed to have this.

His phone was on the nightstand. He reached for it without thinking, pressed the button, and smiled.

The lock screen was a photo from your wedding day.

It was his favorite. The one where you were both laughing—you in your white dress, him in his suit, your foreheads almost touching, his metal arm wrapped around your waist. Steve had taken it, right after the ceremony, when the two of you had slipped away from the crowd for just a moment. You'd said something funny—he couldn't even remember what—and he'd laughed, really laughed, and you'd looked at him like he was the sun, and the photographer had captured it all.

He'd changed it himself. No help. No Googling. Just his own two hands and his own stubborn determination, because he loved you, and he wanted to see you first thing every morning for the rest of his life.

Now he saw you in white. Saw you laughing. Saw the way you looked at him, like he was someone worth looking at.

You stirred against him. Made a small, sleepy sound. “What time is it?”

“Early,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm.” You snuggled closer, your nose brushing his collarbone. “Love you, husband.”

His heart swelled. It was embarrassing, honestly, how much those two words affected him. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Love you too, wife.”

You smiled against his skin. He could feel it. And he thought about how far he'd come—from a man who couldn't change his own lock screen to a man who had changed his entire life. From a man who didn't know how to want to a man who wanted nothing more than this. You. Here. Forever.

His phone went dark. He didn't press the button again. He didn't need to.

Your face was already right where he could see it.

Bucky woke with a start, his lungs feeling as dry as sand and his eyes bloodshot. He blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the delicate, warm light emanating from the bonfire beside him. His body felt cold, almost frail; even his own heartbeat felt unfamiliar.

“W-what…?”

“Oh, Ashen One,” a soft voice drifted from the shadows.

His head snapped toward the sound.

You stood there, draped in a long, modest dress of charcoal colored fabric. Heavy wraps bound your arms and hands as if shielding a hidden wound, and a tattered mask obscured your eyes. Though the sight was haunting, the tenderness of your smile offered the slightest warmth.

“You are finally awake,” you murmured, kneeling beside him. “I feared you might never rise. How do you feel?”

As you reached out to check his temperature, he flinched, throwing up a hand between you—a desperate and weak attempt at self defense.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

You retracted your hand with a slight, knowing frown. It was to be expected, really. Every soldier you had summoned before him had shared this same fractured fear.

“I have no name,” you explained gently, resting your hands primly in your lap to show you meant no harm. “I am merely a woman who tends the flame that keeps our world alive.”

Keeps our world alive.

A thousand questions swirled through Bucky’s mind—thoughts that felt hauntingly familiar, yet entirely out of reach.

“You’re some sort of... Firekeeper?” he asked, his confusion deepening.

“Yes.” You nodded firmly. “Something of the sort.”

Bucky groaned, trying to sit up. His body strained under the weight of his armor. He looked down, taking in the intricate patterns of the steel and the cut of the dark fabric. He recognized the craftsmanship, yet he couldn’t put a finger on where he had seen it before.

“This… what am I?” He lifted a hand tiredly, staring at the etched iron of his gauntlet. “How did I—ugh.”

“Save your strength,” you reassured him, placing a gentle hand against his back. “You will need it soon. I am sure you have many questions.”

“Several,” Bucky muttered, bracing himself up and rubbing his throbbing head.

You let your hand fall back to your lap, your voice softening as you explained. “We live in a dying world, you and I. Outside these walls, the land is a hollowed grave. Beasts and monsters roam the streets, seeking to harvest souls to sate their own hunger. This keep is the only sanctuary left to us.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, dark, sweat dampened strands of hair falling over his blue eyes as he looked at you. “Then why would anyone ever want to leave?”

Your lips pulled into a small, weary frown. You had summoned several soldiers before him, and every time you delivered the next line, the result was the same— a cold blade pressed against your chest, or rough hands tightening around your throat.

You couldn’t truly blame the poor souls.

They were unwillingly pulled back from the grave into a world on the verge of total ruin. Their only purpose was to slay beasts and harvest souls—all to feed the very flame that kept the earth alive.

And in the end, the cycle demanded the ultimate sacrifice.

Themselves.

It was a cruel fate, but alas, you were the Firekeeper destined to bring the world back to life by any means.

Besides, the man before you was likely to be slain the very moment he stepped beyond these walls. It was only a matter of time before he fell, and you were forced to summon the next unfortunate soul to take his place.

“You see the flame there?” you gestured to the bonfire beside him, its light flickering weakly in his direction. “The fire is on its last life. If the flame is completely snuffed out, nothing but darkness will remain.”

You turned back to him. Though he couldn’t see your eyes through your mask, you looked directly into his. “That is why I summoned you, Ashen One. You are a soldier destined to fight the creatures, harvest their souls, and feed the flame to bring the world back to life. The flame chose you.”

You braced yourself, waiting for the devastating weight of your words to process in his already fragile mind. You expected him to lunge for your throat, as every soldier before him had done—toppling you to the cold stone and cursing you for dragging a soul who had finally found peace back into a life where they were better off dead.

But the attack never came.

He simply blinked, his gaze drifting as if something far more troubling was weighing on his mind.

“My name…” he uttered quietly. “Is James Buchanan Barnes. That much, I know.”

The breath that you released was one of part relief and shock.

Relief that his hands weren’t around your neck, and shock that he possessed such a rare fragment of himself. None of the others had remembered who they were—yet you had known every single one of their names.

“You… you know your name?”

“I do,” he confirmed, rubbing at his temple as if trying to grasp the rest of his distant memories. “But Bucky sounds familiar. It feels… more right.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky it is, then,” you said, despite already knowing his name. You leaned in closer, trying to gauge his expression—if there was any at all—after the words you had sputtered. “Do you understand your duty, soldier?”

“If souls are so important,” he said, turning to face you, his armor rattling with every move. “Then why don’t you get them?”

You frowned, looking down weakly at your bandaged hands. “I have tried. But I am too weak, soldier. The most I can do is hunt the wolves outside these walls with a dull blade—it is enough to keep the flame alive, but only barely.”

You raised your head back to him.

“But there are monsters out there far greater than wolves. Monsters that carry souls vast enough to keep the fire burning for months. This is why you were brought to this world. The flame saw your potential—it deemed you a worthy knight and decided that you would be the one to save us from this unbecoming world.”

Bucky furrowed his brows.

Despite the commands you were making of him, his body felt too weak to even move. He had only just been summoned into this world—how was he expected to fight off monsters to save it?

“I understand it may seem like a lot to you now,” you spoke, your voice growing softer and more gentle. “But for now, allow yourself to rest, soldier. When you awaken, there will be a blade ready for you to begin your journey.”

By the time Bucky woke again, his muscles felt livelier than they had during his first awakening. He felt almost completely healed—both mentally and physically. It felt as though he had been asleep longer than he had been back on this earth, and when his eyes opened fully, he found you sitting right beside him.

“You’re still here, maiden?”

“Of course,” you said softly. “Where else would I be?”

You had been waiting with him this entire time?

For a man who hardly recognized his own heartbeat, he felt something indistinguishable stir in his chest. It was a fond feeling, one he didn’t quite understand, but he knew he felt comforted knowing he wasn’t left entirely alone in this dark world.

Bucky raised his head to look at you, and his heart fluttered. Seeing you there once more—knowing you had stayed by his side for God knows how long—made him feel a sudden sharp attachment to your presence.

“I thought you would have gone to tend the flame,” he admitted, his voice still raspy but stronger than it had been. “Or that you’d be... somewhere else.”

“There is nowhere else,” you replied. “A Firekeeper’s purpose is bound to her champion. As long as you remain here, so shall I.”

“Champion?” Bucky huffed a tired, self-deprecating laugh. “That’s a heavy title for a man who hasn’t fetched you a single soul yet.”

A small, gentle chuckle escaped your lips—the sound only making the warmth in Bucky’s chest grow. It seemed that even you could possess a sense of humor.

“Oh, I suspect that will change very soon,” you added, a trace of a smile lingering.

To your side, you strained to lift a heavy blade, moving to offer it to him. Bucky tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he watched you.

Without thinking, he reached out and took the sword from your hands with ease.

His heart pulsed in his chest when he saw the relief in your shoulders, and from there, he never wanted to see you struggle again.

It was a longsword, its crossguard etched with the same weathered, ancient patterns that adorned his own armor. As his fingers closed around the hilt, the metal felt familiar, as if it had been waiting for his touch.

“There are several monsters lurking around the perimeter,” you explained, watching as Bucky examined the carvings on the sword. “You can test your strength by slaying them first. Every time you are hurt, or you feel you cannot carry on, you can come back to me. I will take care of you.”

Bucky blinked at you, that strange fondness in his heart growing even deeper. “You’ll… take care of me?”

You nodded firmly. “Always.”

There was a sense that washed over Bucky every time you spoke. Your voice was gentle and reassuring, and despite being pulled back into a world that had little to no hope for resurrection, he felt better knowing that, at the very least, you would be there with him in the darkness.

As long as you remain here, so shall I.

Your words echoed in his mind like a peaceful reminder. They stayed with him, giving him the courage he needed to finally turn away from the fire and step outside the safety of the walls and into the lion’s den.

Bucky moved through the gray, ashen landscape with determination. Every time his blade met the flesh of a hollowed monster, his muscles reacted before his mind could even process them as a threat. It was as if he was moving on muscle memory.

The more souls he gathered—wisps of cold, pale light in his pockets—the more his confidence grew. He found himself wondering about the man he used to be. Had he been a knight of renown? A commander? The way he moved suggests he wasn’t just a soldier, but a weapon.

He had hoped, that in his previous life, he had been a good man.

And he also wondered, if in his previous life, he had someone who cared about him the way you did.

Thinking of you sitting by the bonfire, waiting for his return, filled him with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. All he knew was that his heart felt far too large for his chest, thumping faster with every thought of you.

Souls were important to you, and he wanted to bring back enough to keep you happy. He wanted to see that gentle smile again.

Fueled by that warmth, Bucky ventured further than he should have. He pushed past the perimeter you told him to stay in, and into the crumbling ruins of a high wall, where the monsters were larger and faster.

The fights were costly—he barely managed to take down an undead knight, but the victory came at a price.

His breathing was labored, his armor was dented, and deep gashes along his ribs and thigh wept blood everywhere. Exhaustion finally dragged his heels back toward the faint, golden glow of the keep— to the place where you stayed, where you had promised to take care of him.

When he finally stumbled back into the shrine, his sword slipped from a weak grip, clattering against the stone. He was just about to collapse to his knees when you ran to his side, catching him before he hit the floor.

“Bucky!”

His strength had vanished the moment he felt your touch, and Bucky slumped against you, his heavy armor and weight dragging you both down. You slid down the cold stone wall together until you both found the floor.

Gently, you adjusted him, guiding his head to rest against the soft curve of your chest. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as your scent filled his senses.

You placed your bandaged hands over his deepest wounds, and a soft, golden light began to emit beneath your palms.

“Just try to stay still,” you soothed. “I’ll take care of you.”

As the magic seeped into his skin, Bucky’s entire body shook, then went slack. It wasn’t just the absence of pain your magic was giving him. It was the flood of pure, overwhelming sensation.

The healing felt like liquid sunlight pouring into his veins—a warmth so intense it made his body hum with a pleasure he didn’t know he was capable of craving. A soft, helpless whimper escaped him as the magic worked.

“God…” he rasped weakly against your chest.

Dazed and intoxicated by the feeling, his hands began to roam. His fingers, still stained with ash and blood, hooked into the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer and closer. He pressed into your softness shamelessly, his face hiding in the curve of your neck as he moaned quietly, lost to the heat.

“Is this hurting you?” you questioned, one hand coming up to push the damp, dark strands of hair out of his face to see him better.

His eyes remained fluttered shut, his face flushed. His hands wandered up your arms, desperate and searching as his hands mapped your curves. He squeezed and clung to you, his leg tangling with yours.

“So warm…” he mumbled, his words slurred with a hazy bliss. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t. It feels too good.”

Your breath hitched when you felt Bucky’s hips rock against your leg.

The sensations coursing through him were too much to comprehend. The magic made him feel alive, but it was also your body—soft and inviting—that fed the tightening ache building in his groin.

He kept rocking his hips, seeking some sort of pleasure, some sort of release.

“Bucky,” you stroked his hair, but the touch only seemed to spur him on. “Are you alright?”

Bucky only babbled incoherently against your chest, his hips rocking uncontrollably as he squeezed you tighter, making you gasp—not even realizing he was hurting you.

All he knew was that he needed something warm. Something tight and wet to sink himself into—something he could grab and toss around for his own pleasure.

Anything to free him from this painful, tightening ache between his legs.

“There, there,” you cooed gently, your soft hands lacing through the sweaty strands of his hair.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open, lost in a haze of lust, as he looked up at you. You looked down at him, and his eyes could only stare at your lips—soft, plump, and inviting.

They looked small too, probably tight. Tight enough.

It was exactly what he needed to feel good.

“I…”

“You’re all healed up now,” you interrupted suddenly. You rose slowly to your feet, leaving him there on the cold floor to collect himself.

His face burned with embarrassment as his heart thumped wildly in his chest. He wanted to grab you, to pin you back down so he was the one on top this time, and use you for his own pleasure. You had promised to take care of him—and sure, the physical pain had left his body long ago, but what about the hot, throbbing ache that still remained?

It made him feel restless.

Even he knew that magic wouldn’t be able to heal this kind of hurt.

You turned back to him, extending your palm as he gazed up at you from the floor.

It would be so easy to grab your hand and do it—he was much stronger than you, that much he knew. He could sink into your tight heat right now, and use you until you cried—

“The souls, Ashen One.”

“… Huh?”

You frowned slightly. “You went hunting for souls, did you not?”

Bucky looked at your open palm, then back at your face, feeling like a fool. He had been imagining ruining you with dark, carnal thoughts flooding his filthy mind, while you were simply waiting for him to fulfill the very purpose he had been resurrected for.

Shaky hands reached for the leather pouch at his belt. His fingers felt clumsy as he untied the drawstring.

“I… yes. I have them,” he muttered.

He poured the souls into your hand. They flowed like liquid starlight as they glowed a soft, ghostly blue against your skin.

“Is it enough?” he asked, watching the way the light reflected in the silver of your mask.

You tilted your head, inspecting the haul. He found himself wishing you would look at him with that much care instead.

“It is more than enough to stoke the flame for another week, Bucky. You did well,” you praised with a small smile.

You began to turn away toward the bonfire, but Bucky reached out, his fingers catching the hem of your dress.

“Wait,” he rasped.

You paused, looking back over your shoulder. “Is there something else you need, soldier?”

Bucky swallowed hard and looked down at his lap, not knowing how to explain the prominent bulge pressing against his trousers where they were free of armor. He pressed a palm over his length, trying to will the throb away.

“Are you still in pain?” you asked, noting the grimace on his face.

“It’s not painful,” Bucky grunted, continuing to palm himself, oblivious to the shame of the gesture. “It… it feels suffocating. Hot and throbbing. Like… I need—”

“Rest, perhaps?” you suggested, completely clueless to his circumstance. “It’s been a long day, soldier. Rest now, and when you feel better, you can hunt for more souls.”

You walked back toward the fire, leaving Bucky on the floor with a frustration he couldn’t quite name.

He grit his teeth, watching with a growing erection as you tended to the flame with such gentle touch.

He knew you were saving the world with the souls he gave you, but god, did he want that loving attention focused on him instead. He wanted your hands all over his body instead.

He wanted you nowhere near that damned fire—he wanted you beneath him.

He was hungry, but not for food.

He was hungry for you.

Since then, he did exactly what you expected of him.

He ventured further out, fought monsters and beasts, and returned with more souls than any soldier before him ever had. He grew stronger with each battle, his movements becoming more lethal and precise.

But in return, he came back to the shrine bloodier and more battered than ever.

In your eyes, you believed the flame had chosen correctly. It had finally selected a champion who could bring about the world’s resurrection and peace. You felt that everything you had lived for—every century of waiting—would finally be put to rest.

But for Bucky, the world was an afterthought.

All he looked forward to was being in your arms after every grueling battle. He relished the moments when he was nestled against your chest, your magic washing over his body with a gentle, intoxicating calm. He lived for the pleasure that came with your touch—a pleasure he craved more than the victory itself.

It was like a drug he couldn’t escape from.

The latest gift he brought you was the soul of a Greatwood—a large mass of light dropped at your feet before his knees finally gave out.

Stripped of his heavy armor, he looked raw and vulnerable as blood trickled down his face, matting his dark hair in copper scented clumps and sweat. The blood loss left him shivering, and you didn't hesitate to pull him into the sanctuary of your lap, cradling his head against you.

Over the last few days, you had noticed Bucky becoming dangerously imprudent in his battles.

He pushed himself to the very brink of death, and every time you were there to mend the damage, he grew bolder with his whimpers and his touch.

“You’re becoming reckless, Bucky,” you murmured. Your hands hovered over his mangled chest as you began to heal him.

A broken moan escaped his lips—not of pain, but of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Your magic turned the agony of his wounds into a searing, sexual heat that flooded his entire nervous system. His hands, caked in dried blood and dirt, clawed at your thighs, bunching the fabric of your dress in his fists possessively as the pleasure took over his body.

“Ah… God, yes,” Bucky choked out, his hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction against your leg.

The soldiers who came before him had never harbored such a visceral reaction to your magic, but Bucky had been unraveling this way for a while now. You were no longer oblivious to the bulge he pressed against you every time he was in your arms.

Bucky’s hands trailed upward, sliding underneath the fabric of your skirt to give your bottom a firm squeeze. He pulled your body flush against him, grounding his hips into your thigh with a needy motion.

“Stay still, Bucky,” you tried to command, though your voice was shaky. “I’m almost finished.”

“Fuck,” Bucky growled, his hands tightening around your body harsh enough that made a small whimper escape your lips. “I’m almost finished, too—”

As the golden light continued to flare from your palms, Bucky’s hips moved faster, grinding harder against your leg and forcing your body into a rhythm with his. He hiked your dress up, exposing your bare thigh to the cool air of the shrine, his breathing turning into a series of heavy hitches as he pressed himself further between your legs.

You were warm—so warm, and he was painfully aware that the very thing his body was screaming for was only guarded by a flimsy layer of fabric.

He knew he could tear it open with his bare hands in a heartbeat.

The urge to be cruel was right there, lurking in the dark corners of his mind. He wanted to pin you down, sink into you, to make you cry out and whimper beneath him as he took what he wanted.

But he couldn’t—not to you.

Not yet, at least.

“Just a little longer, soldier,” you reassured him gently, your hands hovering over his remaining injuries. “You’re doing so well—”

But before you could offer another word, Bucky lifted his head up. His hands tangled in the hair at the back of your head, tilting your face back as his mouth crashed against yours.

It was a kiss—though you weren’t sure if you could truly call it that.

The soldiers who came before Bucky had shared kisses with you, but none of them were like this.

Those had been soft, gentle, and reverent. Bucky’s was possessive and claiming. His grip on your body was tight, his fingers buried so roughly in your hair to pin you in place that if you had moved even slightly, you would have winced.

A small mewl left your lips when he groped your breast through your dress. Emboldened by your sweet noises, Bucky nestled himself between your thighs, the hard bulge of his cock finding the heat hidden beneath your thin fabric.

He ground his hips directly against your cunt, the curve of your covered slit felt like the most incredible thing he had ever felt.

“Bucky…” you whimpered.

“I’ve been thinking about this every time I’m out there bleeding for you,” he groaned against your lips.

He rocked his hips into you, crowding you back against the cold stone wall.

“I bet you’re so tight under that dress,” he muttered between messy, sloppy kisses. His hand slid down to squeeze your hip, pulling you flush against the pulsing outline of his cock. “I bet you’d scream if I finally got inside you. You’d cry for me, wouldn’t you? But I know you’d take it all for your champion.”

You weren’t quite sure what was happening to him.

The soldiers of the past had never reacted to your healing in such a way. But you were bound by your oath to mend your soldier, so you kept your palms pressed to his skin and allowed him to find his pleasure in your body.

“Just a moment,” you spoke softly. “Try to hold still.”

“Am I…” He breathed hard, looking into your eyes with his own, hazy and dazed. “Am I doing good?”

“Very good,” you praised. “The best I’ve ever seen.”

“I need you to swear it to me,” Bucky’s voice broke, desperate for your approval. “Tell me you really mean it.”

"I promise, Bucky.”

The light of your magic grew brighter, and Bucky let out a hungry growl that vibrated in his throat as he closed the distance between your mouths again.

His body continued to move hungrily against yours, his fingers digging into your hair. The fabric straining against his hard length darkened with damp patches of pre-cum, making a mess of himself as he ground against you.

It felt good—too good, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Bucky kept going, his hips stuttering and moving unevenly against your thigh before a broken moan left his lips.

“My god…” he groaned weakly.

His cock twitched violently in his pants, releasing a warm, thick spurts of cum as it pulsed out of his cockhead—the sensation making his face and body burn hot. His eyes, half lidded and dazed, stared down at the wet patch in his trousers that grew until it made your own thigh feel sticky.

He was panting, his chest heaving against yours, his sweat cooling in the drafty shrine.

Bucky was still high on the sensation, the magic and the pleasure blurring into one strong, overwhelming sense of euphoria—and in that haze, his mental strength vanished in an instant.

“I love you,” he blurted out suddenly.

The words echoed softly against the stone walls. He pulled back just slightly, his eyes blown wide and glassy, looking at your silver mask with desperation—as if he were waiting for you to say it back.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice cracking as if you didn’t hear him the first time. “I think... I think I’ve loved you since the moment I first reopened my eyes. Everything I do out there... the blood I shed, the souls I obtain... it’s all so I can come back to this. So I can come back to you.”

The silence in the shrine was suffocating, the tension broken only by the crackle of the embers.

You weren’t supposed to feel. You were a vessel, a caretaker of the flame, yet the broken rasp in his voice made your heart stutter.

Gently, you reached up, your bandaged fingers brushing the dark hair away from his damp forehead.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice soft and careful. “I… I care for you deeply. More than I have ever cared for any soldier who was brought back to life.”

Bucky leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering at your warmth. He was listening—waiting for the very three words that would change everything, the words he had just bled for.

“In this dark world,” you continued, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, “you are the only light I have. I find myself waiting for the sound of your footsteps long before you arrive. I care for you just as much as you care for me, soldier.”

Bucky let out a long, shaky breath. He wasn’t entirely satisfied, and he feared he wouldn’t be until you told him you loved him back—until you gave yourself to him completely with your mind, body, and soul. But for now, he let himself bask in the warmth of your body, his hands squeezing your hip tight enough to remind you that regardless of what you said, you would always be his.

“Everything I do…” he breathed shakily, “I do for you. Only for you.”

Determined to please you, Bucky remained in a constant, grueling battle against the undead. He hunted every soul—big or small—with a singular focus: you.

He believed that by relinquishing the beasts and returning their power to you, you would finally restore the world. He fought for the dream of a sanctuary where you both could live long, healthy lives.

Together.

When he finally felled the greatest beast of all and returned to the shrine, he was more bloodied and broken than he had ever been. He collapsed to his knees, the leather pouch at his belt spilling over as wispy, powerful souls poured out onto the stone floor. Through dazed and blurry eyes, he saw your frame rushing toward him in a panic.

“I… have returned—” he managed with a broken rasp.

As he extended a shaking hand to reach for you, you dove past his reach, ignoring his outstretched fingers to grab the souls that were scattering across the floor.

You gathered the shimmering light into your arms, clutching them to your chest.

“My God!” you said, breathless. “You’ve felled the Lord of Cinder? You’ve actually done it!”

The light from the souls pulsed and glowed in your hands. As you fed the essence of the Lord of Cinder into the bonfire, the flames roared a bright gold, casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient stone.

You were radiant, your face warm with glee, wearing the brightest smile Bucky had ever seen.

“The ritual is almost over,” you whispered with joy. “At last… the dark is receding. At last, we have enough.”

On the floor, Bucky was a wreck of broken armor and torn flesh. His vision swam as he felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. He tried to drag himself towards you, his fingers scraping uselessly against the cold floor.

“I need... your care.. my maiden—” he choked out, his voice pathetic and weak.

He was reaching for the sanctuary of your lap, waiting for your drug like bliss to stitch him back together.

But you didn’t look at his wounds. You didn’t reach for his head to cradle it.

You instead grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet, dragging his exhausted body toward the edge of the roaring bonfire.

“Come, Bucky! Look!” you cried, ignoring the way his knees buckled and how his weight slumped against you. “We’ve just about saved the world—we’re so close.”

He looked at you with a dazed, almost dreamy expression. Was this truly his salvation? Had he finally saved the world to exist in a new one with you? Could he finally become your lover, and you his?

“Now, we just need the last step,” you said, turning to him.

Your hands lifted to your mask, removing it.

Finally, he got to see your face fully.

Your eyes were the most beautiful things he had ever seen, making his heart clench painfully in his chest. They were bright, shining with hope. This was it—everything he had fought for.

Then, you continued to speak.

“The ultimate sacrifice. The soul of the champion must be returned to the source to truly seal the age.”

Bucky froze.

“What?” he rasped, not quite understanding. “But you… you said you cared for me. You promised to take care of me.”

“I am,” you replied gently, your hands finding his face—not to soothe him, but to guide him backward toward the center of the bonfire. “I’m giving your life meaning, Bucky.”

Bucky couldn’t believe it. He refused to believe it.

All along, after all the blood, sweat, and tears he poured into every fight—all just to make you happy—the very end meant he had to sacrifice himself?

But what about everything you told him? All the words you spoke—telling him you cared about him? The times you held him in your arms while he came undone from just your touch and magic alone? The kisses you shared?

Was it all for nothing? Was he just a lamb being fattened for the slaughter?

Bucky’s breathing grew labored and his heart began to race uncontrollably. He didn’t know what to name this feeling—was it anger? Sadness? Or insanity? He looked at your beautiful, smiling face, and for the first time, it didn’t look like salvation. It looked like a trap.

Whatever the emotion was, it led to him finding the hilt of his sword, sheathed at his side. His fingers curled around the grip, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of the fire behind him.

“You lied to me,” Bucky rasped, his voice so low you didn’t catch it.

You tilted your head, your fingers still resting over his cheek as if he were nothing more than a wounded animal you were trying to calm.

“What do you mean, soldier?” you asked softly. That sweetness Bucky once loved now felt haunting—hollow. “Everything is going exactly as it should.”

A low, animalistic snarl escaped Bucky’s lips as his fingers tightened around the hilt. Adrenaline, fueled by pure hate and betrayal, flooded through his veins. He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to seize your shoulder while his other hand ripped the sword from its sheath.

The ring of steel echoed through the shrine as he tackled you, the force pinning you hard against the stone floor.

You let out a sharp, startled gasp as the back of your head hit the ground, and before you could cry out, the cold blade was pressed firmly against your throat.

Bucky’s heavy body hovered over yours, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as his dark hair fell over his eyes. He stared down at your face, the face he had been worshipping all this time, with nothing but anger.

“You used me,” he seethed. “You used me—just as you did with the soldier before me, and the one before that, haven’t you?”

He didn’t even give you the chance to respond. He pressed the blade closer against your neck, forcing you to strain your head back in a desperate gasp.

“Bucky, please—”

“You held them in your arms—you kissed and touched them the way you did with me, isn’t that right?” he growled, leaning in even closer until his hot breath fanned over your lips.

His hand roughly grabbed your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye as the skin of your neck strained against the sharp edge of the blade.

“Do you even remember their fucking names?”

“Of course I do!” you gasped desperately, tears pricking your eyes. “Rogers, Wilson, Walker—I remember all of them—!”

“I should kill you,” he claimed, his hot, heavy pants ghosting over your face. “I should slit your throat right here—make you cry and bleed all pretty for me.”

“Bucky, please, you have to understand—” you choked out, searching his eyes for even a flicker of hope. “This is how the ritual must go. The soldiers before you... they were all weak. They weren’t as strong as you. They passed before they ever reached the final sacrifice.”

You swallowed hard, trying to choose your words carefully as you felt Bucky’s grip tighten around the hilt.

You couldn’t believe it. You had truly thought he was different from the rest. You never expected him to turn around and pull his blade on you like the other soldiers had when they were first summoned.

“In order for the world to even have a chance of revival—what’s dead must stay dead,” you strained, a single tear streaming from the corner of your eye and splashing onto the stone floor. “And that includes you, James.”

Bucky grimaced when you said his first name, and even more so as he tried to process your words. You could see the conflict behind his eyes—the way he tried to believe you. For a second, a quick flicker of understanding passed through those cold, cruel eyes.

But it vanished just as quickly as he pressed the blade even deeper, drawing a thin trickle of blood from your neck.

“Tell me you love me.”

You remained quiet, trying to compose your breathing as you felt blood trickle down the side of your neck.

“Say it!” Bucky roared.

His shout was like an explosion that echoed off the ancient stone walls, vibrating through your very bones.

You believed that telling him what he wanted to hear would not only spare your life—but that a part of him would relish the admission, finally giving him the peace he needed to take that last step and sacrifice himself.

You sucked in a sharp, shallow breath, your voice coming out shaky and thin against the steel.

“I love you.”

Bucky’s body began to shake, the steel pressing harder against your skin. He grimaced at the sight of your pain, as if hurting you only hurt him more, yet he didn’t pull back.

“I don’t believe you,” he rasped. He searched your face, hunting for the lie he knew was there, even as his eyes pleaded for it to be true. “You’re just saying it so I’ll die for you. You’re just saying it to save your own.”

Your heart raced as panic flooded through you. You had to make him believe—if he didn’t go into the fire, the world would end in nothing but ash and silence. You reached up, your palms framing his face, and tried your best to ignore the sting of the blade.

“I love you!” you cried out desperately. “I’ve loved you since the moment you came back to me. Please, James, believe me. I love you more than anything.”

You watched him intently, and for a long, breathless moment, Bucky went still. A small, disbelieving smile graced his lips.

You should have felt relief. You should have seen it as a sign that you were finally getting through to him. But there was something twisted about the way he was looking at you now—a dark, possessive spark that only filled you with a deeper unease.

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his warm breath interlacing with your own.

“Good,” he whispered, the blade still biting into your skin as his lips tickled yours. “If you love me that much, if I’m truly the only light you have… then we’ll let the world burn.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized your mistake.

“The ritual—”

“Damn the ritual,” he hissed.

His hand slid from your cheek to tangle firmly in your hair, pinning you harder against the stone as the bonfire behind him began to flicker, starved of its champion.

“If I don’t get to live to have you, then nothing gets to live at all.”

dark souls is my favorite game of all time, and i wanted to write a quick fic based on it. this is a little different from my usual style, but i hope you guys like it <3

if you’ve gotten this far, as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work.

warnings. ⌇ pervy bucky (duh, we love). not proof read <3 built up tension turned to a fuck session. pepper appearance! (love my girl) non-established mutual pining. this basically happens frequently but shhh we don't know that. 18+ MDNI. teasing, fingering, overstimulation, oral (f. recieving), tit worship, improper use of honey, unprotected p in v (use protection), handjob, reader is on the pill, makeout sesh, reader puppy sits (wink-wink).

margo's notes. ⌇oh my god i can't even express how much i adore bucky as a band member. like as a nerd, as a dirtbag, as a roommate, as anything, he would def rock the drums rather than a guitar. i also think he'd be a really interesting (to say the least) roommate. i'm making a longer fic series based off of this, with an original character, and this is kind of like a headcannon for them i guess, but with a reader.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 of your apartment quietly hissed with steam as you turned the knob of the shower off. you shuddered quietly at the contrast of the cold metal amidst your skin you'd worked hard to warm up beneath the scalding water.

it was two in the afternoon, and as far as you knew, you'd had the apartment to yourself.

three months of living with your loud, obnoxious roommate it seemed. it almost felt like a reward when he wasn't home, and to you it didn't matter if he was busy banging drums with his band, or screwing some girl on the third floor—you were just content with having the place to yourself.

see after an lease scandal that had happened during your desperate hunt for an apartment, you'd decided to invest in the small apartment just south of your university's campus that you'd seen up on craigslist.

it was small, an alright view, and two bedrooms that you'd figure you'd keep to yourself. one as an office, and the other as a bedroom.

now the first mistake was craigslist. how desperate can one be to look for an apartment, so soon to the beginning of the first semester in college, that you actually bought the apartment off of craigslist.

the second—quite obviously—was thinking it was true.

i mean c'mon, a two bedroom, one bath apartment for the price of 2.8k? any other place in brooklyn would've costed five-thousand or more on your own.

now unbeknownst to you, you weren't the only college student looking for an apartment to yourself, close to the campus.

funny enough, the other student happened to attend your college. which meant it was likely that the two of you had met before. which hopefully insinuated that perhaps the two of you would get along.

but moving along to the night where you were sat on the counter, stirring some peppermint tea for yourself. you were almost curious upon hearing the knock on your door that echoed through your quiet matchbox of an apartment.

it was nearing midnight, who would want you at this hour?

well, you soon found out when you opened the door just an inch to see none other than the james buchanan barnes himself.

freshman dirtbag surrounded by almost all the losers who'd just made it onto campus. drum sticks tucked into his back pocket, a duffel bag and a backpack strung on each shoulder, he chewed on his gum menacingly, staring right back at you as if you were supposed to fix a problem of his.

"hey, i know it's late," he sighed, checking down the hall again, "but i'm here for apartment number nine." he muttered as your brows furrowed, "you're uh.. you're that girl from the campus aren't you?" he mumbled under his breath, stormy eyes scanning you down.

and that's when you remembered you were standing in a small lacey nightgown, topped with a sheer little robe that barely covered anything. you tucked the robe over your chest, crossing your arms for good measure as the messy bun atop your head shook with your confusion.

"yeah—you, um," you mumbled, eyes raking over his.. messy state. "you must have the wrong place. i live here." you explained briefly, as he pulled the key out of his back pocket, staring at the little scribbled tag.

as brought it up to your face, the jingling echoed through the hall, "nope." the brunette shrugged cheeks tinging pink as his eyes landed back on the cut of your dress where a hint of your cleavage teased him. as he dropped his duffel right beside the door, you stepped back a pace, literally taken aback.

"bought this place like two weeks ago, just been—hopping around since." he mumbled, as his arm flexed the door futher open into your bubble.

"wha—no!" you cried, "you can't just barge in here! this is my apartment, loser." you yelled as he stared back with the same look, avoiding your pissed eye contact.

"where the hell am i supposed to go then?" he asked, as you paused, "i don't know!" you argued as he sighed, "you better have a plan princess. 'cause i've got a key, and i paid for this place, fair and square."

"i don't care!" you scoffed, arms crossing tighter over your chest as his scuffed converse inched into the polished hardwood floor. "i just—i just mopped there." you whispered as he looked down, rolling his eyes and stepping back out.

and it did take some time. almost a week to sit down with greg, the broker—who did nothing as to convince you that this was a mixup, but much rather smiled at the angry confusion and two foot barrier between where you two sat, across from him at the coffee shop.

"look, i don't blame you two for falling for this. but the paid difference is paid. there aren't any refunds on apartments kiddos." he mumbled, thick fingers comming up to smooth down the lightly balded top of his head.

"the full price for the place was five-thousand. with both of your costs put together, it comes out to about the same price. so like it or not, either one of you pays the price and lives elsewhere, or you two suck it up and live together."

cue present tense—where things are moving along.

between sharing an apartment with bucky, and being on opposite ends of a social circle, the two of you are managing quite.. reasonably.

from ushering the other one out of the house when one has plans and booked the apartment for the day, or distributing chores and meal preps, the two of you have worked out well enough, and somehow this past month hasn't been too unkind to either of you.

well you could suppose that'd be until today; where you step out of the shower, pedicured feel flush against the fluffy carpet you picked out, and pushing the lightning bolt shower curtain he picked out.

your eyes rolled hard at the stupid curtain, reminding yourself that you were going to have friends over for a study session before a party you were going to afterwards, that you had to change it back to your pink striped one before they came over.

as you wrapped the towel around yourself, you looked around, sighing at the fact that you'd forgotten clothes to wear after the shower.

head peeking out into the hallway, your eyes met with the whicker basket filled with fresh laundry, as the other loads were still in, and you'd tossed almost three weeks worth into the machine earlier.

it was your turn to do laundry, so since you'd done bucky's clothes earlier, you'd figured he wouldn't mind if you'd just borrowed something.

so as you lathered up with lotion, and pulled his smithsonians t-shirt over your freshly washed hair, you paused for a moment, catching the scent of his cologne and a small scent of something metallic.

you hummed to yourself, walking out with nothing but that and a lacy set you'd picked out earlier in your room and brought over before showering.

the apartment was quiet. and you liked it that way. no drums boosting, meaning no noise complaints from neighbors. no dirty shoes scattered against your clean floor, meaning no reminding the asshole, or kicking his shoes in a closet.

you felt at peace.

and you were.

until you closed the door to the bathroom quietly, and turned around to be faced with the agonizing sound of creaking from the bedroom door that neighbored your own.

you watched him, pajama pants strung low enough you could see his boxers peeking up from just below his hip bones, a john lennon t-shirt crumpled over his chest and a hand running through his hair as he stared down at the glass he'd probably just finished drinking orange juice in.

your lips pursed almost immediately, was it too late to crawl back into the bathroom? shower for another two hours until you'd cried every tear out of yourself? you were sure you'd been home alone, so why was he standing right in front of you?

it was bad enough that he was here, three feet away, but it was worse that he was quiet.

because james was never quiet.

his eyes raked over you, from your damp hair, down to your chest, where his eyebrows raised quietly at his band's print, and then down to your smooth legs, and pedicured feet.

"that's... new." he mumbled, as your cheeks flamed. "i-i just—needed something to wear." you countered as he smiled, "imagine if anyone at school saw this, 'girl swears she'd be caught dead wearing a grunge band t-shirt, walks out after showering and looks just fine'." he teased, as you spun on your heels, remembering you didn't have to be a part of this embarrassment ritual.

"look my laundry was in the washer, asshole." you sighed, walking into the kitchen and grabbing your white mug, with the print of a black cat with a crown between its ears.

"yeah? well you said you'd only wear something of mine 'over your dead body'." bucky trailed behind you, the smile inevitable in his voice.

"fuck off, barnes." you hissed, filling the cup with heated water from the kettle. "never," he grinned, as you felt his chest bump into your shoulders, his voice was rough, and laced with something you'd heard only on desperate nights, "you look.. good."

you fingers reached for the box of green tea as your cheeks burned hotter than the water in your cup. "almost illegal," he continued, fingers carefully finding your waist as he watched you make your tea.

"hm," you hummed, going about your business as his nose poked the damp hair just behind your ears.

"james," you warned, as he sighed into your hair, fingers tightening their grasp on your waist, "no, no, it's fine. it looks great on you. keep it." he whispers, as you roll your eyes, "don't be ridiculous, i wouldn't—"

"be caught dead wearing my stuff, i'm well aware, pretty." bucky hummed, eyes closing as he tips his head against yours.

"but you're wearing it now," he smiled, lowering his nose onto your shoulder as he pulls you flush against his front, and that's when you feel it.

"are you fucking serious, james?" you asked, heat blooming down your neck, on your hands and between your legs. "what, angel?" he mumbled, careless to the fact that your fuming.

"you're hard over me wearing your fucking shirt, that's what." scoffing, "pathetic." stirring the honey into your tea as you mumbled. "s' not pathetic," he murmured in response, euphoric as his right hand left your waist, trailing down to the hem of the shirt, lifting it up gingerly.

"y'barely got anything on under here, doll." he mumbled, darkened eyes raking over the lace of your cheeky underwear as you gasped. you turned around instantly in shock, smacking his hand away. "bucky!" you choked as he chuckled, eyes remaining glued to your thighs.

"seen more than that, baby. m' surprised you're shocked." bucky whispered, leaning in close to you, "you're gonna.. m-ruin my tea." you mumbled, voice just above a whisper as you nudged the cup back, behind you.

"not the only thing m'gonna ruin," he grinned a near sinful glint in his eyes that made your fingers grip the counter—as if that's supposed to ground you.

"something wrong, pretty girl?" bucky murmured, nose brushing your cheek as he presses a kiss to your skin, "hm, cat got your tongue?" he whispered as your hands planted themselves on his chest, knowing what'll follow.

"n-no, don't be stupid." you huffed, as his lips trail further south, nipping at your supple skin as you let out an involuntary noise at the contact of his two-day old stubble against your skin.

"bucky—" you whisper, fingers curling into his shoulders as he hums against your jaw, breath ghosting over your skin, tickling you as your neck cranes to keep him out, "god, you owe me for this," he smiles against your skin as you pause, eyes widening.

"look this—shirt, thing—better not become some—" you sigh defeatedly, "james!" you whine as he groans, "hmmm, what?" he whispers, pulling away.

but not for long, his eyes quickly circle back to your breasts beneath his t-shirt, where the shirt pulls up and falls back down over the rest of your body.

your manicured fingers quickly find his jaw, pulling it back up to face you, "eyes on me," you mumble as a wicked smile paints its way back onto his flushed, pink, lips. "oh they're on you don't wor—"

"i'm serious, bucky." you grit through your teeth. his free hand squeezes your waist, reminding you it's still there as his thumb brushes over you. "this t-shirt better not be some excuse me to give you seconds of dinner i order, o-or the remote thirty-minutes earlier—"

"oh?" he hums, cutting you off, "so what you're saying is, i should just let you take my things, and walk around all pretty in 'em?" he whispers, his other hand trailing down to your thigh, fingers resting pertly just beneath the cleft of your ass.

"buc—"

"c'mon, answer me, princess." he whispers, nose brushing back against your cheek as he closes back in on the crook of your neck, wafting in the intoxicating scent of your bodywash.

"fuck, you always smell so good, baby." he mumbled into your skin, and your eyes close as your fingers subconsciously trail up to the nape of his neck. he hums and moans at the feeling of your fingers running through his shaggy hair.

"look—y-you want an answer?" you muttered, pushing him off you. bucky stumbled back just an inch as he watched you pull the shirt over your head, it into his chest. "there's, your answer." you mutter, crossing your arms over your lacey bra.

but your arms do nothing, because bucky's eyes have zeroed on your tits, the glow of the light above the kitchen and the overcast weather outside glowing in from the window.

"shit." he whispers—almost painfully—and your eyes trail down to the straining bulge in his pants. "damn, freak." you mumble, lips curling as your eyes bat up at him, "cat got your tongue?" you whisper with a click of your tongue as you step past him.

before you could walk even a foot further, two arms wrapped around your waist, coaxing an immediate shriek from your lips as your bare back is met with the cold sting of the fridge. just as quickly as your lips had opened to protest with a whimper—they were sealed shut with his, clashing against you.

"you're—" he muttered, lips sliding off of yours as a string of spit dissolving between them, "gonna help me," he whispered, before lunging back, lips and teeth clashing as you groaned again.

his tongue danced with yours, and unable to get a word in, you quickly became a mess.

words stuck in your throat, turned to moans as he tilted your neck with care, deepening the kiss as your fingers found his his neck again, one hand tugged gently on his hair, the other curled into his shirt.

his lips left yours and peppered your lips once more with a kiss before he rested his forehead on your shoulder. hand wrapping around the smaller hand of yours that lazily gripped the fabric of his t-shirt. his eyes fluttered shut as he brought it up to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he guided it back down the the growing hard-on in his pants.

your lips parted at the touch of him, you almost wanted to wriggle your fingers from his grasp and push him on the couch and help him.

the right way—they do say, 'if you want it done right, do it yourself'.

but what were you.. crazy?

"fix, this." bucky whispered against your ear, teeth pressing against your collarbone as he left marks on your freshly washed skin.

"you're so perfect, i swear. i wanna ruin you right on this shiny fucking counter." he whispered, his hand left yours, grabbing your waist before he hauled your legs into his arms.

in one motion, he pulled you onto the counter, pushing your legs apart as his fingers pressed against your pulsing core. "hmm, she's already ready for me, isn't she?" he whispered, lowering himself to kiss just beneath your bra, trailing all the way down to the strap of your panties.

"fuck, bucky." you whispered, nearly a whine whil your fingers tangled in his hair as you watched him lift your legs over his shoulders. he rose up just enough to bury his nose between your tits.

his fingers danced down to the lacy underwear you wore, his lips were busy elsewhere, sucking and planting kisses and marks all over the jelly smooth skin of your breasts.

a whine left your lips as your hand found his neck, pulling him closer greedily as he groaned into your plush tits.

just as you were about to speak, the landline rung, and you felt the man between your legs freeze.

"shit," you muttered beneath your breath, you laid your back down on the counter, arm above your head as you reached for the phone.

bucky watched you carefully, stretched out on the counter. the same one you argued daily about keeping clean.

your hair was messily splayed all over the smooth surface, torso heaving up and down breathlessly as you arched to reach the phone off the receiver.

you paused as a female voice could be heard across the other end, "yeah?" you hummed as bucky licked his lips, pulling his t-shirt off and throwing it on your face before lowering himself to pull your panties down slowly.

he smiled as the gasp that left your lips echoed throughout the room, pressing kisses all over your thighs as he pushed your legs apart, you, stubbornly trying to keep them close.

"i-i can't," he heard you mumble on the phone, unconcerned as he kissed your mound delicately, fingers parting your wet folds quietly as he smiled against your clit, tongue covering it with just the right amount of pressure.

all this over him.

the man you made sure to illustrate your hatred for constantly.

"jesus, you're so wet for me, princess." he mumbled into your wetness, muffled by your thighs as you propped yourself up on your elbows, eyebrows crinkled together as you gave him a look that only guaranteed a lecture later.

"no, not right now." you spoke back into the phone, eyeing your manicure as bucky worked through your cunt, fingers circling your clit as you shuddered beneath his touch, his lips coated in your arousal.

"n-no," you huffed as he gazed up just enough to catch your painfully aroused look, "you look so pretty like this, angel." he muttered as you nudged his torso with your heel, ushering him to quiet down.

"i can't come over, i-i'm—" you hummed, covering the receiver with your hand as you laid back down, your back burned against the cool counter, arching as you bit down on your lip to refrain from making too much noise.

as bucky's fingers messed with your clit and your hole, you fumbled with the phone, looking for the mute button and pressing it sloppily before pepper on the other end could hear the mess going on in your apartment.

you'd be ruined if anyone knew you lived with bucky barnes let alone got fucked by him.

"b-bucky—" you gasped, your free hand searched the flat counter for something—anything—to grab onto to keep yourself from coiling all over the counter.

"fuck!" you whined loud, upon feeling his lips latch onto your clit and tongue lapping through your arousal. your legs pressed instinctively against his soft hair and you not only heard, but felt him groan against your core, a shiver blooming straight through your body as your hand found his locks.

"bucky i—" you twisted, eyes squeezing shut as his tongue dipped into you, curling into a soft spot that had you shaking.

on the other end, pepper was sighing something incoherent to you about an essay deadline for tomorrow morning, as well as the journalism article's mock interview.

"are you there?" you heard her ask as bucky fit a second finger into you, "so tight, fuck." he whispered, kissing your bud before rubbing it with his free fingers. his arms hooked around you, pulling you close enough to him in hopes his mouth could easily access your cunt.

"gotta fuck you—warm you up, honey, my cock's aching for you," bucky hummed against your thigh, breath ghosting over your skin as his fingers fucked you at a steady pace, the kisses he pressed across your inner thigh had you gasping and mewling senselessly.

and bucky loved it.

"so responsive, you're always so sensitive." you felt his lips smiling against you, stubble scraping against your soft skin as you kicked his shoulder, "shut up." you huffed as he curled his fingers with a soft smile, eyes darkening as you whined.

"pep, i-i can't, i know," you muttered, unmuting, he watched, sissoring his fingers inside of you as you clenched around them. "i'll come over, la—ter," you quieted down, as his thumb circling your clit as his tongue replaced his two fingers. "—i'm puppy sitting," you mumbled.

and that did it.

his head perked up, blue eyes all that you could see while the rest of his face was buried to the hilt in your pussy.

"puppy sitting?" pepper's voice cut through the silence, as you smiled, head thudding back down on the counter, "hmm—very, good puppy actually." you muttered as his mouth sucked your cunt off with a small, wet, pop.

your eyes fluttered shut as you held your hand over your lips, biting back any hum you were close to making, you could feel his saliva and your slick dripping down through you and onto the counter.

"h-he does everything—i tell him to," you continued, as he pulled his pants lower, leaving you staring at your ceiling with a small smile, still covered by your hand.

as you craned your head to the side, you watched him grab the honey, pulling his pants down and stepping out of them as he walked over you. your eyes forever stuck on the painfully hard cock you knew you'd been the culprit of.

"get off the phone, baby." you heard him mutter, voice gravelly as he pulled your legs half off the counter quickly, a noise somewhere between a laugh and shriek leaving your plush lips.

"pepper, i'm serious." you exhaled, as his fingers worked at your bra. it was a front clasp, you thought smiling. how would he get out of this one?

bucky pulled you up carefully by your back, hands traveling against your torso as his fingers searched gently for the clasp. his tongue swiped across the inside of his cheek as his fingers caressed the soft, frilly, lace of your bra.

without a single word, his brows crinkled, and not once did his eyes find at you for help. instead, they landed back on the front of your bra, looking at the small, metallic clasp of the flimsy fabric.

he snapped it open eagerly, working your hands out of the straps delicately as he bent forward, peppering the valley between you tits and cupping both of them, thumbs brushing over your perky nipples.

"he's s-such, a good bo-y!" you gasped, free hand grabbing his head to steady yourself as you watched his lips attach at one nipple. you held the phone away from you, humming unevenly to hide the lewd sighs and moans the two of you were letting out.

as he detached his lips from yours, you turned back to the phone, "m-mhm," you hummed, dazed. when you looked back at him, his boxers were gone, and in it's place, was his hand, wrapped around a long, hard cock that made your lips part and your thighs press together.

his eyes found yours, watching as your eyes zoned out on the flushed, pink tip. "hungry, sweetheart?" he asked as your eyes flickered back up to his, lips sealing shut immediately.

"mm-mm." you shook your head, biting down on your lip to hide your stupid grin, one that you knew would piss him right off.

"yeah, well i'll call you back, pep." you hummed, kicking your feet. as he walked over, leaning you back, you stared at him. he was so focused on your tits, opening the bottle of honey and still focused on them.

honey?

as fast as you'd noticed he'd opened the honey and brought it up to your tits, you'd instantly forgotten you were on the phone, "no—no! you can't be serious, jamie!" you scolded, holding his wrist as his eyes widened on the phone in your hand.

"wha—" you paused, realizing.

"who's jamie?" pepper's voice muttered through the phone, as your ears dusted pink, "i-i—the dog, my puppy." you quickly covered, as he rolled his eyes, letting the honey drizzle right over your hardened nipples.

you gasped quietly, "what's he doing?" he heard pepper ask, a malicious smile forming on his lips as he set the honey down, wiping a bit off your stomach and licking it off his finger.

"he—he's—" you stammered, and before you could finish your sentence, his lips were on you yet again.

he suckled on the sweetness of your tits, loudly lapping up the stickiness of it and swirling his tongue around the head of your nipple, fingers coating the other one softly in the substance.

"he's—making a mess," you divulged, fingers running through his hair as his tongue flicked all around you, "all over my—ah!" you hummed, "i-i gotta go, he's chewing me—my uh, bag."

"mhm, bye, y-yeah, talk to you later." as you quickly beeped the phone off, he cleaned the sweet-sticky attack on one side of your chest, moving on to the other side briskly.

"so hungry, aren't you, baby?" you hummed, hand running through his hair as you watched his hand work himself, "c'mere, i'll help you, honey."

he split your legs apart, moving himself easily between them as your hand replaced his, running up and down the length of his slick, hardened cock. "so focused, aren't you? if only you'd be this focused on keeping the floors clean." you mumble, watching his head tip up, pretty blue eyes gazing up at you.

you smiled, quickening your pace on his cock, rubbing him up and down and smearing the pre-cum on the tip with your thumb. his moan so pretty your legs squeezed against each side of him.

"fuck, good boy, jamie." you breathed with a soft smile.

and just like that, his hands tugged at you, pulling you feverishly close, an arm hooking around your waist as his free hand held your legs apart, finger rubbing your clit again.

bucky messed with you everywhere.

you gasped, craning neck giving him access as he bit down on your velvety skin. you felt his lips attach to the small space just below your ear, hearing him hum as he sucked a dark spot you'd have to blame on your straightener tomorrow.

"bucky—"

"i want you on my cock," he whispered, breath sending goosebumps down your skin as he pulled you up against him. your hand immediately flailed to grasp onto his broad shoulders as he walked the two of you over, adjusting himself on the couch. his hands were large, a bit calloused due to the drumsticks he was constantly gripping along with the wrenches used to fix the plumbing.

they held your ass pertly, leaving marks of his fingers digging into the plush of your skin. your fingers flexed against his shoulders at the feeling.

bucky held you on his lap perfectly, "you're so easy to carry," he whispered, burying his face back in your tits, fingers finding your ass as he squeezed the curve of your cheeks apart, "fuck, imagine if i just threw you over my shoulder every time you argue about my shoes 'nd shit on the fucking floor."

you laughed, completely unintentional, throwing him of guard from your usual scowl-like reaction to him.

"you're such an idiot, barnes." you whispered, lips pursed to hide your fond smile as your fingers smoothed his hair out of his face as he pulled away to fix his cock to your wet slit, "hold still for me, pretty."

"you're too—" you paused, pursing your lips as he tipped his head back up to you, "too what, baby?" he smiled, knowing what was just on the tip of your tongue. wishing it was him.

"nothing," you whispered, avoiding his gaze as he turned back to his cock, running the tip softly against your folds, fixating especially on your pulsing clit.

"ah—hmm!" you hissed, eyes shut as he pressed a kiss to your sternum, "too what, princess, tell me. i wanna know." he hummed as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

"just shut up and get over with it, asshole!" you groaned, "nuh-uh, am i too.. big for you?" he hummed. you could sense the smile in his voice for the hundredth time today, "n-no."

"you're trying not to smile, sweetheart." he murmured as you shook your head, hair falling in your face to hide your face, "ah-ah," bucky laughed, brushing your hair out of your face, "too late."

"shut up. jerk." you panted, tossing the hair in front of your face with a soft smile. you didn't wait for him before adjusting yourself and sinking yourself onto him.

the stretch felt eternal, he was big. you'd hated to admit it him. his ego would be blasting through the walls your room and drumming down the floor for weeks.

"at least you think there's something good about me," he whispered, resting his head on your shoulder as his hands trailed further, spreading your ass apart as you moaned at the feeling.

"i think—t-there's plenty good about—you." you whispered, fingers sliding through his locks as your second hand came up to hold his face.

"you're a good cook, for someone who wastes his talent on grilled cheese and scrambled eggs six days a week." you whispered as he laughed against your shoulder, pulling you close and kissing you there.

"and y-you clean the shower well, i hate doing dishes and you do those. you fix the—ah—pipes." you whispered, his fingers pressed into your hips as he refrained from letting out a noise at every twitch of your hips.

your breath hitched as you felt his cock bury itself in your cervix, "i-i can't—" you huffed, "it hurts?" he asked, eyes pooled with concern you didn't think he'd have. you paused immediately, you could take him.

right..?

"s'—fine, i'm fine, it feels good." you hummed, moving meticulously as you adjusted to the heat of him. his voice seemed to collect in the heat that bloomed in your gut, humming, hissing and groaning at every roll of your hips. as the two of you picked up your pace, skin slapping was the only sound that could be heard beside the hum of the dryer the hall.

"you're so tight, i—" bucky panted, holding his breath as he adjusted to your gummy walls, tightening every time you moved to adjust yourself, "i can't do this—i'm gonna cum and you just sat down."

"agh!" you groaned, fingers digging marks into his skin, "so wet," his breath tickling your collar, as he trailed his fingers down your torso, back to your clit like a safe house.

bucky's free hand dug deeper into your ass. he watched in awe as it bounced in sync with your tits every time you dropped back onto his cock, your core meeting his base with a wet shlick.

"w-we're not using a condom," he whispered, you nodded, "you still on the pill?" he asked, moving your hair off your shoulders, putting your perked up tits on full display, you nodded.

just as your core bloomed with a sensation burning you with pleasure, your eyes squeezed shut, fingers trembling as they held tight onto his biceps. a whine bubbled in the back of your throat as bucky smiled in satisfaction. you leaned forward against him for support as the arousal bled into you.

"i-i'm gonna cum, bucky—" you whined, head burying itself in his neck as he rubbed your back, slapping your ass as you gasped, pushing yourself off his chest, "what the hell?!"

"you're too perfect, princess." he smiled, winking before he fluttered his eyes shut, "everywhere, i could fuck you, anywhere. ruin you all over this stupid apartment, anywhere i want to." you hummed at his words, kissing just below his jaw, leaving small wet kisses trailing down his neck.

"fuck, angel, i'm close," he breathed, eyes closing as his head tipped back against the arm rest. "s-so close," you nodded quickly in agreement, whining against neck softly as he smiled, exhaling.

"ja—jamie," you gasped, back arching as his hands held you steady, your fingers tugged on his hair, and he groaned, the euphoric sounds overtaking the walls of your living room.

your walls clenched around his cock for the last time, milking him as a guttural moan escaped you, pink lips forming an 'o' as he flicked your clit once more with his thumb.

the pleasure overtook every one of your senses. your fingers dug into his biceps hard, lungs unable to catch up to your breathing, and your eyes squeezing themselves open to stare at the boy in front of you.

"oh fuck," bucky whispered, head tossing back as he bottomed out, his seed filling you satisfaction. you felt the warmth of him coating his cock and your walls as quickly as it was gone.

"that was amazing," you sighed, head falling against his collarbone as his hand ran up and down your side soothingly. "oh, was it?" he perked up, smiling.

"yes, it was, james." you sighed, eyes closed as you nestled into him further. "yeah, s'what i thought." his eyes dazed closed, "nobody's ever gonna fill you up and fuck you as good as i did, that right baby?" he whispered, eyes fluttering back open as he pressed a kiss to your hairline. you smiled, hiding it in the crook of his neck.

"shut up." you mumbled, muffled by his chest as he laughed, "better get cleaned up, got food coming in ten."

"ten?!" you shrieked, "when did you order food? and don't tell me it's some take out, i just had a salad this morning, i'd like to keep that streak. i've got a yoga class tomorrow."

"relax, princess," he whispered, hauling you up close, kissing your neck as you scoffed, "what are we eating, james?"

"soft tacos."

"you're kidding me." you sighed as he smiled against your neck, "you'll be glad i'm not."

"what kind?" you asked, crossing your arms as he pulled you even closer, "don't worry about that. you'll love 'em, me and the band get these ones all the time after gigs."

"they've got avocado in them." he hummed, shrugging, pulling away as you paused, letting out a sigh. "fine, shower first."

"yay," he watched you get up, wincing softly. "awh, looks like you're gonna need some help in that shower, huh, pretty girl?" he taunted, just as you turned around.

before you can retort back, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you up into his arms as you erupted into a fit of gasps and laughter.

he smiled, turning the tap on as you held onto his hand, "next weekend i'm eating you out, with honey."

"in your dreams, jackass." you rolled your eyes, stepping into the bathtub, him following shortly, grinning boyishly, "or maybe i'll just eat you out in here."

"yeah, and then you'll be too full for a meal." you rolled your eyes, stepping under the water for the second time today.

he huffed, smiling as his hands wrapped around your waist, nudging your head beneath his chin, "you should steal my shirts more often."

hihi!!! hope everyone enjoyed, this was partially based on this:

i'm loving this shit man, eating it the fuck up. also, preferences, should i write my fics in the subscript (this smaller) font, or do you guys like this bigger one? lmk! i really feel like writing a full fic like this, i've already published an intro on wattpad, (the matchbox) but i'll likely write it on here or ao3, i'm very new to that so it's gonna take me a bit, and i'm also trying to take a break so everythings tbd as of now. hope you enjoyed ! happy house tour!!

oc ( rhea, who the reader's based off) playlist, the matchbox / house tour playlist, bucky's playlist.

his hand tightened slightly around your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.

bucky always loved hearing you gasp.

every single nerve was on fire as his thick cock slid in and out of you, leaving behind a wet, vulgar squelching noise with each hard thrust. every time you and bucky fucked, he always managed to stretch you out impossibly more. the initial burn of getting split open by him was always intense, but the pleasure afterward was incredible—so great that you were left a mewling, crying mess in his arms. and he loved seeing you like this.

“fuuuck, baby,” he grunted, long strands of dark hair framing his face as he stared at you with blown out, hungry eyes. “so fuckin’ small—so small in my arms, but you can take it. you always do.”

your head was dizzy with desire. the way bucky was looking at you, the way he held you against his big, warm body, it could make you cum right there in his lap. you felt like you were high on drugs. the entire room reeked of sex, sweat, and a masculine scent that was purely him.

“oh my god—!”

bucky gritted his teeth, a snarl escaping him as he felt your walls clench around him. your bouncing was uneven and your legs were shaking. you were close. so fucking close, and bucky could feel every flutter and pulse your tight body had to give him.

“bucky, baby,” you gasped, eyes rolling back, “i’m getting close!”

sweat beaded down bucky’s forehead as his grip tightened on your hips, his face contorting at your admission.

“i know, sweets,” he groaned. “fuck. i know you are. shit—”

bucky started to grumble and groan, a telltale sign that he was nearing his own peak. his hands—already rough and demanding—squeezed and gripped you everywhere. his mechanical left arm whirred with the effort of holding back, trying to be gentle. his hips pounded up to meet yours, letting you feel the thick bulge of his lower stomach and the unkept hair at the base of his cock.

“fuuck, mph, ah—shit, baby.”

he cursed, mumbling incoherently under his breath. the sight of your ass bouncing against him as his thick cock slid in and out was enough to drive any man mad. bucky was glad pregnancy wasn’t a concern, because he couldn’t resist fucking you bare.

“shit, i’m gonna cum, sweets,” he groaned as you felt him twitch and throb inside you.

your moans rose in pitch, arching your back even more as you ground yourself onto his lap. your legs shook as your release finally consumed you. “fuck—i’m cumming, bucky…!”

“good girl,” he soothed approvingly, relishing the way you spasmed and clenched around him as you came undone. you let out a high squeal, crying out his name in a way that sounded like music to his ears.

“gooood fucking girl. squeezing all over me, baby. shit. gonna pump myself deep inside, and you’re gonna take every bit of it.”

his thrusts sped up, making you feel dizzy and overstimulated, and all you could do was mewl helplessly as he used you like a personal sex toy.

“fuck—take every last drop, baby.”

both his hands—one cool and one hot—slid down to your hips, holding you tight against his lap as his hard cock pulsed and throbbed until he finally began to spill out. it was thick and warm, making your lower stomach feel sensitive.

bucky always came so much, and it was his personal duty to make sure you were always full of it. the only time he would pull out was when he finally saw his seed seeping out of you, dampening the dark curls at his pelvis.

he leaned back, taking in the debauched sight of you with a deep exhale. perfect. this was always so perfect.