Ⓡⓞⓢⓢ

One passed close enough that the wind of it tugged at his tunic.

He started walking.

His gaze roamed over everything: the glass fronts of the shops, the painted signs, the wires strung between buildings like black veins against the grey sky. And the people.

Lord, the people.

Men in strange short coats and narrow hats. Women with bare legs, bare arms, painted mouths, walking alone as though the world had not lost its mind.

Another contraption rolled past him.

A man balanced on a device with two impossibly thin wheels, propelling himself forward with his own legs pumping at metal arms near the ground. No horse. No visible engine or magic. Just the man and the skeletal black frame beneath him, moving at a speed no human should manage on foot.

Bucky stopped dead.

The thing came at him with no reins, no visible means of being controlled beyond the rider's boots working those narrow metal arms. Its wheels were impossibly thin, its bell giving a sharp little trill that cut through the street noise like a thrown knife.

The rider leaned around him at the last possible moment, coat flapping, one hand lifted from the handlebar in furious accusation.

"Watch it, pal!"

Bucky turned with him, tracking the motion, the insult, the impossible narrow-wheeled thing as it shot past his shoulder close enough that he felt the brush of air against his sleeve. His boots moved half a step off the curb before his mind had decided anything useful.

A horn blared. A flat, mechanical scream that didn't belong to any animal he'd ever heard.

He turned back just as one of those horseless carriages -wide and green and shining like a beetle's carapace- bore down on him with two round eyes burning pale through the grey morning. For a heartbeat, he stood rooted to the ground, unable to make his legs obey.

Then, a hand closed around his left wrist.

The contact went through him like a struck bell, and his whole body answered before thought could intervene, muscles jerking in the direction of the grip, boots scraping over wet pavement as he stumbled backward.

Pain lit up his ribs, white and vicious. The green beast roared past close enough that its wind slapped cold against his face, horn still bellowing as the driver shouted something filthy through an open window and did not stop.

Bucky hit the edge of the sidewalk hard enough to jar his teeth.

The woman struck him in the arm a second later with her free hand. Not hard, exactly, but sharp enough to snap him back to his senses.

"What is wrong with you?"

He stared at the place where the carriage had been, watching it disappear down the street.

The traffic kept moving as if nothing had happened.

Another one followed behind it. Dark blue this time. Smaller. More of them farther down the road, parked along the curb like sleeping beasts, their windows reflecting pieces of the sky in impossibly clear glass.

His wrist was still held.

He looked down at it.

Her fingers were wrapped tight enough to blanch the skin beneath her own knuckles. She seemed to realize it at the same moment he did and let go at once, as if his skin had burned her.

Her mouth moved. Red. That impossible red, angry now.

"Do you have a special wish to die this morning?"

He heard the words. Understood them individually. Could not make them gather into meaning.

His hands were empty. He had no sword. No shield. No idea what kingdom this was, what laws governed it, what god had built machines to transport people without horses as though it were the most natural thing in the world, people walking past in their strange attire as if nothing remarkable had happened.

His chest worked once.

Then again.

The breath would not settle.

He tried to force it down into the place where his discipline lived. The old place. The trained place. The place that had carried him through broken ribs, frozen marches, cells too dark to measure time in, men asking questions with tools because words had failed to satisfy them.

It was there.

He could feel its shape, familiar as the weight of a sword, but he simply could not reach it.

The street stretched wide before him, slick and grey, full of motion. The wires overhead trembled in the wind. Somewhere nearby, unseen machinery thudded and clanged. A woman laughed. A dog barked. Another horn sounded in the distance, and his shoulders flinched before he could stop them.

----

She saw the flinch.

It was small, almost nothing, just the quick betrayal of his shoulders at the distant horn, but it made whatever else she had been about to say die behind her lips.

Her question was still there between them, and he had not answered it.

Not that he was ignoring her. Not exactly. Men ignored women in a variety of ways, and she had developed, over the course of owning a business and being alive in general, a fairly extensive catalogue.

This wasn't that.

This man was not ignoring her.

He was… not there. Not properly.

He stood six inches from her on the sidewalk outside her own shop, broad and filthy and absurd in those boots, and looked past her with eyes that had gone distant in a way that made the back of her neck prickle.

The color had drained from his face.

The bruise along his cheekbone looked darker for it, purple-black against the sudden pallor. The cut above his brow, which she had almost forgotten in the general catastrophe of him, had opened again somehow; a thin line of red slipped down toward his temple.

His body was trembling.

Not dramatically. Nothing anyone passing by would notice unless they were close enough to see the tiny, involuntary shiver running through his hands. Through his jaw. Through the tendons in his neck, standing out like rope under skin.

She saw it because she was standing too close.

Because she had grabbed his wrist and felt the shock.

Because for one terrible second, when the car had come at him, and he had simply stood there, she had known with absolute certainty that he was about to die in front of The Sweet Briar before the shop had even opened for the day.

Her own heart was still beating in her throat.

"You could have been killed," she said, quieter this time.

He did not answer.

His gaze flicked once to the street, then to the cars, then upward to the wires, then back to the place where the green car had disappeared around the corner. Too much. That was what his face said now, beneath the stubbornness, beneath the absurd severity of all that knight-of-the-realm nonsense.

Her anger lost its footing.

Damn him.

Damn him for being frightening, and rude, and possibly insane, and then standing there looking like a lost thing that had wandered too far from wherever it belonged.

"Mr. Barnes," she said carefully.

His eyes moved to her face. Not focused, at first.

She lifted both hands a little, palms angled toward him in what she hoped was a calming gesture.

"Listen to me," she said. "You need to come back inside."

His jaw shifted.

"No."

Of course.

Of course the man who had nearly been flattened by a sedan five seconds ago still had room in him to be obstinate.

She took a breath and counted to three.

"Fine. Stay out here. Get yourself killed. But do it after lunch hour, so at least my customers don't have to step over you to buy lilies."

Something passed across his face. A flicker. Not amusement, exactly, but something close to it. Then his attention cut past her shoulder.

She followed it automatically.

A patrolman was coming down the opposite side of Camden Street from the corner near Levinson's pharmacy, where the sidewalk opened into a clear view of the street in front of her shop.

He must have seen the bicycle swerve. Must have seen the car skim by close enough to make two women outside the bakery gasp into their gloves.

And now he was looking directly at her companion.

At the strange clothes. The long hair. The bruising on his face. The blood at his brow. The size of him. The way he stood there, pale and shaking and not quite oriented toward the world around him.

The patrolman adjusted his cap and crossed the street at an angle, long strides eating up the wet pavement with purpose.

Oh, wonderful.

Perfect.

Exactly what the morning needed.

She turned back to Mr. Barnes.

Something in him changed. The trembling did not stop, but it went underground, forced beneath a sudden hardening of posture. His shoulders squared. His chin lifted. The lost look vanished so quickly that if she had not been watching, she might have thought she'd imagined it.

A mask, she realized.

No. Not a mask.

An armor.

He didn’t have one, so his face became it.

"Don't," she said under her breath.

His eyes did not leave the approaching patrolman. "Don't what."

"Whatever it is you're about to do."

"I am doing nothing."

"You're standing like you're about to challenge the entire police department to single combat."

His gaze cut briefly to her, offended despite everything. "I don't know what that is."

"That," she said, pointing with one discrete motion of her head toward the uniform, "is a policeman. He keeps order. He asks questions. He carries a gun. And if you call him a knave or try to throw him to the floor, this morning is going to get much worse for both of us."

The word gun did something. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"A guardsman."

"Close enough."

"Yours?"

"What?"

"Is he yours?"

She stared at him. "No, he is not mine. I don't keep policemen."

The patrolman was halfway across the street now. She had perhaps eight seconds before he reached them.

Eight seconds to decide whether to tell the truth -which would sound insane- or lie.

This strange, injured man appeared in my locked stockroom. He says he's a medieval knight and believes I'm a witch. Oh, and he almost died because he doesn't understand automobiles.

Yes, officer, please take him somewhere kind.

But there was nowhere kind, and that was the problem.

She knew enough about the state institutions to know that. A man like him was not gently escorted to a warm bed and a sensible doctor. A man like this would get handcuffed if he startled the wrong person. A cell if he argued. A hospital ward, if someone felt charitable. An institution, if someone with authority decided his mind was more inconvenient than treatable.

The officer stepped up onto the curb.

"Morning, ma'am," he said, though his eyes stayed mostly on Barnes. "Everything all right here?"

She smiled.

It was not a good smile. It arrived quickly and had too many teeth, the kind of smile that fooled absolutely no one but was required by the social contract.

"Good morning, officer."

Barnes looked at her.

She felt it rather than saw it, the sudden sharp turn of his attention. Suspicious. Assessing. Probably wondering if she was about to have him arrested, detained, executed, or whatever else knights expected from guardsmen in impossible cities.

She kept smiling.

"Had a little scare, that's all."

The patrolman's gaze moved over the man beside her again, slow and professional, cataloguing details. "Looked like your friend here nearly stepped in front of a car."

Friend.

The word hung there, wrong and convenient.

Barnes's expression did not change, but she could feel his objection forming between his brows like a gathering storm.

She stepped on it before it could speak.

"My cousin," she said.

The patrolman blinked. So did the man beside her.

She did not look at him.

"My cousin," she repeated, silently kicking herself for the flimsy excuse even as she committed to it. "From up north."

The patrolman's brows lifted slightly.

"Up north."

"A little town near Mount Katahdin. Very remote, really. Hardly any roads to speak of."

Behind her, he drew a slow breath through his nose. She could feel judgment radiating from him like heat from a stove. She ignored it.

"He came in early this morning, he’s looking for a job, you see," she continued with a bright tone. "He's had a long trip and hardly slept. He’s a stubborn backwoodsman with no sense around traffic. He was bewildered by the view, and then that bicycle startled him, and- well. You saw what happened.”

"I saw him walk into traffic."

"Yes. He does that."

The patrolman squinted at her, and she immediately regretted having a mouth.

"I mean," she amended quickly, "he doesn't usually do that. Obviously. That would be very troubling as a habit. He's just tired. Disoriented. And he took a fall yesterday, so he's not entirely himself."

The officer's gaze went to the bruise on Barnes's cheek, then the cut above his brow, lingering there with professional interest.

"A fall."

"From a horse," she said.

That, at least, felt thematically appropriate.

Barnes's head turned very, very slowly toward her.

She gave him a look that she hoped communicated several things at once, including but not limited to: be quiet, I am saving you, and if you ruin this, I will personally murder you with a pair of pruning shears.

Miraculously, he said nothing.

The patrolman studied him for a long moment.

"That true, sir?"

His eyes moved from her to the officer.

A pause. Too long. Much too long.

Then, with grave reluctance, "I was unseated."

Her eyes nearly closed with relief.

The patrolman seemed to accept this, or at least failed to find the obvious hole in it quickly enough to press. Maybe it was too early in the morning for him, too.

"Looks like you ought to have a doctor look at that."

"He will," she said firmly.

"I do not require-"

"He will," she repeated, louder, and smiled harder at the patrolman. "As soon as I get him inside and settled. He also needs a change of clothing, as you can see. Can't have him walking around looking like he lost a fight with a hay wagon."

The officer looked between them, considering.

The moment stretched.

Someone across the street had stopped pretending not to watch. Mrs. Kaplan from the bakery stood with one hand on her door, eyes bright with the terrible appetite of neighborhood gossip that would fuel conversations for a week.

No.

Absolutely not.

She could not have this become a story before mid-morning.

The patrolman finally nodded once, seeming to decide the situation was odd but not dangerous.

"Best keep him out of the road, then."

"That is very much my plan."

The man's gaze flicked to Barnes one more time. "You take care, sir. City streets aren't forgiving."

He looked at the road, then back at the officer, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and oddly sincere.

"No," he said. "They are not."

Something in his tone made the patrolman pause, a flicker of concern crossing his features. But then he simply tipped his cap to her.

"Ma'am."

"Officer."

He moved on, though not quickly. She watched him walk back down the block toward the pharmacy, glancing back once before he reached the corner.

Only when he had turned out of sight did she let the smile fall off her face like an abandoned coat.

He was staring at her.

"What," she said flatly.

His expression was unreadable again, which she was beginning to suspect meant he was feeling several things at once and had decided none of them were fit for public display.

"Your cousin," he said.

"It was the first thing that came to mind."

"From up north."

"It seemed plausible."

"It did not."

"Well, he bought it, didn't he?"

"Did he?"

She looked toward the corner where the patrolman had disappeared. Then at Mrs. Kaplan, who was still watching from the bakery window like a hawk spotting a rabbit. Then at the two women whispering near the bus stop. Then at him, standing there like a brawl in human form, bleeding gently onto the collar of his impossible shirt.

"Maybe," she admitted.

A horn blared somewhere down the street, and he flinched.

Small, contained and brutally fast.

But she saw it.

His jaw clenched afterward, as if he could trap the reaction between his teeth and kill it there.

She sighed, feeling what was left of her anger drain away and leave behind something uncomfortably close to pity. And the very reasonable desire to shove him back into the street herself and let nature finish what the sedan had started.

But beneath all of it was the fact of him: pale, shaking, hurt, completely unmoored, and looking at Camden Street as if it were a battlefield he'd stumbled onto without armor or weapons or any idea which side he was meant to be fighting for.

"Inside," she said.

His eyes narrowed.

She pointed at the shop door behind them.

"Now."

"I told you-"

"I lied to a policeman for you, Mr. Barnes, so unless you'd like me to call him back and explain that you are not, in fact, my cousin from up north, you are going to walk through that door, sit down somewhere that is not my begonias, and let me clean the blood off your face before Mrs. Kaplan decides to come over here and ask questions I cannot answer."

He stared at her.

For one second, she could almost see the refusal rise in him, proud and immediate and utterly stupid.

Then another car passed, and he did not look at it; that was how she knew it had frightened him. Then, he turned toward the flower shop without another word.

The bell above the door gave its bright chime as he stepped back inside.

She followed, locked the door behind them, and flipped the sign to CLOSED with more force than strictly necessary.

----

Bucky heard the bolt slide into place with a soft, final click.

A small sound. Ordinary, probably, to her. To him, it landed with considerably more weight. The sound of a cell door, a gate closing, an exit sealed.

He turned his head to her.

She reached up and drew down a strange fabric stretched between narrow wooden slats that clattered softly as it descended, stopping halfway down the window. Not a curtain, exactly. Something that rolled and caught on a mechanism he couldn't see.

He noticed everything, apparently, except the things that might keep him from nearly being killed by horseless carriages.

"Come on," she said and walked past him toward the rear of the shop.

There were, at present, too many questions in his head. They had gathered in his head like crows on a battlefield fence, black and loud and waiting for something to die.

So he followed.

The shop looked different from behind her.

That was not a thought he should have had.

It arrived anyway, unbidden and unhelpful.

Her skirt moved when she walked, a soft, hypnotic sway that drew the eye, brushing the backs of her knees with each step, and below that, the bare skin of her calves caught the morning light filtering through the half-drawn shade.

The sight shouldn't have affected him the way it did.

He'd seen far worse immodesty in camp followers, tavern girls who unlaced their bodices for coin, even a countess once who'd been shameless enough to receive him in his own chambers in nothing but a loose shift that left very little to imagination.

But this felt different somehow.

Deliberate in its casualness. Ordinary in its brazenness.

As if every woman in this godforsaken century simply walked around like this, and he was the fool for noticing.

He wrenched his gaze toward the nearest bucket of flowers with such determination that he might as well have been preparing to duel it.

Roses.

White ones, their petals just beginning to unfurl, with the faintest blush of pink at the heart of each bloom. Innocent. Chaste. Entirely safe to look at.

Unlike certain other things in this room.

She reached the back room and stepped aside, pointing toward a chair beside the worktable.

"Sit."

He looked at it with immediate suspicion.

The chair was made of metal. Thin silver legs bent in a precise curve, holding up a seat covered in some smooth green material that was neither leather nor cloth. It shone faintly under the light overhead, reflecting the ceiling in a way that seemed unnatural.

Bucky stared at it for a second too long.

"It's a chair," she seemed fit to clarify.

"I can see that."

"Wonderful. Then use it."

He should not have.

There were several reasons he should not have.

For one, it was unwise to place himself at a disadvantage in a room he did not understand, with a woman he did not know, in a century that seemed very committed to making a fool of him at every opportunity.

For another, it was utterly inappropriate.

There was no servant. No matron tucked into the corner with her embroidery and her sharp little coughs to remind them of propriety. No chaperone at all to lend respectability to the fact that this woman was about to put her hands near his face, possibly his body, while the two of them were alone behind a locked door.

A decent man would object.

A prudent man would leave.

He sat.

The metal chair gave a faint protesting creak beneath his weight but did not collapse, which was more than he had expected from something built with legs that narrow. The act of lowering himself was unpleasant. His ribs had apparently chosen this moment to remind him -in exhaustive detail- that they had been cracked before the universe had lost its mind and had not improved during the intervening catastrophe.

His breath caught despite his best efforts.

She noticed. Her gaze flicked down to his side, then back up, too quick to be called staring and too sharp to be accidental.

"You hurt your ribs?"

"No."

She gave him a look that suggested she had heard better lies from children.

He met it stubbornly.

A pause.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Thought so."

She turned toward a small wooden cabinet mounted low on the wall and crouched down. From inside, she pulled out a metal case. Small, rectangular, with a hinged lid and a painted red cross on the top.

A coffer, his mind supplied automatically, though it was made of metal rather than wood, and far too uniform in its construction to have been hammered by any smith he knew.

She set it on the worktable and flipped the latch.

The cross should have been reassuring.

It was not.

Inside were bottles, tins, folded cloths, strange implements he had no names for. She began sorting through them, and he watched her hands move.

Competent hands. Not delicate, though they looked as if they could be when they wanted to. She knew where things were, even in the disorder. She found a clean cloth, a small brown bottle, and a roll of white bandaging and set them on the table.

He cleared his throat and she glanced over her shoulder.

The words should have come easily. Courtesy did, when one was raised with enough of it beaten in by tutors and lords and the general expectation of civilized behavior.

He had thanked lords he despised, maesters who'd prodded at wounds, servants who'd brought water, boys who'd held horses, women who had done far less for him than lie to an armed city guardsman.

Still, it took him a moment.

"For what you said to the guardsman," he began carefully. "Outside."

Her hands stilled completely. She turned to face him, the cloth still held loosely in her fingers.

"The policeman," she corrected gently.

"The policeman," he repeated, the word still feeling foreign on his tongue. He met her eyes. "For that. You have my thanks."

Something in her expression softened. The wariness didn't disappear entirely, but it eased.

"You're welcome," she said simply.

She set the cloth down on the worktable and leaned back against it, her hands bracing on the edge behind her. The posture was less guarded than before.

"Though for the record," she added, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice now, "you made that more difficult than it needed to be."

He shifted in the metal chair, wincing slightly as his ribs protested. "I said very little."

"You said it with the face of a man about to fight." She tilted her head, studying him.

“I was inquired by a law enforcement."

"You were asked whether you fell off a horse." She crossed her ankles, settling more comfortably against the table. The motion drew his eye briefly to those impossible shoes before he forced his gaze back to her face.

"I was unseated," he corrected with careful dignity.

She blinked at him for a moment.

Then her lips curved into something that was almost a smile, warm in a way that made something in his chest tug unexpectedly.

"Fallen, unseated…" she said softly, waving her hand.

The strange thing was, he almost wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her that it was not the same thing at all.

That falling could be clumsy, careless, the result of poor seat or a man who didn't know his business. Being unseated meant impact, skill, another man's force meeting yours at the exact angle required to take you from the saddle despite everything you did to prevent it.

There was dignity in the distinction.

But she was looking at him with something gentler than he'd seen from her yet. So he did not explain. He was, as she had said, trying not to make things more difficult than they needed to be.

Also, and more pressing, he was hungry.

The realization came with embarrassing force now that he was seated and no longer fighting for his life against bicycles and automobiles. He had not eaten since before the tournament.

Had meant to, after. Had meant to remove his armor, find bread and stew at the tavern down the street, and perhaps sleep for half a day if his luck could be persuaded toward mercy for once.

Instead, he had put on a cursed ring and been thrown into a florist's back room nearly six centuries from where he belonged.

His stomach gave a low, traitorous growl that echoed in the stockroom with all the subtlety of a church bell at matins.

The woman paused mid-motion.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Lord.

When he opened them, she was looking at him with something that might have been concern or exasperation or both.

"When did you last eat?"

He considered lying.

His stomach, apparently tired of his pride, made the answer unnecessary by growling again, louder this time.

She set the cloth down with a soft sigh.

"Right," she said. "Blood first. Food after."

"That’s not-"

"Mr. Barnes."

He stopped.

Her tone had changed. It was the voice of a woman who had discovered the exact amount of patience she possessed and found him standing at the far edge of it with his boots on.

"You are bleeding, you nearly got killed by a car, and I have already lied to a policeman before midday.” She gestured at the chair, less sharp than simply direct. "Sit still and let me clean that before you pass out and make this morning worse than it already is. Then, we'll figure out food."

He was opening his mouth to object-

"Please," she added, and something about her tone reached him. So he leaned back in the metal chair and said nothing.

She seemed to take that as victory.

Perhaps it was.

She stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. He caught her scent more clearly now: flowers, yes, but also something faintly powdery and sweet that he couldn't name. Soap, perhaps. Or some cosmetic concoction women of this time favored.

The cloth in her hand was damp; he could see the darkness of moisture against the white fabric.

He kept perfectly still.

She bent toward him, close enough that her breath would have touched his face if she'd spoken, and then her fingers touched his jaw.

The contact was brief, impersonal, the gesture of someone accustomed to arranging things precisely.

It went through him like a strike of flint.

His breath caught with the sudden, with the unwelcome awareness of how close she was. How warm. How the neckline of her dress sat just low enough that if he dropped his gaze even slightly-

He locked his eyes on the ceiling and kept them there.

"Hold still," she said quietly.

He was already still. Rigid as a man in armor, every muscle tense by the maddening fact that her thumb was resting just below his jaw, her fingertips cool against the edge of his beard.

The damp cloth touched his brow.

Cool. Clean. It stung where the cut was, a sharp little bite that he barely felt through everything else.

What he felt was her.

The bend of her body as she leaned in. The brush of her skirt against his knee. Brief, accidental, gone before he could react. The small crease of concentration between her brows as she worked, utterly focused, utterly unaware of what the simple act of touching him was doing.

She tilted his face slightly toward the light.

His jaw shifted under her hand, and the movement made her fingers slide -just barely- along the line of bone and muscle beneath his ear.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck.

This was absurd.

She was cleaning a wound. Nothing more. She had shown him no interest beyond the bare minimum of human decency, and even that had been grudging. She thought him mad, or damaged, or some combination of both. She had called him cousin to a lawman to avoid further inconvenience.

And here he sat, breathing too carefully, thinking about what it would feel like if those hands moved with intent instead of practicality. If they slid into his hair. If her thumb pressed just a little harder against his throat. If she leaned closer and-

Fuck.

He was acting like some green boy again.

Worse. He was acting like a man who hadn't been touched by anyone in far too long, and whose body had decided now -of all the godsforsaken moments- was the time to remind him of it.

The cloth moved to his cheekbone, gentler now, following the edge of the bruise.

"It's not deep," she said after a moment. "Won't need stitches. Just needs to be clean."

"I've had worse." He managed.

"I don't doubt it."

She stepped back, and the absence of her touch was immediate and disorienting. She studied her work, then reached for the brown bottle, uncorking it with a soft pop.

The smell hit him immediately. Sharp. Medicinal. Something that burned the inside of his nose and made his eyes water.

"This is going to sting," she warned.

"I can-"

She dabbed it on before he could finish.

It did not sting.

It burned like the fires of hell had been distilled into liquid form and applied directly to his face.

He did not move. Did not make a sound.

His hand, however, gripped the edge of the metal chair hard enough that he heard the frame creak.

"Sorry," she said, and she actually sounded it. "It's awful, but it'll keep it from getting infected."

He managed a nod, not trusting his voice.

She corked the bottle and set it aside, examining the cut again, and then stepped back fully, putting a respectable distance between them, and he could breathe again.

Then his stomach growled. Again. Loud and shameless.

She paused.

He watched something shift in her expression, watched her think. Her gaze went to the little corner table where the tin of those dried herbs sat, and her mouth pressed into a thoughtful line.

"I don't have much here," she said slowly. "It's a stockroom, not a kitchen. Tea and stale biscuits in some corner, mostly."

He opened his mouth to tell her it didn't matter, that he required nothing-

"Wait here," she said abruptly.

Before he could object, she was already moving toward the front of the shop, pulling a key from somewhere in her skirt and unlocking the door.

"Don't touch anything," she added over her shoulder. "And for God's sake, don't go outside again."

The bell chimed.

The door closed.

He sat alone in the stockroom, surrounded by buckets of flowers and incomprehensible objects, with no earthly idea where she had gone or whether she would return.

For a brief, ungenerous moment, he considered the possibility that she had simply gone to fetch the authorities after all. Left him here to be collected like a stray dog.

He could not have blamed her if she had.

But he stayed.

Partly because his ribs ached and his legs felt unsteady, and the metal chair, absurd as it was, held his weight. Partly because the door to the street terrified him in a way he was not prepared to examine.

And partly -mostly- because some quiet, exhausted part of him had decided to trust her, and he was too tired to argue with it.

Time passed. He did not know how much. Somewhere beyond the walls, the muffled sounds of the impossible city continued: horns, voices, the rumble of those horseless carriages.

Then the bell chimed again, and he heard the click of her heels through the shop. She reappeared through the storage door with a brown paper sack clutched in one hand.

"Here," she said, crossing to him and holding it out. "Eat this before you fall over."

He took it cautiously.

The sack was warm. And the smell…

God, the smell.

Something rich and savory drifted up from inside, meat and bread and something he couldn't identify, and his mouth flooded with saliva before he'd even looked inside.

He opened it.

Within was a strange construction: two thick slices of bread pressed together, and between them, slices of roasted meat layered with melted cheese, what appeared to be a cooked egg, and some green leaves he didn't recognize.

He turned it over, examining the oddity from several angles.

"It's a sandwich," she said, watching his confusion with poorly concealed amusement. "Roast beef. From the diner on the corner. You eat it. With your hands."

A sandwich.

He had never heard the term. Never seen meat and bread arranged in such a deliberate, portable fashion. In his world, meat was served on a trencher, or in a pie, or skewered over a fire. Not... stacked.

The smell did not care about his confusion, and his stomach growled a third time, traitorous and insistent, and he abandoned his examination in favor of simply eating.

The first bite was a revelation.

Warm bread. Tender meat, properly seasoned. The richness of the cheese, the unexpected softness of the egg, the crunch of whatever green leaves she'd called them.

It was, without exaggeration, one of the finest things he had ever tasted.

He ate with more control than he felt, forcing himself to chew, to pace himself, to not devour the entire thing in three bites like a starving animal.

She watched him for a moment, then turned away to give him privacy.

He was grateful for it.

When he'd finished -every crumb, every scrap, the paper sack reduced to a crumpled ball in his fist- he set it down carefully and cleared his throat.

She turned.

"Better?"

"Yes." His voice came out rough. "Thank you. That was..."

He didn't have words for what it was.

A sandwich, apparently.

"...generous of you," he finished.

She nodded, accepting it, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

The silence stretched, not quite comfortable but not hostile either. Finally, she crossed her arms over her chest in a way that was becoming familiar.

"So," she said. "What are we going to do with you, Mr. Barnes?"

He looked at her standing there in her scandalously short skirt and her impossible shoes.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

Next Chapter

Masterlist.

Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writer’s block.

You’d been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.

With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that day’s mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partner’s constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadn’t heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.

The positive pregnancy test.

The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since you’d seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didn’t dare to accept.

You had no idea what to do.

During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadn’t imagined himself as a father and wasn’t even sure he could ever be one; after everything he’d been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didn’t feel it was the right time either.

And yet, there you were.

Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.

The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words weren’t expressing.

Your heart was beating too fast.

The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.

His expression changed instantly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.

His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.

That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier you’d been maintaining throughout the conversation.

The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Time seemed to stand still.

A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Bucky’s eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.

You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.

“I took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usual…” you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. “I thought it would be a false alarm, but… it came back positive.”

As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.

“When…?” he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.

The question didn’t seem directed at you, but at his own memories.

He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.

That night.

The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.

In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.

Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.

You parted your lips shyly, ready to say something—anything—to break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didn’t expect an immediate answer, that you didn’t know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.

But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.

The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.

He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.

“I need some air…” he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.

There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.

You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.

For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.

It didn’t happen.

The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.

You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts you’d been trying to hold back.

☆

The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show you’d been trying to follow for over an hour without success.

You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.

Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didn’t really see what was happening on it.

Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.

The positive test.

Bucky’s expression when you told him.

The way he’d let go of your hand.

And, above all, the door closing behind him.

It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.

Five hours without a call.

Five hours without a reply to any of the messages you’d sent him with trembling hands—messages that had gone from a simple “Are you okay?” to a worried “Just tell me where you are.”

The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.

You were worried about him.

You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything he’d been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadn’t even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.

He had never told you he didn’t want children, but he hadn’t said he wanted them either.

And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.

Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.

About what that new life growing inside your body meant.

About how it would change your future.

About whether you would be able to handle it.

About whether you would be alone.

A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.

The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.

And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.

You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.

The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since you’d broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.

Silence settled between you once more.

You couldn’t help but notice the state he’d returned in.

His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadn’t found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.

But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.

His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.

He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that…”

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.

He walked over to the light switch and turned on the room’s light.

The warm glow instantly filled every corner.

You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.

Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.

Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if he’d been struck by a silent blow.

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.

With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.

The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.

He didn’t try to touch you, but he didn’t move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.

Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.

Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.

“I walked down to the pier…” he murmured without looking up. “Then I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere… I just needed my head to stop making noise.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.

“I didn’t answer because… I didn’t know what to say.”

The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.

“And because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.

“I was never good at this.”

He didn’t specify what he meant, and you weren’t sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.

The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasn’t physical.

Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.

He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.

For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.

You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.

“What do you want to do?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.

The question hung between you.

Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to read—a bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.

He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.

"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.

It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.

He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.

"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."

☆

The next day, the uncertainty was still there.

After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.

It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.

After discussing it briefly over breakfast—if you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfast—you decided to go to the hospital.

An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldn’t have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.

When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.

You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Bucky’s hand and gripped it tightly.

He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.

He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.

The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.

The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.

Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.

Week 4—Poppy seed.

Week 6—Lentil.

Week 7—Chickpea.

Week 8—Cherry.

Week 9—Olive.

And the weeks and illustrations went on.

The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.

You swallowed hard as you clung to Bucky’s hand.

Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.

He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.

When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.

Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.

Without realizing it, you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.

The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.

The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.

The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.

To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.

To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.

You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.

Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your hand—an almost automatic movement that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.

It was strange and overwhelming for him.

A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.

The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.

Maybe the test had failed after all.

Maybe your period was just coming soon.

Maybe...

“There it is.”

Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.

She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.

“It’s still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.”

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a false positive.

It was real.

Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two people’s lives so completely.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.

His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.

The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.

Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.

At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since they’d entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.

He looked completely vulnerable.

And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.

It wasn’t a “no.” It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldn’t bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.

“We… We need to talk about this first,” you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.

The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Bucky’s side, where her desk was.

“It seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,” she explained calmly. “We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.”

You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.

Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.

Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't ask any questions.

He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.

☆

The days that followed weren't easy.

Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.

You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.

But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.

Things didn’t seem any easier for Bucky either.

He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.

He didn’t say why—and probably never would—but it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didn’t know how to be there for you.

Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each other’s mere presence.

It was his way of saying he was still there.

There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.

You’d curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.

Other afternoons, you’d cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.

They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.

For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.

But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.

It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.

It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its mother’s tightly as they crossed the street.

Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.

Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.

He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.

The words remained trapped inside him.

He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldn’t come out either.

The nights were the worst.

There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.

You’d wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.

Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.

You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.

You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.

The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times you’d held it in the early hours of the morning.

You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.

That was all.

A tiny speck.

And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.

What you didn’t know was that those worn corners weren’t just your fault.

Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.

He didn’t interrupt.

He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.

He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.

A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.

He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.

He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.

You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.

According to one of the posters in the doctor’s office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.

It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.

For days you’d tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.

You’d tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.

Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.

You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.

It was something else.

A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.

It was hope.

Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.

They weren’t tears of anguish.

Not entirely.

They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.

“I want to get to know you…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

The decision was made.

The fear hadn’t disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.

☆

When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.

The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.

He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. He’d been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.

You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.

The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smile—so small that anyone could have easily missed it.

“Good morning, sweetheart…” he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.

He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.

“Good morning, Buck…” you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.

For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.

It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each other’s hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each other’s warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.

A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.

But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.

It was the look you had when you’d already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.

The faint trace of his smile vanished.

The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.

“I know what I want to do…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper.

Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.

Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want to continue with the pregnancy.”

Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.

Bucky remained completely still.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t pull his hand away.

His expression didn’t change.

He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.

Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.

His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.

Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.

It wasn’t fear of the baby or of the decision you’d made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, he’d discovered a truth he’d never wanted to admit.

He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.

He wanted that pregnancy to continue.

He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.

He wanted to meet that little life.

He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.

He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.

He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.

He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.

He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them “Mom and Dad” while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.

He had allowed himself to imagine a home.

And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.

The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.

What if he didn’t know how to be a father?

What if he wasn’t truly free and one day lost control?

What if his past caught up with them?

What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?

What if her children deserved a different father?

He looked down at his own hands—the flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium one—and studied them as if seeing them for the first time.

He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.

When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.

How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?

How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?

The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speak—that was why he was silent. It wasn’t because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.

He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.

His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didn’t agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.

That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.

For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.

Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.

His breath caught.

He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.

His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.

He slowly shook his head.

He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.

The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.

“No…” he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.

He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.

“Don’t think that.”

His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.

“I don’t want… you to leave.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want the same thing you do…”

That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.

“I’m scared. Really scared.”

He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.

Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.

His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.

His hands wrapped tightly around your waist—but without choking you—as he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.

You didn’t hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldn’t be alone.

Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.

“I’ve been imagining it for days,” he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. “I see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.”

For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.

Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.

“I want to meet our little one.”

The words hung between you.

Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

“I want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.” His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. “I want to watch him grow…”

His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.

“And I want to be there when the baby is born.” His voice broke again. “I want to hold him.”

He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.

“I still think you deserve better than me.” He admitted in a whisper.

You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

“I’ll probably think that for a while,” he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.”

You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.

They stayed like that for several long minutes.

Without speaking.

Without moving.

The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.

They would face it together.

There are evenings where your life feels so small it scares you.

Not bad, it's never been bad. Just small in the way routines become invisible after a while, like you’ve repeated the same motions so many times they stop feeling like choices and start feeling like gravity.

Wake up.

Coffee.

Work.

Dinner.

Sleep.

Repeat until the days blur soft around the edges.

The apartment carries those routines now. They’ve soaked into the walls alongside the smell of old books and takeout containers and the lavender detergent Bucky insists smells “like rich people trying to relax.”

You can tell what kind of day it’s been by the position of his shoes near the door. Tonight they’re kicked halfway across the floor, messy and careless, which means he came home distracted. Probably stuck on a line he couldn’t finish.

You glance toward the couch where Bucky is sprawled out beneath the yellow glow of the standing lamp, notebook balanced against his knee, pen tapping absently against his mouth. His hair’s longer now than when you first met him. Softer too. It curls slightly at the ends after showers and falls into his eyes when he reads.

You love him so much sometimes it feels inconvenient.

The realization still catches you off guard even after two years.

You used to count your life in semesters. In deadlines. In surviving until the next thing. Now you count it in quieter ways. How many poems Bucky leaves on the fridge before work, how often he reaches for your hand without looking, how every version of home somehow became him.

You finish wiping down the kitchen counter and glance toward him again.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re brooding.”

He gasps softly, offended. “Wow.”

You snort.

The local paper started publishing his poetry six months ago. Every Thursday there’s a tiny column tucked near the back pages beneath community events and weather forecasts.

Byline: James Buchanan Barnes. Poet.

You still keep the first clipping folded in your wallet. He acted embarrassed when you cried over it. But you think some part of him needed proof that his words deserved to take up space in the world.

The same way you still need proof sometimes too.

Your customer service job pays rent. Barely. Your dream job still sits just out of reach somewhere beyond applications and interviews and “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”

Some days you feel okay about it, other days it feels like standing still while everyone else keeps moving.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You settle onto the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, curling your legs beneath yourself. Bucky glances over immediately, reading you too easily.

“What’s that face?”

“What face?”

“That one.”

You roll your eyes. “Helpful.”

He studies you for another second before setting the notebook aside completely, and that gets your attention.

“You abandoned the poem?”

“Yeah.”

“That serious?”

“Very.”

You narrow your eyes immediately when he suddenly pushes himself off the couch.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Bucky—”

“Get your shoes on.”

You stare at him. “It’s eight o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

“That means pajamas.”

“That means adventure.”

“You sound like a children’s television host.”

He points toward the bedroom. “Shoes.”

You squint harder. “This feels illegal somehow.”

His mouth twitches.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says softly. “You’ve had that look all week.”

“What look?”

“The one where you disappear into your own head.”

Your chest tightens a little at that.

Being known is still terrifying sometimes, even now. Especially now, because Bucky notices everything. The way your voice changes when rejection emails hit harder than you let on, the way you start apologizing more when you’re feeling uncertain about yourself, the way silence gets heavier around you when you think you’re failing at becoming who you wanted to be.

He notices and worse—or better, he stays. No matter what, no matter how quiet or cold you get. He stays.

You groan dramatically and shove yourself upright. “If I end up murdered, I want it on record that I knew this was a bad idea.”

Bucky grins instantly, bright and boyish.

“That’s the spirit.”

The city at night feels softer than it does during the day. Less demanding.

Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement while music hums low through Bucky’s truck speakers. The windows are cracked just enough for cool air to slip through. You rest your elbow against the door and watch people pass in blurred fragments. A couple arguing outside a laundromat, someone smoking beneath a flickering neon sign, a teenager skateboarding recklessly down the sidewalk.

Entire lives brushing past yours for half a second at a time.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you ask.

“Nope.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You already agreed.”

“You manipulated me emotionally.”

“I used my charm.”

You glance at him flatly. “Those are not the same thing.”

“They can be.”

You laugh despite yourself, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew the sound had been missing lately.

He pulls into the parking lot of your favorite pizza place twenty minutes later and you blink at the glowing sign.

“Oh.”

“Told you I had a plan.”

“You brought me here because I looked sad?”

“You looked existential.”

“That’s worse.”

The tiny restaurant is almost empty this late. Same red booths, same sticky tables, same old jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked properly in years. You and Bucky have been coming here since college back when splitting one pizza felt financially reckless, when loving each other still felt fragile enough to hold carefully.

Now the owner barely asks what you want before shouting your usual order toward the kitchen.

“Y’know,” Bucky says as you slide into the booth, “I think Tony thinks we’re married.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What?”

“He called you my wife last week.”

“And did you correct him?”

Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the menu he already knows by heart making warmth bloom low in your chest. Dangerous warmth, the kind that makes your brain start building futures out of tiny moments.

You watch him for a second too long.

God.

You still remember what it felt like before this, before certainty. Before waking up beside him became normal. There are nights you still think about those letters, about lonely summer afternoons and folded paper softened by rereading. How strange it is that your whole life can change because someone once wrote, I’m glad there’s someone to do it with.

The pizza arrives steaming and you steal pepperonis off Bucky’s slice while he pretends not to notice.Outside afterward, he buys two cheap beers from the corner store despite your very serious reminder that technically neither of you should be drinking them on a public bridge.

“Live a little,” he says solemnly.

“You sound eighty years old.”

“I’m a poet now. It’s part of the job.”

The bridge overlooks the river cutting through the city. You sit side by side on the railing platform with your feet dangling over the edge, shoulders pressed together beneath the cold night air as cars hum below. The water moves black and silver beneath the lights and for a while neither of you speaks.

You sip your beer slowly as Bucky watches the skyline and somewhere in the quiet, your heartbeat settles back into itself.

“I thought graduating would fix everything,” you admit eventually.

He turns his head slightly.

“I know that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

You pull your sleeves over your hands.

“I just thought… once we got here, things would feel bigger somehow. More important.” You laugh softly at yourself. “Instead I answer customer complaints about expired coupons.”

“You know what I did today?”

“What?”

“I spent forty minutes trying to rhyme something with ‘mercy.’”

Your mouth twitches.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Nope.”

You lean against him more fully.

“I just feel stuck,” you whisper finally.

The words leave your chest with surprising heaviness.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he reaches over and laces your fingers together.

“You remember that first summer?”

You smile faintly. “Obviously.”

“You used to write me these huge paragraphs apologizing for not knowing what you wanted yet.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks. “I was dramatic.”

“You were scared.”

That lands softly in your heart, Bucky rubs his thumb slowly over your knuckles.

“You always think your life has to become something huge immediately or it doesn’t count.” He glances over at you. “But baby… we’re in our twenties”

You groan. “Don’t say the number out loud. It's cursed.”

He laughs quietly.

“You’re allowed to still be figuring things out.”

“I know.”

“No,” he says gently. “I don’t think you do.”

The wind shifts colder around you.

You think about your younger self sometimes. That girl measuring her worth through grades and achievements and survival and how she would not recognize this version of you.

Not because you changed into someone extraordinary but because you finally became someone soft enough to rest.

Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder.

“You always know exactly what to say, huh.”

“That’s why they pay me the medium bucks.”

You snort so loudly a couple walking past glances over and Bucky looks deeply pleased with himself.

The drive home feels lighter.

You’re halfway through telling him about an especially ridiculous customer interaction when he suddenly reaches over.

“Cover your eyes.”

You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.”

“You’re driving.”

“I know where we are.”

“That’s statistically how most accidents happen.”

“Baby.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously then sigh dramatically and cover them anyway.

“If I die, Rebecca gets my books.”

“She already steals your books.”

“Exactly. She’ll know what to do.”

Bucky laughs under his breath.

You hear the truck turn twice, then stop.

The engine cuts.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “Don’t open them yet.”

“This is how horror movies start.”

He opens your door before you can complain further and takes your hand. The night air smells different here, cleaner somehow.

You let him guide you carefully forward.

“One sec,” he murmurs.

There’s a door opening, voices, a warm air wrapping around you then Bucky's voice.

“Okay. Open.”

You uncover your eyes and blink.

Animal shelter.

Your brain takes a full second to catch up.

“…Bucky.”

He suddenly looks nervous, actually nervous. Hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets while fluorescent light spills across his face kind of nervous.

“You said the apartment felt too quiet sometimes,” he says quickly. “And I know we talked about maybe getting one eventually and I just thought maybe eventually could be now and—”

“Bucky.”

He stops rambling instantly and your eyes drift past him toward the room behind the front desk.

Cats.

Sleeping in curled shapes beneath blankets, tiny paws pressed against glass while one orange kitten attacks absolutely nothing.

Your chest physically aches.

“You brought me to adopt a cat?”

His shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe.”

Emotion hits you strangely, warm and a little achey. Because suddenly you understand.

This whole night. The pizza place, the bridge, the drive. None of it was really about cheering you up. It was Bucky reminding you that your life is happening right now, not someday when everything finally becomes impressive enough.

Now.

In pizza booths and shared beers and tiny apartments and in shelter cats and late-night drives and poems tucked into newspaper corners.

You look back at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

His expression softens carefully. “Yeah?”

You step forward and kiss him before he can say anything else, he melts into it instantly. When you pull away, his forehead drops against yours.

“Is that a yes?”

“You knew it was a yes.”

Inside, the shelter is warm and sleepy. A volunteer leads you through rows of cats while Bucky listens with impossible seriousness to every backstory.

Then—

You see her.

A fluffy white cat sprawled dramatically across the top perch of a cat tree.

One green eye cracked open lazily as you approach.

The tag reads: ALPINE — 2 YEARS OLD.

“She looks judgmental,” you whisper.

Bucky immediately falls in love.

“I think she’s perfect.”

Alpine stretches slowly before stepping directly into Bucky’s waiting arms like she’s already decided.

You stare.

“Oh, so she chose immediately.”

Bucky looks unbearably smug as Alpine presses her face into his chest.

“You jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

The adoption paperwork takes almost an hour. By the time you finally carry Alpine into the apartment wrapped in a borrowed shelter blanket, it’s nearly midnight. She immediately jumps onto the couch like he owns the place.

“You fit in disturbingly fast,” you tell her.

Bucky kneels beside the coffee table setting out food bowls with ridiculous concentration and your chest aches again. That same warm ache. You watch him for a long moment in the soft lamp light, his rolled sleeves, the tenderness built into every movement.

This ordinary beautiful life.

You think maybe happiness was never supposed to arrive loudly. Maybe it was always meant to collect slowly in small places until one day you look around and realize you’re surrounded by it.

Bucky glances up and catches you staring.

“What?”

You shake your head softly.

“Nothing.”

But he knows you too well for that as he stands and walks toward you slowly.

“What is it?”

You look past him briefly. At Alpine already asleep upside down on the couch, your cramped apartment, the poems taped to the fridge. At the man who once loved you through ink before he ever touched your hand.

Then back at him.

“I think,” you say quietly, “this might actually be the life I wanted.”

Something shifts in his face and softens, like those words reached somewhere sacred.

He cups your jaw gently.

“Yeah, baby?”

You nod.

“Got it, sweetheart,” he says every time, already halfway up before you’ve even finished asking.

At first, it feels normal. Logical, even. You’re pregnant. You’re growing an entire human being. You should be taking it easy.

But then it keeps happening.

“Bucky, can you—” “Yeah.”

“Bucky, would you mind—” “Already on it.”

“Buck, I think I left my phone—” “Kitchen counter. I’ll grab it.”

And he always says it so easily. So gently. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature.

That’s when the guilt starts creeping in.

It hits you one afternoon, hard and sudden, while you’re sitting on the edge of the bed trying to put your socks on. Your stomach is just big enough now to make it awkward, your balance a little off, your patience nonexistent.

“Bucky,” you call out, a little breathless. “Can you help me with—”

He appears in the doorway almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to need something.

“Yeah, doll?” he asks softly.

And something about the way he says it—so attentive, so ready—makes your chest tighten.

“I—” You hesitate, looking down at your feet. “Can you help me with my socks?”

“Course I can.”

He doesn’t tese you. Doesn’t even blink. He just drops down to his knees in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, carefully taking the sock from your hands.

His fingers are warm against your skin as he gently lifts your foot, guiding it into place with slow, deliberate care.

And that’s when it really sinks in.

Because you’ve been doing this all day. All week. Maybe longer.

Asking. Calling. Needing.

“Bucky,” you say quietly.

“Mm?”

He’s focused, adjusting the fabric so it sits comfortably against your ankle, making sure there are no wrinkles.

“Am I… being bossy?”

His hands pause.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

Your throat feels tight all of a sudden. “I feel like I’m just… constantly asking you to do things. Like I can’t do anything myself anymore and I’m just—” you swallow, blinking a little too fast, “—bossing you around all the time.”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve just said something completely absurd.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you think you’re bossin’ me around?”

“I mean…” you gesture vaguely, frustration bubbling up under the surface. “I am, aren’t I? I’m always asking you for stuff. You never get a break. You’re basically just following me around doing whatever I need—”

“And you think that’s a bad thing?” he cuts in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop you.

You blink at him.

“I just—I don’t want to be that person,” you say, your voice softer now. “I don’t want to be demanding or… or annoying.”

Something in his expression shifts then. Softens in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” he murmurs, gently resting his hands on your knees. “Look at me.”

You hesitate, but yu do.

And the second your eyes meet his, he’s right there.

“You’re not bossy,” he says, clear and unwavering. “Not even a little bit.”

You let out a small, shaky breath. “It feels like I am.”

“Yeah?” he asks gently. “Or does it feel like everything’s just… harder right now?”

That lands deeper than you expect.

Because it’s true.

Everything is harder. Moving, thinking, sleeping, existing—it all takes more effort than it used to. And asking for help? That’s new. That’s uncomfortable.

“I just don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit quietly.

Bucky huffs out a soft breath, something almost like disbelief slipping through.

“Sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head a little. “You could never take advantage of me.”

“You say that, but—”

“No, listen to me.” His tone is still gentle, but there’s something firmer underneath it now. Something grounding. “You’re carryin’ our baby. You’re dealin’ with all the crap that comes with that—feelin’ sick, bein’ exhausted, your body changin’ every day—and you think askin’ me to grab you a glass of water is too much?”

When he puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous.

Still, the guilt lingers. “I just feel like I should be able to do more.”

Bucky’s gaze softens even further.

“You already are,” he says quietly.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

He shifts closer, one hand coming up to rest gently against your stomach, his touch instinctively protective.

“You’re doin’ somethin’ I can’t,” he murmurs. “You’re growin’ our kid. Every second of every day. You don’t get to clock out from that. So yeah… if I can make things a little easier for you? I’m gonna do it.”

Your eyes sting.

“I don’t mind it,” he continues, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “I don’t feel bossed around. I don’t feel used. I feel…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “useful. Needed.”

Your breath catches.

“I like takin’ care of you,” he says simply. “Always have. This just gives me more of a reason to.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice. No resentment. Just quiet certainty.

And suddenly, all that guilt you’ve been carrying around feels a little lighter.

“You’re sure?” you ask softly.

He lets out a small, fond huff. “Doll, if you were actually bossin’ me around, I’d tell you.”

That earns a weak laugh from you.

“Besides,” he adds, a hint of teasing creeping in now, “you’re way too polite to be bossy. Half the time you’re askin’ like you’re afraid I’m gonna say no.”

You duck your head, a little embarrassed. “Well…”

“Hey.” He nudges your knee gently. “I like when you ask me for things.”

You glance up at him again. “You do?”

“Yeah.” His smile is soft, a little crooked. “Means you trust me.”

That hits you right in the chest.

Because you do. Completely.

“I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” you say, quieter now.

Bucky leans in slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your knee before looking back up at you.

“You couldn’t overwhelm me if you tried,” he murmurs. “Not when it comes to you.”

There’s something so steady about him. So grounding. Like no matter how loud your thoughts get, he’s always right there to quiet them.

You take a slow breath, letting his words settle.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “But you have to promise me something.”

He raises a brow. “What’s that?”

“If I do start getting bossy… like, actually bossy…” you trail off, a little sheepish. “You’ll tell me?”

He considers that for a second, then nods.

“Deal,” he says. “But I’m tellin’ you now—that day’s not comin’.”

You smile a little at that.

“Still,” you insist lightly.

“Alright,” he relents, squeezing your knee gently. “I’ll tell you.”

You nod, satisfied enough with that.

There’s a small pause before you glance down at your other foot, then back at him.

“…Can you do the other sock too?”

Bucky doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately.

Too sharp.

Too fast.

Your shoulders jerk violently.

His stomach drops.

“Sorry,” he says, softer now. “Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You don’t answer.

That’s what scares him.

You always answer.

Even anxious, even exhausted, even spiralling—you answer.

Usually with a joke. Usually with something self-deprecating and wry and designed to make everyone else comfortable while you quietly unravel inside your own skin.

But now you’re breathing too fast.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor.

And Bucky realizes with cold certainty:

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

He’s seen panic attacks before. Hell, he’s had enough of them himself. But yours always look different than his. Quieter. Like you’re trying to contain the catastrophe internally so it doesn’t inconvenience anyone else.

“Can you look at me?” he asks carefully.

Nothing.

He crouches slowly several feet away, metal hand deliberately visible, movements gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s okay.”

Broken ceramic litters the floor between you both.

You whisper something he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

Your voice cracks.

“Everything feels wrong.”

Jesus Christ.

That sentence nearly tears him in half.

Because he knows that feeling.

The horrible skin-tight sensation of existing incorrectly. Like your bones are full of bees. Like every thought in your head is moving too fast and too loud and none of them can be stopped.

Bucky swallows hard.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

You sound ashamed of it.

Like not knowing is somehow a personal failure.

His chest aches.

“Okay,” he says again. “That’s alright too.”

Your breathing gets worse.

Shorter.

Faster.

Your fingers dig into your sleeves hard enough he worries you’ll bruise.

Bucky looks around the kitchen helplessly.

He knows combat. Extraction. Interrogation. Trauma. Survival.

But this?

You falling apart in front of him while he desperately tries to figure out how to help?

It scares him more than most things.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You shake your head immediately.

“No? Okay. Okay.”

Think.

Think.

Usually when you’re anxious, you like warmth. Blankets. Hoodies. Pressure against your chest.

Pressure.

His eyes flick downward thoughtfully.

“Can I try something?”

You laugh once.

It sounds awful.

“Depends how weird it is.”

His mouth twitches despite everything.

“Probably pretty weird.”

You finally look at him then, eyes glassy and overwhelmed.

“Fine.”

He moves carefully around the broken ceramic before lowering himself to sit beside you against the cabinets.

For a second he hesitates.

This could go horribly.

But then he remembers the way you curl under every blanket in the compound during storms. The way you once admitted sleeping better when Alpine sprawled over your ribs like a furry paperweight.

So Bucky exhales once and says:

“C’mere.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Just trust me.”

Which you do.

That’s the dangerous thing.

You always do.

You shift toward him uncertainly, and before he can overthink it, Bucky pulls you gently sideways until your back rests against his chest.

Then he wraps one arm around your middle.

And slowly—carefully—leans enough weight against you that you’re partially pinned beneath him.

Not crushing.

Just heavy.

Solid.

Warm.

The effect is immediate.

Your breathing stutters.

Then slows.

Bucky freezes.

You go still beneath him.

“…oh,” you whisper.

His heartbeat trips.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Another breath.

Slower this time.

“No, that’s—”

Your shoulders finally unclench for the first time since he walked into the kitchen.

“Oh my god.”

Bucky stares at the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m aware.”

“No,” you say weakly. “I mean—good heavy.”

Something inside him softens so violently it nearly hurts.

Carefully, cautiously, he shifts a little more weight against you.

Your eyes flutter shut.

And then—

Then you melt.

There’s no other word for it.

The tension leaves you in visible increments, your body gradually surrendering under the pressure of his weight and warmth. Your breathing evens out. Your death grip on your sleeves loosens.

Bucky can practically feel your nervous system recalibrating beneath him.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” you murmur.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Dunno. Maybe you’re broken.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re calmer.”

“…unfortunately true.”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself.

And because you can’t see his face pressed near your hair, you miss the terrifying realization blooming in his chest.

He likes taking care of you.

Too much.

In ways that feel dangerous.

Because this—holding you down gently against his chest at two in the morning while your breathing evens out—feels more intimate than half the things he’s done with actual girlfriends.

That should concern him more than it does.

Instead, he tightens his arm around you slightly and says softly:

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Don’t move.”

His heart does something deeply embarrassing.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not intentionally at first.

Neither of you discuss it.

But a week later, after a disastrous mission briefing leaves you overwhelmed and shaky, Bucky finds you curled miserably into the corner of the common room couch.

He takes one look at you.

“You spiralling?”

“Maybe.”

“Move over.”

You snort tiredly.

“There is literally no room.”

“I’ll make room.”

And somehow he does.

The others walk in to discover you pinned beneath the bulk of the Winter Soldier like a hostage being gently comforted.

Sam stops dead.

“…what the hell am I looking at?”

Without opening your eyes, you answer:

“Medical treatment.”

Bucky feels you relax further when he settles more weight across you.

Sam stares.

“You’re using Barnes as an emotional support sandbag?”

“Yes.”

“…and this works?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

Then Sam points accusingly at Bucky.

“You look way too pleased about this.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bucky ignores him.

Mostly because Sam’s right.

The horrifying truth is that Bucky likes this arrangement so much it’s becoming a problem.

He likes when you seek him out now.

Likes the sleepy, “Buck?” you murmur from doorways when your anxiety gets bad.

Likes how trusting you are with him.

Likes the way you immediately soften once he presses close.

And he especially likes the fact you never seem afraid of him.

Not of his metal arm.

Not of his size.

Not of the sheer physical reality of him.

You just curl beneath him willingly like he’s safety instead of danger.

It ruins him slowly.

The worst part is how domestic it becomes.

You’re both pathetic enough not to notice immediately.

It starts with movies.

You’re anxious after a rough therapy session, so Bucky sprawls partially on top of you on the couch while some terrible reality baking show plays in the background.

Then it becomes routine.

You reading while he rests against you.

You napping underneath him.

Your legs tangled together while Alpine sleeps smugly on Bucky’s back like she approves of the arrangement.

One night Natasha walks into the living room, sees the position you’re both in, and physically backs out again.

“Nope,” she says immediately.

You blink sleepily from beneath Bucky’s chest.

“What?”

“I’m giving you both privacy to deal with…” she gestures vaguely, “…whatever this is.”

Bucky frowns.

“We’re watching TV.”

Natasha stares at him.

“You’re lying on top of her.”

“To help her anxiety.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s literally all this is.”

Natasha looks directly at you.

“Are you aware he’s in love with you?”

Bucky nearly chokes to death.

You burst into startled laughter.

“What?”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Men are exhausting.”

Then she leaves before either of you can recover.

The silence afterward is catastrophic.

Bucky can feel heat crawling up his neck.

You clear your throat awkwardly beneath him.

“Well.”

“Nat talks too much.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then quietly:

“You’re not in love with me, right?”

And there it is.

The moment.

The opening.

The place where honesty could exist.

Bucky should tell you.

He should.

Instead he says, “You’d know if I was.”

It’s a lie.

A terrible one.

Because he is so violently in love with you it feels like organ failure sometimes.

He loves your laugh.

Your stubbornness.

The way you ramble when tired.

The way you pretend your anxiety makes you difficult to love while offering everyone else endless patience and gentleness.

He loves how you trust him with your softest parts.

He loves you so much it scares him.

But you relax at his answer.

And somehow that feels worse.

“Oh good,” you murmur.

His chest aches.

“Yeah.”

You smile faintly beneath him.

“Because that would make this complicated.”

Bucky stares at the ceiling all night afterward unable to breathe properly.

Things get worse after the nightmare.

Not his.

Yours.

Bucky wakes around three in the morning because someone is pounding on his door hard enough to shake the frame.

He’s moving before he’s fully awake.

When he opens it, you’re standing there shaking.

Not crying.

Which is somehow worse.

Your face looks pale and distant and terrified in a way that spikes immediate panic through him.

“Hey,” he says sharply. “Hey, what happened?”

“I can’t calm down.”

Your voice trembles violently.

“I tried—I tried everything and I can’t—”

“C’mere.”

You practically fall into him.

Bucky catches you automatically, metal arm bracing your back while your fingers clutch desperately at his shirt.

Your heartbeat is terrifying.

Way too fast.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

You bury your face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

And he means it.

He’d wake up for you every night for the rest of his life if it helped.

The realization lands hard enough to nearly stagger him.

Before he can think too deeply about that deeply alarming truth, he guides you toward the bed.

“Lay down.”

You obey immediately, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Bucky climbs in beside you without hesitation.

Then carefully—carefully—he settles partially over you, broad chest against yours, one heavy thigh between yours, arms caging you safely beneath him.

The second his weight settles, you exhale shakily.

“There you are,” he whispers.

Your eyes close.

“There you are.”

The room goes quiet except for your breathing gradually slowing beneath him.

Bucky should move once you calm down.

Instead he stays.

Because you’re warm beneath him.

Because your fingers are curled loosely in his shirt.

Because every instinct in his body screams protect protect protect.

And because he’s hopelessly, catastrophically gone for you.

You fall asleep first.

Bucky knows because your grip loosens and your face softens against his shoulder.

He should leave then.

Instead he remains exactly where he is for nearly an hour staring into the dark.

He brushes hair away from your face carefully.

God.

He loves you.

He loves you so much.

And he’s completely fucked.

You realize the truth accidentally.

Which feels fitting.

It happens during a mission debrief after a rough extraction goes sideways.

Nothing catastrophic.

But enough to leave everyone frayed.

You’re wound tight all evening afterward, anxiety clawing under your skin while the team argues over tactical mistakes.

Eventually you stand abruptly.

“I need five minutes.”

Bucky’s up instantly.

“I’ll come with you.”

You don’t even question it anymore.

That should probably concern both of you.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet.

You lean heavily against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“For what?”

“I’m being annoying.”

Bucky’s expression hardens immediately.

“You’re not.”

“I’m literally one inconvenience away from imploding.”

“So?”

You laugh weakly.

“So normal people don’t require human compression therapy to function.”

His face softens.

“Hey.”

You look at him.

And Bucky says very carefully:

“There is nothing wrong with needing comfort.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“You always know how to help.”

The words hit him hard.

Too hard.

Because he does.

He knows your breathing patterns now. Your tells. The difference between stress and genuine panic. He knows exactly how much pressure helps. Exactly where to hold you.

Like your bodies learned each other instinctively.

Your eyes drift across his face.

And suddenly—

Suddenly you see it.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to notice the unbearable tenderness in his expression.

Enough to notice how carefully he handles you.

Enough to realize no one looks at someone they don’t love like that.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky notices immediately.

“What?”

You stare at him.

“You are.”

His entire body stills.

“What?”

“You’re in love with me.”

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Bucky looks almost cornered.

Like you’ve found something he desperately wanted hidden.

Finally, rough and quiet:

“Yeah.”

Your heart stumbles violently.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“Because this arrangement only works if you feel safe.”

“I do feel safe.”

“You know what I mean.”

He steps back slightly then, expression tight.

“If I made this weird, I’m sorry. I can stop. I should’ve stopped earlier.”

The thought hits you like physical pain.

“No.”

Bucky goes still.

You swallow hard.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes search your face carefully.

“Doll…”

“I mean it.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because suddenly everything makes sense.

The gentleness.

The devotion.

The way he always comes when you need him.

And maybe—maybe you’ve been avoiding the truth too.

Because loving Bucky feels terrifyingly inevitable.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I think maybe I’m in love with you too.”

Bucky looks stunned.

Actually stunned.

Like the words physically knocked the air from him.

“You don’t gotta say that because—”

“I’m not.”

You step closer carefully.

His expression turns painfully vulnerable.

“You make me feel safe,” you whisper. “You make my head quiet.”

Something in him breaks open then.

His hand comes up slowly, brushing against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“No.”

“You ask for me when you’re hurting.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“You trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly like that means everything.

Because it does.

When he kisses you, it’s careful at first.

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

Then you kiss him back and suddenly he’s holding your face like something precious, kissing you deep and aching and relieved.

Years of longing pour into it.

You clutch his shirt instinctively.

Bucky makes a soft wrecked sound against your mouth.

And then—

Because apparently neither of you can be normal people—

He murmurs against your lips:

“You anxious right now?”

You burst into startled laughter.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my god.”

“You want me to lay on you or not?”

You laugh harder, bright and helpless and happy enough it nearly kills him.

“Only if you kiss me again after.”

Bucky smiles then.

Real and warm and breathtaking.

“Deal.”

And later, tangled together in his bed with most of his weight draped over you while your fingers trace lazy patterns against his spine, you realize something quietly extraordinary:

For the first time in a very long time, your mind is calm.

And wrapped around you like armor, like warmth, like home itself—

Ten months.

It had been ten long, grueling months since Bucky last got a taste of you.

After taking your virginity, he paid for your groceries—as promised, because he believed himself to be a gentleman—and messaged you a few days later, inviting you to film another video with him.

You were his loyal fan.

You were there for every single one of his videos.

Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.

So when you left him on read for ten months without leaving a single trace behind, he grew furious. He tried making excuses for you—perhaps you were too busy? Or maybe you went on vacation? He tried circling back to your social media, which was how he had first found you, but you had privated all your accounts and deactivated your TikTok.

Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.

Was he too rough when he took you? Did he freak you out by finding you at the grocery store? Worse, had he scared you away for good?

Bucky knew where you lived. It would’ve been easy to just show up at your front door and demand answers—but he couldn’t do that. Not with the threat of a restraining order looming in the back of his mind.

Ten months. He couldn’t believe he had let you stray away from him for that long.

There was so much you could’ve done during that time. You could’ve moved, had sex with other men, or even found a relationship.

You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.

Bucky knelt on his mattress, holding up a clear silicone toy that looked tiny compared to his hands. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and spread it carefully along his half-hard cock, making sure none of it dripped onto the sheets.

His camcorder was propped against a pillow, angled perfectly to capture him from the waist down. With his bare abs and thighs fully in frame, he settled back on his heels, gripped the toy firmly, and guided it toward his cock.

A rough groan escaped him as he teased the sensitive tip against the entrance. The lubricant made every movement slick and audible, the wet sounds filling the otherwise quiet room.

“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly worked the toy against his shaft. He continued at an unhurried pace, his grip tightening as he lost himself in the sensation.

“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.

The words slipped out on instinct, a praise that always led back to you. As the room filled with the sounds of his grunts and movements, his thoughts drifted to the memory of you. They always did. He pictured your soft lips wrapped around his dick, the way he had your face pressed into the pillow as he took you from behind—the moments that had replayed endlessly in his mind over the past months.

At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.

Whenever he wanted to relive it, he would pull up the private video he recorded of the two of you, letting it play in the background while he lost himself in the pleasure of his toy.

“God,” he groaned, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless rasp.

He made a mental note to cut the part where he whispered your name like a prayer before uploading the video to the site.

“Shit—fuck. I miss that tight little pussy.”

With a loud groan and both hands holding the toy tight, he drove his hips deep into the toy until it made an unmistakable tearing sound. Too lost in the haze of his own desire, he didn’t even realize he tore through yet another toy to the memory of you.

Seed filled the silicone, marking every cloudy surface with his thick cum.

Once he caught his breath, he let the toy fall from his grip and pushed it aside.

From there, the rest of the evening followed the same familiar routine.

He would take a shower, get dressed, make himself something for dinner, then spend the rest of the evening at his computer. He would spend his time editing the footage, preparing it for upload to the same porn site he had been posting on for years.

Except this time, there was no excitement after hitting the ‘post’ button, because you wouldn’t even be there to watch them.

After the video went live, he waited for the likes and comments to start pouring in, holding onto the faint hope that your username might appear among them.

As usual, it never did.

Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t what disappointed him this time.

Every time he jerked off with the intention to post a new video—your video was always in the background. It got to the point where people started to leave comments asking who the mysterious girl was. Who those sultry, seductive moans belonged to.

He would even get comments asking if he’d be willing to record another video of the two of you together and post it online.

Every time he read those comments, he would scoff, laughing to himself.

I would like to know the same thing.

After posting his latest video, his comment section had been flooding with the same demands for weeks.

wankingandspanking: hell yeah man! love the new video. but who’s the babe in the video you’re watching??

StraightJorkinIt: U breaking ur toy was so hot, but what’s even hotter is the girl moaning in the back. xx

Bwasexual: The toys are getting a little old, don’t you think?? Bring a real woman in. especially the one in the vid you’re jerking to ;)

Each comment was a direct insult to Bucky’s pride.

He was one of the platform’s top creators—yet now, his community was entirely consumed by you.

He had spent the last ten months trying to get you out of his head, trying to just use your video as a quick jerk off aid and move on. But how could he when his own fans wouldn’t let him forget?

How could he, when he couldn’t even cum to anything else anymore? His memory was flooded of the way his cock had disappeared in and out of your tight pussy while he had you bent over from behind. By the recollection of your cute, virgin mouth stuffed full of cock—his cock—for the first time ever.

How could he possibly forget how sweet your tight little body was, like it was made for him?

Bucky’s frustration was peaking. At the very least, he was making money off of this.

Just as he was about to shut down his computer and call it a night, a new notification popped up.

He clicked it, and what he saw made the air in his lungs vanish completely.

Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!

Bucky blinked.

Was he seeing this right?

He rubbed his eyes, but lo and behold, your comment was still there. He double—and triple—checked the username, ensuring every single letter matched and that it wasn’t some random copycat trying to impersonate you.

But no, it was you.

When he clicked your profile, the interface loaded your old message thread. He saw the green indicator showing you were currently online, sitting right above his last unanswered message asking you to film with him again.

He couldn’t believe it.

You were real. You were still here, ten months later, watching him.

Bucky didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to spam you with messages—to demand where the hell you’ve been, to beg for your phone number so he would never lose track of you again.

No, he couldn’t risk ruining this moment. He had to stay rational and seize this chance before you slipped through his fingers again.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?

A minute passed. Then another. He propped both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands, his foot tapping impatiently as he waited.

Three minutes went by. Your little icon was still green—you were still online.

Then, his heart leaped.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?

Bucky’s brow twitched. Your messages from ten months ago had been sweet, alluring, and almost innocent. If you had been texting him consistently, he might’ve read this as a flirtatious little comment to make his dick hard.

But right now, he just felt pissed off.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Quit playing around. Of course I missed you. Where did you go?

There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t risk scaring you away just yet. His heart raced as he watched the screen.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Your bubble kept appearing and disappearing. You would type, then silence. You would type again, then nothing.

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He was just about ready to send another message himself, until one finally popped up under your name.

Pleasure_Ring: I think it’s best that we talk in person.

Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?

And of course, Bucky gave you his number without a second thought.

You sat alone at the coffee shop Bucky had agreed to meet you at, fiddling with your mug and glancing anxiously out the window.

The meetup was set for noon, and the closer the clock ticked to the hour, the more your mind began to spiral.

It had been ten months since he last saw you. Ten months since he had you bent over your own bed, your face pressed into the pillows, ravaging you like an animal.

You were growing anxious. What if he had lost interest? What if he took one good look at you and realized you were nothing like the woman he had been infatuated with all this time?

The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up, and your breath caught in your throat.

Bucky was right there. He looked just as handsome as the day you met him. His presence seemed to take up the entire space of the coffee shop, just as it had when he first approached you at the grocery store.

His eyes swept across the room. The moment they landed on yours, your thighs instinctively clenched together. He was wearing that same cold, stern expression he had when he first told you to strip for him.

Naturally, it did things to you.

He marched over to your table, dragged the chair back, and dropped into the seat directly across from you. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, and his gaze didn’t warm up at all.

Was he angry? Was this a nuisance to him—taking time out of his busy day just to see a girl he slept with ten months ago?

“Bucky,” you breathed, forcing a polite smile. “How are you—”

“Where have you been?”

You blinked. You were about to stammer out a quick excuse, but he breezed on past.

“Ten months without a single word from you.” He leaned closer across the table. “Where have you been?”

Despite his harsh tone, he was anxiously bracing himself for your answer. He expected you to say you had lost interest, or that you found a boyfriend to practice your new... sexual experiences on. You hadn’t even given an explanation yet, and he was already fuming with jealousy.

You looked down at your coffee mug, avoiding his gaze. Looking him directly in the eye right now was simply too much to handle.

“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” you mumbled. “Ever since… that night, I’ve been… uh—how do I even say this?” You chuckled awkwardly, scratching lightly at your cheek. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little ashamed of myself.”

Bucky watched your shoulders slump as your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.

“Ashamed?”

“Ever since we slept together, I’ve felt insecure about not being able to... keep up with you.” You winced. “I mean, you’re obviously experienced—I had a great time, and everything—but it made me realize that, at my age, when everyone else seems to be out there having fun and figuring things out, I’m nowhere near as experienced as they are.”

Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation suited for a small, intimate coffee shop.

Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. Your explanation wasn’t giving him the reassurance he had hoped for.

“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”

Your eyes widened.

“No! It’s not like that.” You shook your head. “I had an incredible time with you. You gave me an experience I’ll never forget. I mean...” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspicuous whisper. “You were the one who took my virginity, after all.”

That, at least, managed to draw the hint of a smile from him.

“It’s just...” you hesitated. “I’m ready to start dating, and in the current dating scene, sex matters, you know?”

There it was.

The sentence Bucky had been dreading.

While he had spent the last ten months thinking about you—worrying about you, searching for some way to reconnect, replaying the video you’d filmed together and jerking off to it, moaning your name—you had spent those same months looking forward to a future with someone else.

“So...” You hesitated. “After reading all those comments on your videos, the ones talking about how good I sound, and remembering the offer you made ten months ago to film another one...” Your gaze dropped briefly. “If that offer still stands, maybe you could teach me?”

“Teach you?” Bucky repeated, the words leaving him almost like a scoff.

Just as innocent as the day he first met you, you nodded shyly.

“Teach me how to be better at sex.”

An awkward silence took the space between the two of you.

You were preparing yourself for rejection. For Bucky to push back his chair, walk away, and decide this conversation had been a mistake. After this, you wouldn’t be surprised if he even blocked your number and your profile, cutting off the last connection between you.

Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.

“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze finding yours, “the comments have been asking us to film a video together, right?”

The look he gave you was difficult to read—careful, calculating, and almost suspicious.

“I know,” you said bashfully.

“If you want me to teach you,” he said, leaning forward as his voice dropped soft and intimate, “then we’re going to do the same thing we did before, but I want this done at my house instead. I’ll record.”

He paused, studying your reaction.

“And this time, I’m posting it online.”

You sat there frozen.

It wasn’t exactly the compromise you expected, but you couldn’t say you were entirely surprised. After disappearing from his life for months, after leaving things unresolved between you, part of you knew he would want something in return.

Bucky leaned in closer, his hand finding yours on the table. His fingers curled around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ve read the comments,” he said. “You might be insecure about your experience, but my viewers love you. They’re curious. They want to know who the woman behind that voice is.”

Heat rushed to your face. The confidence in his words only made your pulse quicken, and the slow sweep of his thumb across your knuckles wasn’t helping at all.

“I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he continued. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”

For a moment, his confidence faltered and his eyes looked pleading, revealing something almost hopeful beneath it.

“What do you say, doll?”

Your heart had been pounding ever since Bucky sat down across from you at the coffee shop. It hadn’t slowed once—not during the conversation, not during the drive over, and certainly not now as you stood behind him while he unlocked his apartment door.

Bucky stepped aside, holding the door open for you. After a moment's hesitation, you stepped inside.

The studio apartment was dimly lit. The blinds were drawn, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp to light the room. In one corner sat a computer setup—his workstation where he recorded and edited his videos.

Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.

Your chat history.

His studio was the definition of a man cave. What caught your attention, however, were the sex toys scattered throughout the apartment without a hint of shame.

Some of the toys were immediately recognizable from his videos. Having been a longtime viewer, you had seen them often enough to identify them at a glance.

Bucky tossed his keys onto a nearby surface and motioned for you to follow him toward the bed. As you approached, your gaze landed on something unfamiliar at his bedside table.

“What’s this?” You pointed to a toy shaped like the lower half of a woman’s body. Unlike the others, you didn’t remember ever seeing this one in any of his videos.

Bucky glanced at it. “Oh, that?” He came to stand beside you. “Custom made. I use it off-camera.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive. “Had it modeled after you.”

You were suddenly grateful for the low lighting, because that meant he couldn’t see the stunned expression that immediately crossed your face.

Modeled after you?

Your eyes drifted back to the toy, taking in the details—the shape of the hips, the skin tone, it was an unmistakable similarity. What shook you up, though, was the tear in the toy around her upper abdomen, a sign that Bucky’s cock tore right through the silicone.

The sounds of his belt buckle being undone drew your attention back to him.

“Had it set to the maximum tightness,” he explained gruffly, setting the belt down on his chair and reaching for the familiar camcorder he used before. “Still not nearly as tight as you felt—but it made do during those ten months you were gone.”

A moment later, he lifted the camera and pointed it in your direction, the red light flickering to let you know it was on.

“Go ahead,” he prompted, watching you. “Undress.”

You bit your lip as you stood in front of him, feeling far more self-conscious than you expected.

For some reason, the atmosphere felt infinitely more tense than it had the first time you undressed for him.

Bucky seemed to notice your hesitation immediately. He lowered the camera slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don't know about this, Bucky.” You fiddled with your fingers, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on your bare feet against the floor. “What if I'm not good at this?”

A slow, patient sigh escaped him.

Without a word, he set the camera on the bedside table. It remained angled in a way that still captured your body, but his attention had shifted entirely to you. His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, letting his fingers tickle your lower belly.

“Are you feeling shy, doll?” he murmured softly.

The question was quiet enough so that the camera wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t meant for an audience. It was just for you.

“Look at me,” he commanded gently. “You’ve got a perfect, tight body. There are a lot of people that would kill to be in my position, and you’re scared to show it off?”

He lifted your shirt up until it exposed the lace of your bra. His large hand cupped over your breast, giving it a squeeze that made you gasp softly.

Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”

While his left hand fondled your tits, his other hand crept up to your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. His eyes wandered down to your lips—exposed, plump, and vulnerable.

“When you get a boyfriend—you’ll have to learn how to kiss,” Bucky murmured. “Do you know how?”

The question felt almost condescending. He should already know the answer. You were still inexperienced, still clueless, but despite it all, you couldn’t help the ache that began to form between your legs from the way he talked to you.

Your voice came out soft and trembling, but to Bucky, it sounded like music to his ears.

“… Teach me?”

A low growl vibrated from his lips as he closed the distance in one, smooth motion. His lips collided with yours—hungry and consuming—letting his tongue delve past your lips and into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He held your face tight, forcing you to take every inch of his tongue and every surface of his lips. It was hot, messy, and wet. During every second of his ravishing, his hands continued to explore your body, groping you through your bottoms. He held you so close, you could already feel him throbbing against your leg.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling away slightly to catch his breath. “Still taste so good. So sweet, just for me.”

He stepped away, breathing just as hard as his dick felt.

With the warm lamp glowing next to him, it outlined the sheer size of his dick throbbing in his pants. You watched it pulse, a little wet spot forming near the tip, before his large hand came down with deep, circular rubs to soothe the ache.

“Bucky…” You gasped softly.

His other hand snatched the camera off the bedside table, nearly knocking down the picture frames. With a shaky hand, he lifted the camera up to you again.

“Strip.” He commanded, rougher this time. “Strip. Now.”

Your heart raced. His patience was fraying, and without upsetting him further, you began to undress. You abandoned your top, your pants, all until you were left standing in nothing but your panties and bra.

Bucky groaned at the sight, his palm working faster over his clothed erection.

“God, look at that,” he zoomed in on the wet spot collecting at the front of your panties. “You’re fucking soaking for me, doll. And all I did was kiss you.”

Shame flooded your face. As you unhooked your bra and worked for your panties next, Bucky’s voice pulled you to a stop.

“No,” his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Keep those on. I want to see the mess you’ll make after having my dick in your mouth.”

With his grip tightening around your wrist, he ushered you to the ground until your knees made contact with the floor. He tugged his pants down with force, and his cock sprang out heavy—slapping you in the cheek and making you wince.

He was big and hard. Seeing him up close like this, with his hand around his shaft and his tip rubbing against your cheek, you weren’t sure how you took him the first time.

“Do you remember the first time you sucked my cock? When you tried fitting it all in on your first try?” he rasped a chuckle, slapping his cock against your face and smearing his pre-cum over your wet lips. “Your mouth was so small—you could hardly fit anything past the tip.”

You flicked your tongue out, giving his cock a shy kitten lick just to tease him.

“Oh, fuck,” he shuddered. “You slut. You want it in your mouth again? Wanna try again for me?”

He pointed the camera closer to your face, his other hand tangling in the back of your hair, nodding you closer to his shaft.

“Come on. Open up. Show me what you remember.”

You licked the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It tasted just like it did the first time—salty and thick. Bucky groaned, his hand tightening in your hair, pushing you forward for more.

You opened your mouth, letting your lips wrap around the swollen head. His cock was warm and hot, already twitching in your mouth and he wasn’t even halfway. Encouraged by the camera and his breathy grunts, you sunk your head deeper.

Bucky felt like he could cum right there. Your mouth was still so tight and inexperienced. He was half tempted to pin you against the side of the bed and face fuck you until his balls were dry—but he forced himself to hold back.

“God. Is this—fuck—the best you can do, really?”

He brought his camera down, the lens pointing right where his tip disappeared in and out of your plump lips, making sure to pick up every wet squelch that left your mouth.

“You can do better than that,” he hissed, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. “I know it hurts, baby. Just remember what I said the first time. Stretch those lips, relax your jaw, breathe in and out of your nose.”

You fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him. Your eyes were sheen with tears that threatened to spill out from the ache of your mouth being stretched open. He rocked his hips forward, making you gag and choke.

“Oh, christ,” he grunted, his cock twitching as your throat tightened around him. “You guys listening to that? She’s gagging for me.”

He was talking to his potential viewers. Your eyes widened with embarrassment as an instinctive moan left your lips and vibrated around his cock.

“Mph!”

“Fuck, she’s sloppy—drooling all over my floor, but her mouth is so tight. Could cum just from this,” he started drawing his hips back and forth, forcing himself deeper.

He angled the camera closer to your face, capturing your pleading eyes and stretched mouth.

“Does it taste good, sweetheart?” he asked, despite knowing your inability to answer. “Come on, show that pretty face off for the camera.”

With your mouth stuffed full of his cock, all you could do was nod in desperation.

“Damn, what a good girl. The fans are going to love this,” he let out a shaky laugh.

His hand kept your head still, and without warning, he pushed his hips even deeper into your mouth. He pushed until your jaw ached from the stretch and your nose made contact with the dark, musky curls sitting on his pelvis.

Bucky tossed his head back, letting out a deep, pleasurable moan.

“Ohh, shit.”

You gagged and choked, your hands finding his bare thighs as you attempted to push your head away for a quick breath. His cock was sitting heavy on your tongue, and drool began to shamelessly drip down your chin and onto your thighs.

Despite your mouth being overworked, you were getting wetter by the second.

“Shh… shh. I know, baby. Just stay right there.” Bucky cooed, his blue eyes hazy with lust. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Breathe in and out through your nose. That’s it.”

You did as instructed, keeping your mouth stuffed full of cock like a good girl. But every time you breathed in, all you could smell was him. His musky, masculine scent only made your head spin with desire even more.

Another deep groan tore from his chest before he gripped your hair tight, pulling you away from his cock with a wet pop. Saliva mixed with his pre-cum drew from your lips like a silver string as you coughed for air.

“Fuuck,” he groaned, fucking his hand for a few pumps as he watched you struggle.

Bucky’s cock was angry, pulsing and throbbing with a mind of its own. His cock was sheen with your saliva, and he was dripping out so much pre-cum, he looked just about ready to cum right then and there.

“Goddamnit. Ten months later, and your mouth is still good enough to make me almost fucking cum,” he hissed angrily. He bent down, catching your stray tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. You wanted me to teach you, didn’t you?”

He spoke so gently in a way that might’ve fooled his viewers, but every word that left his lips felt hauntingly patronizing.

You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”

Bucky smiled, his eyes softening as he took in your utterly debauched state.

He knew he was being a little mean, but he couldn’t help it. It’s what you deserved after ghosting him for ten months.

“That’s a good girl. My girl.” He nodded to his bed, standing up. “Go.”

Swallowing hard, you pushed yourself up—your mind dizzying and your legs feeling like jello from standing up too fast. You crossed over his crisp, white sheets—the mattress dipping under each crawl.

You didn’t know what position he wanted you in, so you played it safe and laid flat on your back.

Bucky’s expression was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, his breathing labored, but his cock was still stiff, angry, and unsatisfied.

He adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cute bow on your panties.

“Spread your legs. Show everyone how wet you are after getting a taste of my cock.”

Biting your lip and turning your head from shame, you slowly spread your legs. With your thighs wide and your damp panties on full display, Bucky’s gaze somehow felt even heavier and more tense.

He growled, a deep rumbling sound of satisfaction. He stepped closer, meeting you at the bed. Every dip and creak from his moving weight made your heart race. His camera lens was focused solely on your panties, highlighting the growing wet patch on your crotch.

“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers dragging up and down your underwear, letting the fabric cling against your slick folds just underneath. “So wet. Could smell you from here, baby.”

You felt your body growing weaker by the second.

You wanted to beg him to fuck you—to take you just as he had the first time. But with the camera pointed steady in his hands, you knew he was trying to drag this out for as long as possible.

“Bucky,” you panted, eyes pleading. “I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—”

“Aw, you’re begging?” Bucky huffed a laugh. “Ten months without a single word, and now you’re in my bed, demanding for my cock. That’s real cute, doll.”

Bucky brought the camera up to your face, and instinctively, you shied away from it. Despite your agreement to film, the lens pointing directly at you made you burn with an embarrassment you didn’t feel the first time.

Maybe because, in the back of your mind, you knew he’d be posting this one online—meaning you’ll be watched by thousands of people.

Sensing your hesitation, he lowered the camera with a slight frown, brows furrowing.

“Do you want to stop, doll?”

Stop?

Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.

“Stop?” you repeated softly, making sure you heard him right.

The softness in his eyes made your body feel warm. Bucky lowered his camera completely and angled it in a way that wouldn’t capture you in this vulnerable state. He was serious. He would stop for you if you changed your mind, despite your initial agreement to this as the compromise.

“If you don’t want me to upload this, I won’t.” He reassured. “I’ll keep this video for myself—just like the first one.”

His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing soft and gentle circles with a tenderness that only encouraged you to give yourself to him completely.

“I promise,” he added.

“No. I… I want to do this,” you searched his eyes, trying to soothe your nerves. “I can do it, Bucky. Please teach me.”

It was hard to ignore the way his cock hung heavy between his legs—twitching at your admission. The corners of his lips tugged up in a satisfied, smug smile.

“That’s my good girl.”

While one hand repositioned the camera back to you again, the other found the waistband of your panties, giving it a gentle tug downwards. With the fabric slipping slipping down your thighs and past your ankles, you hissed at the cool air greeting your wet cunt.

“Christ. You soaked the fabric right through, doll.” He held the garment up, the lamp highlighting every glistening wet spot as he made sure to capture your essence on camera.

He leaned over you with a grunt, setting your panties down on the side table. Your eyes followed his movement, and you sucked in a breath at seeing the toy he modeled right after you—resting there with a loose hole and an obvious tear in the abdomen.

It was haunting, almost like a warning for what you’re about to take.

Bucky nestled himself in the space between your legs, letting his length rest heavy on your stomach. His tip tickled your belly button, grinning proudly at the size comparison of his cock to your body.

“Did you fuck anyone else after me?” he rasped as he rocked his hips back and forth, grounding his cock against your belly.

You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.

“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”

A satisfied groan tore from his lips. He grabbed himself at the base, guiding the tip toward your entrance.

“Is that so?” he mumbled. “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

With a slow forward push of his hips, his tip fought against the tightness of your entrance. He sucked in a breath as he slipped in deeper, and your walls immediately clenched around the intrusion. You were so tight—Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep his composure.

Whimpering, you held onto his shoulders for support as he stretched you from just the tip. “Fu—fuck..”

“Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight. Just breathe in and out,” he gasped, his voice thickening in a way that made it sound like he was trying to calm himself down. “In and out while I sink into you deeper. That’s it. Good girl…”

Your back arched off the bed as he filled you. Your legs were stiff around him, your lips whimpering and mewling with every inch he was forcing your tight body to take. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stretched your pussy out with just half his cock.

“Have you been keeping up with my videos?” He asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You were too stuffed—too concentrated on trying to get your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.

“I—I haven’t—” you answered truthfully.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing the camcorder to where the top half of his cock disappeared in and out of your tight cunt.

“The videos would’ve scared you,” he pushed his cock a little deeper, making you cry out. “Kept breaking my toys. All my damn fleshlights are torn right through. Had to keep ordering new ones, but fuck, they didn’t feel nearly as good as your tight, virgin pussy did.”

The broken sex doll that laid on his bedside table was certainly a testament to that.

Bucky’s hand found balance near the side of your head, his muscles and veins popping from holding his weight while the other hand was too occupied filming every inch of his cock delving deeper in your pussy.

“How does it feel, baby? Still as big as you remembered?”

“Still big, Bucky,” you winced when he angled his pelvis, his cock twitching in time with every clench your pussy gave him. “I’m trying to take it all—to big the good girl that you remembered—”

He tossed his head back with a groan. He tried his best to control himself—he really did. But the longer he stayed inside your warmth, the more his mind started to fray.

“Fuck—so cute. Such a good girl,” he groaned, sheathing himself completely inside until his dark curls were greeted with your wet folds. “Oh my god.”

Bucky stilled inside you, basking in your warmth. Your body felt like a wet, tight hug wrapping around his cock. This was the sensation he sought after the day you left. The very feeling he’d been looking for in the useless sex toys he was constantly ordering.

Now that you were finally here—pinned beneath him and his camera—he was afraid that if he moved, he would cum right there on the spot.

“Bucky?” your voice was soft, breaking into a gentle moan. “Are you okay?”

His eyes fluttered down to look at you, and his breath caught.

Your hair was fanned out so beautifully against his white sheets. Your body was laid bare and perfect for him. You asked the question in such a soft and innocent tone—it did nothing to dull the ache in his balls and did everything to make his heart heavier.

He should be asking you the question, with you lying there stretched out with more than you can take, but alas.

“You’re asking if I’m okay?” he huffed a raspy laugh, shifting his hips to deliver a deep and hard thrust inside you. “No, I’m not okay. I want to fuck you right through the mattress. Want to split you open and make you cry on my cock. But I can’t—I have to control myself and teach you how to take me again.”

The red light of the camcorder flickered in the dark room as he began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you—capturing every moment of him claiming you a second time.

The bed started to creak, accompanied with his grunts and your soft moans of pleasure.

Bucky’s breathing was heavy, every deep, punishing roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.

The tip of his cock was kissing your cervix so sweetly, you felt your body giving out. He was right—your pussy was acting like a vice, wrapping impossibly tight around his thick shaft, refusing to let him go.

The camera shook in his hand as he aimed it directly at your hips. He had failed to capture the moment he pumped you full of his cum last time, and he was going to make damn sure he got it right tonight.

“Not a single drop going to waste,” he panted, his hips rutting uncontrollably against yours. “Gonna pump you full—God. Should fill up your womb so you’ll never leave me again.”

Your heart started to race as his words danced in your mind. Surely, this was just make-believe dirty talk. A performance he put on for the camera to secure a good payout from his loyal subscribers, right?

But as his body moved even more erratically, the bed groaning under every hard, bruising thrust, you began to fear otherwise.

“Fuck—this little slut thought she could use my cock to practice for other men,” he laughed, the sound deep and condescending. “Said she wanted to learn how to take dick for her future boyfriend. What a fucking joke.”

Your face burned with humiliation. You couldn’t believe Bucky was airing out your private confessions to his viewers like this.

“Oh my god! Bucky, please don’t say that—”

But your protests were useless. Your pussy was already spasming, clenching around him in a tight, weeping mess at every degrading taunt that left his lips.

“Ah, fuck. My sweet girl is milking me so hard—she doesn’t want to let go.” He chuckled, watching the wet friction of your hips through the camera screen. “You want to cum for me?”

You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.

Bucky leaned over you, shoving the camera close to your face. “Come on, baby. You’re on camera. I need you to speak up so everyone else can hear you.”

Pleasure was coursing through your body in ways that a simple vibrator could never match. Ten months without Bucky—and without touching anyone else—had left you chasing a high you couldn’t replicate. It was never like this.

You nodded frantically, losing all control over your own autonomy as tears of pleasure blurred your vision.

“Yes, Bucky! Please—please, please, I want to cum!”

Your cries were loud enough to peak the camera’s built-in microphone. Your walls clamped down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as your back arched off the mattress with a loud moan, letting the climax rip straight through your core and down to very tip of your toes.

Bucky groaned, his entire body going stiff as your pussy milked him ruthlessly. Fuck. He missed this. He missed the tightness of your cunt. He couldn’t find this sensation anywhere else.

“Christ. Look at that,” he growled into the camera, his hand shaking as he kept the lens focused on where you squeezed around him. “She’s squeezing me so tight—it nearly hurts. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”

His balls slapped against your pussy with every hard thrust. He was chasing his release—his face twisted into a mask of pleasure as he felt his balls tighten and his cock twitch. You were already past your high, but Bucky forced you to ride it out for him.

“Shit, the idea of her having sex with someone else...” he snarled to the camera, his voice breaking as he slammed deep into your pulsing heat. “...of someone else’s cock buried deep in what’s supposed to be mine. I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as he used your body ruthlessly, just like one of his sex toys.

“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”

A litany of curses spilled from his lips as his cock buried all the way to the hilt.

He shuddered violently, pinning your hips flat against the mattress as his orgasm tore through him, flooding every surface of your womb with thick, warm seed. He held himself deep, marking you from the inside out, leaving his cum to fill you completely until it was dripping onto the sheets.

Bucky brought the camera down with a shaky hand, capturing the way your puffy slit was pulsing around his cock, and the way his cum trickled out of you.

“There we go,” he breathed, satisfied. “Captured every second of it, baby.”

Ensuring that you kept your end of the bargain, Bucky uploaded the video to his profile.

Before hitting post, he texted you multiple times to make absolutely sure you were comfortable with your face and username being shown.

When you finally agreed, you never expected the video to blow up overnight. You knew Bucky was a popular content creator, but perhaps the sight of a woman’s body—your body—in the thumbnail stood out against his usual solo content.

Today, you sat at your desk, pulling up his profile out of habit, just like the ritual you used to have ten months ago. Your mouse hovered over the video, and you hesitated before clicking.

Two million views.

A wave of nerves hit you—the thought of being perceived by two million strangers while completely bare and vulnerable was overwhelming. Yet, for some reason, the idea of it excited you more than a girl like you should admit.

You finally clicked the link. The video started with you stripping for him, then dropping to your knees, and just minutes later, you were sprawled out bare on the mattress while he pumped you full of his cum.

You were already soaking through your underwear just watching it, your thighs rubbing together shamelessly from the memory of being filled by Bucky. The way his breathy moans sounded so much more enthusiastic than they ever did in his solo videos filled you with absolute pride.

You made him feel that good.

And apparently, you made his entire comment section feel good, too.

Daddywants2play: hooooooooolyy fuck. she’s so hot. my balls are so heavy just from watching her tits bounce. u lucky dog

Bwasexual: Omg!!! Do you guys need a third?

pegm3please: God so fucking hot. Is she going to upload anytime soon?? Just gave her a follow.

Your brow rose at the last comment.

Gave her a follow?

Instinctively, your mouse hovered to the top right of the screen where the notification bell was displayed.

It showed over 99+ alerts. You were used to seeing two at the absolute maximum—a like from Bucky on one of your comments, and his reply.

Bracing yourself, you clicked it, and a wall of notifications flooded the screen with dozens of different usernames following you. Your follower count had gone from exactly one—Bucky’s account—to well over a thousand in just a single night.

You couldn’t believe it.

People loved watching you.

They loved you enough that, despite you having zero videos posted, no profile picture, and an entirely blank description, they were hitting follow anyway—eagerly expecting to see more. You mentally patted yourself on the back for having the foresight to remove the links to your personal social media accounts beforehand.

A warm flush traced your face. The crazy part was, it wasn’t from embarrassment at all.

It was pure excitement.

Without thinking, you snatched your phone off the desk and dialed a familiar number. It only rang twice before a deep, sleepy voice answered on the other end.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky rasped. “Everything okay?”

“I just saw the video,” you said, the words tumbling out fast. You couldn’t contain your excitement. “I woke up to a little over a thousand followers—and there are so many comments!”

He paused on the line. You could hear the rustle of sheets as he sat up.

“… And are you okay with that? Do you want me to take it down?”

You bit your lip. You couldn’t believe what you were going to say next. “I’m more than okay with it. But… um…”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He pulled the phone away from his face for a split second to make sure you were still on the line.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

A breathy sigh left your lips. “I… I want to become a content creator, too. Will you teach me?”

And just like that, the air left Bucky’s lungs completely.

Everything he could possibly want—and more—was finally being served to him on a silver platter.

This meant more videos, more collaborations, and endless opportunities to have you completely to himself.

“Yes,” he swiped at his camcorder and car keys. “I’m coming over. Be ready for me.”

hopping off the bed turn my swag on. happy almost one year anniversary to pornstar bucky and the first bwa collab. once again, thank you to my dear friend @unificsation for the premise. thank you to @barnesonly for the cyber sex bucky edit she made inspired by this fic that i goon to nightly. thank you to @blowingbarnes and @buckybunni for being pornstar bucky's number one fan (i never forgot) thank you to @houseofhyde for giving me the inspiration to write this after sum silly joke. and thank you for all the love and support for part one. i would like to dedicate this oscar to you guys /j

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

But the first test sits on the edge of the bathroom sink, and the second is clutched tightly in your hand like it might change its mind if you loosen your grip. You stare at them both, eyes wide, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something brighter.

Two lines.

On both.

You laugh first—just a small, shaky sound that quickly dissolves into tears. Your free hand comes up to your mouth as your shoulders begin to tremble, overwhelmed by it all. You’d taken two just to be sure, just to quiet the tiny voice in your head whispering what if the first one is wrong?

Now you have two answers.

And they’re the same.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, voice wobbly. “Okay… okay.”

You don’t even remember walking out of the bathroom.

Bucky’s in the living room, sitting on the couch with a book he’s not really reading, one leg bouncing slightly—something he does when his mind is elsewhere. The moment he hears you, he looks up, brows knitting together instantly.

“Hey,” he says, already halfway to standing. “You okay?”

You try to answer, but it comes out as a choked laugh instead. Tears spill over again, and that’s all it takes for him to close the distance between you in three long strides, hands immediately coming up to cup your face.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?” His voice drops, soft but urgent, blue eyes scanning you for any sign of hurt. “You’re scaring me, doll.”

You shake your head quickly, grabbing his wrist and guiding one of his hands down toward the tests still clutched in yours.

He blinks.

Looks down.

Then back up at you.

Then back down again.

There’s a long, silent pause where the world seems to hold its breath with him.

“…That means—” he starts.

You nod, laughter bubbling through your tears. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Bucky stares at the tests like they’ve personally betrayed him.

“…There’s two.”

You sniff, confused. “Yeah, I took two—”

“No, no, no,” he interrupts, eyes widening as realization crashes over him in the most catastrophic way possible. “There’s two.”

You blink at him then it hits you.

“Oh my god,” you choke out, already laughing again. “Buck—”

“Twins,” he breathes, stepping back like he needs physical distance from the concept. His hands go to his hair, dragging through it as he starts pacing. “Jesus Christ. I can’t—how do people—? Two babies? At the same time? What if they both start cryin’ at once? What if they both need you and I can’t—what if I drop one?”

“Bucky—”

“I have one metal arm, doll!” he continues, gesturing wildly now. “What if I’m holdin’ one and the other one needs—what if they both need bottles? Do we need four hands? I don’t have four hands!”

You’re full-on laughing now, doubled over slightly as tears stream down your face for an entirely different reason.

“Buck, please—”

“I can’t even keep the houseplants alive half the time!” he adds, horrified. “How am I supposed to keep two whole human beings alive?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you manage between laughs, grabbing his arm and tugging him back toward you. “Breathe.”

He does.

Barely.

His chest rises and falls too quickly, eyes still wide, but he lets you pull him in, lets your hands settle against his cheeks.

“We don’t know it’s twins,” you say gently, still smiling through your tears. “I just took two tests to make sure the first one wasn’t wrong.”

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“…Oh.”

Silence.

Then his shoulders drop just a fraction.

“…Oh,” he repeats, quieter this time.

You can see the exact moment the panic starts to loosen its grip on him, replaced by something softer—something warmer.

“Okay,” he exhaless, nodding slowly. “Okay, yeah. That… that makes sense. One baby. I can do one baby.”

You grin, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “You can absolutely do one baby.”

He huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, arms wrapping around you tightly, like he needs to feel you there, solid and real and okay.

“A baby,” he murmurs against your hair, voice full of awe now. “We’re havin’ a baby.”

You nod into his chest, smiling.

A baby.

---

The doctor’s office smells faintly of antiseptic and something vaguely floral, the soft hum of machinery filling the quiet space as you lie back on the exam table, Bucky seated beside you with your hand firmly clasped in his.

He’s been calmer since that morning.

Excited, even.

Still a little nervous—but in a softer way now. A manageable way.

“Ready?” the technician asks with a warm smile.

You nod.

Bucky squeezes your hand.

The gel is cold against your skin, and you flinch slightly, but Bucky’s thumb immediately starts tracing soothing circles along your knuckles, grounding you.

The screen flickers to life.

There’s a pause.

A slight shift before the technician leans in closer.

Hums.

“Well,” she says carefully.

You and Bucky both freeze.

“…What?” he asks, already suspicious.

The technician turns the screen slightly toward you both, her smile growing.

“Wel,” she repeats, a little brighter this time, “it’s definitely not twins.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, laughing softly.

“Told you,” you whisper, nudging Bucky.

But the technician isn’t finished.

“In fact,” she continues, pointing at the screen, “you’re actually looking at three.”

Silence.

Complete, total silence.

“…Three what?” Bucky asks slowly.

She glances at him, amused. “Three babies.”

You stop breathing.

Bucky stops existing.

His hand tightens around yours like he’s anchoring himself to reality, eyes locked onto the screen as his brain tries—and fails—to catch up.

“…Triplets,” you whisper faintly.

“Triplets,” the technician confirms.

There’s another long pause, and then you start laughing.

It bursts out of you, loud and uncontrollable, tears immediately springing back to your eyes as you turn your head toward Bucky.

“Well,” you manage, nudging him weakly. “I told you it wouldn’t be twins.”

He stares at the screen for another second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Then finally turns to look at you, something incredulous and completely overwhelmed and somehow still so full of love shining in his eyes.

“…Guess that means less sleep for us,” he says, voice a little dazed.

You smile through your tears, squeezing his hand.

“But at least we have each other,” he adds softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

“And a whole lotta love to give.”

You started feeling disgusted by the way your parents spoke about mineral-rich planets like they were economic opportunities instead of homes. You started hating them when they discussed occupation routes during dinner. You eventually realize that your comfortable childhood, your privileged life, had been paid for by people who had never asked to be ruled and used by the empire while your parents and the other senior officers reaped their rewards.

And every time you tried to bring it up, they dismissed you. They told you that you were ungrateful for their hard work. They told you they were protecting you. They told you that you’d never survive out there without the safety that the empire afforded you. 

Frankly, you feel… gaslit. 

By the time you turned eighteen, you knew one thing with absolute certainty: You would rather live a hard life than make someone else’s harder.

So you ran.

You packed what you could carry, emptied the credits you had from the savings account your parents had set for you, and disappeared into the Outer Rim before your parents could drag you back and talk you into joining the imperial work force. 

The life you built there was not easy. But really, nothing in the Outer Rim ever was.

Your hut leaked during acid rain. Your speeder broke down every other cycle. Half your meals came from tins with faded labels, and the other half came from whatever you could barter, fix, steal, or scavenge. Your hands were always bruised. Your boots were always full of dust. 

But it was yours. That mattered because you proved your parents wrong. You survived. 

No one was demanding you to salute. No one barked orders at you. No one asked you to kill a witness. You weren’t contributing to war crimes. You scavenged wrecks, repaired junk, sold parts, kept your head down, and survived.

It was a simple life.

Lonely, sometimes, but simple. You told yourself company was overrated anyway. Most days, you even believed it.

Then one night several years later, on what would have been your birthday back on your home planet, you sat outside your hut with a cup of bitter caf going cold in your hands and realised you had no one to celebrate it with.

No one knew. No one cared.

Oh. 

For the first time since you left, you felt truly alone. 

You cried quietly under the wide black sky, angry at yourself for it, because loneliness felt too much like weakness and you had spent your whole life making sure you didn’t need anyone. 

Then something bright streaked across the stars.

A shooting star.

You almost laughed.

Some stupid, embarrassing part of you closed its eyes and made a wish:

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Then the star broke apart. The light flared and it grew larger.

Your breath hitched.

That was not a star. That was a ship.

It tore through the atmosphere in a burning line of fire, vanishing beyond the ridge with a distant, shaking boom. For a long moment, you just stared.

Then you wiped your tears off with the heel of your hand.

A ship always meant one thing: Payday tomorrow.

By morning’s first light, you were standing by the wreckage of the ship, assessing the damage.

It was Imperial. No doubt about it.

Even half-buried in the sand, you could recognise the grey plating and militarised design. 

You stared at it for a moment, before spitting into the dust. “Figures.”

The crash had carved a long, black mark through the flats. Debris scattered everywhere, glittering in the early sun like treasure if you were desperate enough.

You were.

To be fair, a wreck like this could keep you fed for weeks if you were careful. Power cells. Rations. Med supplies. Navigation parts. Maybe even weapon components, if the fire had been kind.

So you pulled your scarf over your mouth and climbed inside.

The pilot was dead, and so were the others you found.

Stormtroopers, mostly. Bodies broken by impact, armour cracked open against the walls because they’re useless. The empire always gave their grunt workers the weakest, flimsiest armors. You stepped around them without looking too closely. 

No movement, according to your scanner, which likely meant there were no survivors. 

Good.

You got to work.

The first hour was easy. You filled your bag with ration packs, two intact med kits, a coil of wiring, a handful of power cells, and one data cylinder that looked sealed enough to be worth something. You found a half-crushed crate of thermal blankets and marked it for later.

Then you reached the cargo manifest.

You usually uploaded files and sold their intel. Most of the display was damaged, lines of text blinking in and out on the cracked screen, corrupted by impact. 

Still, you scrolled through the manifest:

Medical equipment.

Restricted military hardware.

Carbonite containment.

High-value asset. 

You went still. High value asset???

“Well,” you murmured. “That sounds expensive.”

You followed the remaining power trail deeper into the hold.

The air changed the lower you went. Frost clung to the walls despite the heat outside, and your breath fogged in front of your face. The emergency lights pulsed red along the floor, turning the corridor bloody in flashes.

At the end of it, behind a jammed door you had to cut open with your torch, you found a containment chamber.

You expected maybe weapons or credits.

Instead, you found a man frozen in carbonite.

For a long moment, you only stared at him.

He stood upright in the transport frame, trapped beneath a thick, dull sheen of carbonite. His face was barely visible, but clearly it was tactical clothes under the freeze. Human, as far as you could tell.

Not treasure.

Your stomach sank.

“No,” you whispered, already angry. “No, no, no.”

Because this wasn’t what you wanted.

You wanted parts. You wanted credits. You wanted something you could pull apart, sell, eat from, survive on.

You didn’t want a moral crisis in the shape of a frozen man.

You knew you should have left him.

The Empire did not freeze harmless people and label them high-value assets. He could be dangerous. He could wake up and kill you. He could be someone so terrible that even the Empire had decided to keep him locked away.

Or he could be someone the Empire had used.

Oh, stars. 

You thought of your parents, explaining that occupation was necessary, that rebellion was disorder, that some planets simply needed a firmer hand. You remember them telling you some people deserved to die. 

So if you left him here, trapped in a dead Imperial ship because saving him was inconvenient, you were no better than them, were you?

You swore under your breath.

“Maker,” you muttered. “I hate this.”

Getting him home was miserable.

The carbonite slab was too heavy and your makeshift hover-sled kept dragging to one side. You cursed him the entire way across the flats. You cursed the Empire. You cursed your own conscience most of all.

By the time you reached your hut, your back hurt, your arms shook, and the first sun was already high enough to turn the sand bright and cruel.

You dragged the slab inside and left him propped against the far wall.

For a while, you just stood there, breathing hard.

He said nothing. Obviously.

You pointed at him anyway.

“You’re already a problem.” Then, quietly, because you hated yourself for caring, you said. “Don’t make me regret this.”

You went back for the defrosting equipment after a cup of caf and half an hour of lying on your floor questioning every decision you had ever made.

The chamber was too big to move whole, so you stripped what you could: Heat regulators, pressure valves, control panel, cables, anything that looked remotely necessary and only mildly likely to explode.

By the time you got it all home and wired it into your generator, the night had started to creep over the desert.

Your hut smelled like dust, old metal, and overheating circuits.

The lights flickered when the machine powered on.

You stood in front of the carbonite slab, hand on the defrost switch in the other.

A sensible person would have stopped. A smarter person would have sold his location.

But you were neither. 

So you took one steadying breath and hit the switch.

The machine groaned.

Heat hissed through the slab. Frost melted in streaks. Carbonite softened, shining wet under the light of your hut. The man’s shape became clearer by degrees: his face, his chest, his shoulders…

Oh. His left arm was metal.

It was silver, segmented, and impossibly well-crafted, catching the light in a way that made your scanner chirp sharply from your workbench.

You glanced at the reading, then back at the arm.

Your mouth went dry. Beskar alloy. 

“What the fuck?” you whispered.

The carbonite released with a violent crack.

The man fell forward, and you barely caught him.

Damn.

He was heavy.

That was your first thought when the man came crashing out of the carbonite and nearly took you down with him. Not he’s alive. Not what did the Empire do to him? Not even why in the stars does he have a stupidly expensive arm?

Just…

Damn.

The Empire really had frozen the densest man in the galaxy and made him your problem.

He hit the floor hard, half on top of you, shivering  like his body had forgotten how to be a body. His lungs dragged in air with a terrible, broken sound. His metal hand scraped against the floor. His eyes were open, but cloudy and unfocused, staring through you like he was still trapped. “Hey,” you said, breathless under half his weight. “Hey. Easy. Don’t die on me now. I worked very hard to steal you.”

He didn’t answer.

After that, he was feverish for days.

Carbonite sickness, you guessed. He must’ve been frozen long enough that he could barely see, barely stand, barely make it three steps without his knees giving out. You had to help him drink. Help him sit up. Help him stumble to the fresher with one of your hands braced carefully around his waist and the other hovering near his arm, because you still were not sure whether touching the metal would make him panic.

To be fair, things made him panic at first.

He flinched when the kettle screamed, when the generator kicked on, when your boots scuffed the floor too suddenly, when your hand came too close without warning.

He never attacked you, not really, but sometimes he woke up with a terrified inhale and that beskar hand clenched hard enough to dent the edge of your cot. Sometimes he stared at the wall for hours. Sometimes he looked down at his own arm like he had woken up expecting it not to be there.

So you learned to speak before entering the room. You told him what you were doing before you touched him. You left food within reach and pretended not to notice that he only ate when your back was turned.

You gave him the living room because you only had one bedchamber and you were kind, not stupid. The first few nights, he sat upright against the wall instead of lying down, blanket untouched beside him. By the fourth night, he slept under it. By the sixth, he stopped flinching when you walked across the room. By the eighth, he let you change the bandage around a raw patch of skin near the edge of his metal shoulder without looking like he wanted to disappear through the floor.

He still didn’t speak, though.

You asked once, because you could not help yourself. “Do you have a name?”

His teeth clenched and his eyes lowered.

Nothing.

You waited.

Still nothing.

So you sighed and raised both hands. “Fine. Keep your secrets, scary carbonite man.”

That became his name in your head after that.

Scary Carbonite Man.

Scary Carbonite Man sat silently at your table while you repaired circuit boards. Scary Carbonite Man watched the door like he expected the whole galaxy to come through it with a blaster. Scary Carbonite Man drank broth like it was a task he’d been assigned and not nourishment.

And then, somewhere between one cycle and the next, Scary Carbonite Man started helping around the hut. 

You woke up one morning to find the loose panel by the door screwed back into place.

Another day, the water filter stopped making that awful grinding noise it had made for cycles. You had been meaning to fix it. You had also been meaning to fix the roof, the heater, the left stabiliser on your speeder, and your entire life, so the filter had been low on the list.

But he fixed it as if he was trying to make himself useful enough to be allowed to stay.

You came home from the market one afternoon and found him crouched beside your faulty generator, brows drawn together, metal fingers surprisingly delicate around the wiring. He froze when you stepped inside, like he had been caught stealing instead of repairing the only thing keeping your hut warm at night.

You stared at him. He stared back.

The generator hummed smoother than it had in years.

You cleared your throat.

“I…,” you said, setting your bag down. “Thank you, Scary Carbonite Man.”

His mouth barely lifted, a little. 

It was embarrassing, how much you noticed.

It was worse how quickly you got used to him.

Especially because you should’ve known better.

You knew better than to let a strange man stay in your house, especially one the Empire had frozen, transported, and labelled important enough to hide behind ten layers of encryption. You knew better than to sleep under the same roof as someone who could dent durasteel with his bare hand. You knew better than to start trusting someone who hadn’t even told you his name.

But your hut had been so quiet before him.

You hadn’t realised how quiet until it wasn’t anymore.

Now there was the shift of another person breathing in the living room. The scrape of a chair being moved back into place. The clink of him washing the bowl you had left beside him. The small, strange comfort of coming home and knowing you were not walking into emptiness.

You were no longer lonely. 

You liked telling him things.

He never answered, but you talked anyway.About the trader in town who was absolutely watering down his fuel and lying about it. About the woman at the market who sold you bruised fruit at half price because she liked your attitude, which probably meant she was insane. About your speeder making a new noise, which you described to him in great detail while he listened with the seriousness of a man receiving military orders.

You told him about the sandstorms. The broken latch on the supply shed. The stupid little lizard that kept getting into your storage crate. Nothing important.

But he listened. And you knew he listened because he fixed what he could. The speeder and latch were fixed. The lizard was relocated. 

And after a while, you started leaving pauses like maybe one day he would fill them.

You told yourself you were only letting him stay until he was well enough to leave.

You told yourself a lot of things.

Then one evening, as the suns sank low and painted the walls of your hut in warm amber light, you placed a bowl of broth in front of him and asked, not really expecting an answer anymore, “Do you remember anything yet?”

Silence.

You sat across from him, spooning your own food around the bowl. Then he looked down at his hands and his throat moved.

When he spoke, his voice was rough from disuse, barely more than a scrape.

“Bucky.”

You went still.

He swallowed, like the name hurt coming out. “My name,” he said quietly. “I think.”

For a second, you couldn’t speak.

Your chest gasped so suddenly it almost scared you. So you smiled instead.

“Well,” you said gently, “welcome back, Bucky.”

After that, Bucky started remembering in pieces.

Not enough to make a full picture. Just little scraps of a life that had been torn apart and scattered somewhere he couldn’t reach.

A name, sometimes.

Winnie, Steve, Rebecca, Howard.

He said them once while helping you repair the water filter, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it.

Another time, he said, “There was snow.” And then nothing else for the rest of the day.

You learned not to ask too much.

Bucky didn’t like being asked for things he couldn’t give. You saw it in the way his jaw clicked, the way his eyes dropped, the way his flesh curled against his knee like he was punishing himself for not knowing more.

So you stopped making memory feel like a test.

You let him offer what he could. A mountain. A freight. A fall.

Sometimes, he looked at his metal arm like it belonged to the nightmare and not to him.

You never told him it was okay. You thought maybe he had been told too many things were okay when they were not.

So instead, you sat beside him and said ordinary things. You told him the caf trader in town was still a thief. You told him the left stabiliser on your speeder was making a suspicious noise again. You told him you were fairly certain the little lizard he moved had children and those children were migrating back.  

And Bucky listened.

He was still scary if someone in the market looked at him (or you) wrong. But inside your hut, around you, he had started to become careful and gentle. 

He put your tools back exactly where you liked them. He moved hot pans away from the edge of the counter after seeing you burn your fingers once. He pretended not to watch you struggle with heavier scrap until you sighed and said, “Fine,” and then he carried it like it weighed nothing.

And oh, it was humiliating.

Even then, the nightmares still came.

Some nights, you heard him from the living room, breathing too fast, shifting on the couch like he was trying not to scream.

Usually, you got up. Usually, you sat near him in the dark and said his name until he came back to himself.

“Bucky. You’re here. You’re safe. It’s just me.”

But one night, you were too tired to do it properly.

You had spent all day in the heat, hauling scrap and bargaining with a man who deserved to be bitten by a sand rat. Your whole body ached. Your eyes burned. You were half-buried under your blanket, right on the edge of sleep, when you heard him give a small, heartbreaking sound from the living room.

You opened your eyes.

For a second, you just stared at the wall.

You were so tired.

So, so tired.

Then you heard him whisper, rough and afraid, “No.”

And that was it. You couldn’t leave him to face the darkness alone.

You got out of bed.

You shuffled out half-asleep, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, hair a mess, eyes barely open. Bucky was sitting upright on the mat in the living room, his back against the wall, chest rising and falling too quickly.

His metal hand was curled tight. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t really seeing the room.

You stood in front of him for a moment, swaying with exhaustion.

Then you reached down and gently took his wrist. It was warm beneath your fingers, because you wanted him to know where you were before he had to decide whether to touch you back.

He froze.

You gave the smallest tug.

“Bucky,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Come on.”

He stared up at you, still breathing hard.

So you tugged again, softer this time. “Come on, Buck.”

And he eventually followed like a tired man hearing his name from the only safe place he knew.

He stood. Perhaps he was half expecting you to do the usual routine of sit-with-Bucky-on-the-couch until he calms down.

Instead, you just led him into your room, fingers still wrapped around his wrist, your blanket trailing behind you on the floor. You were too tired to overthink it. Too tired to be embarrassed. Too tired to remember the usual routine. 

You climbed into bed first, then looked back at him. You patted the space beside you.

“Here.”

He hesitated.

You sighed, but there was no bite in it. “Bucky.”

That was all, just his name.

He came to you.

Carefully, like your bed was fragile and he was afraid his body would ruin it by being there. He lay down beside you with far too much space between you, stiff and silent and barely breathing.

Absolutely ridiculous, heartbreaking man.

You lasted maybe five seconds before scooting closer.

You curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy. Like you had not spent years sleeping alone and insisting you preferred it. Like he had always been there. Your arm slipped over his middle.

Your cheek pressed gently to his shoulder.

“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Bucky didn’t move at first.

For a few breaths, he stayed painfully still, like this comfort was another kind of danger.

So you didn’t push.

You just stayed sleepy and warm and stubborn.

You held him like it was no big thing, like he wasn’t an ex-Imperial asset with a beskar arm and a head full of broken memories.

Slowly, his breathing changed. His shoulders lowered. The tension left him in tiny pieces.

His flesh hand hovered above your arm, uncertain and careful, before settling over you.

You smiled against him, too sleepy to hide it.

The nightmare didn't come back.

Neither of you said anything else.

You just slept.

And for the first time since he fell out of the sky and into your life, Bucky slept like he was allowed to rest.

In the morning, you woke up tucked against him, warm all the way through.

Your arm was still around his waist. His hand was still over yours.

Bucky was awake, staring at the ceiling, perfectly still like he had been afraid to move and ruin it.

You blinked. He blinked.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then, because you were you, and feelings were horrifying, you said, “If you tell anyone I’m nice, I’ll deny it.”

For one second, nothing happened. Then Bucky smiled.

Oh, that was dangerous.

Because you had dragged a frozen man out of an Imperial wreck.

Because you had rescued a frozen man from an Imperial wreck, let him sleep in your living room, fed him your terrible broth, given him your spare blanket, and now he was smiling in your bed like maybe he had found his way back to the galaxy through you.

That morning, Bucky announced he was going to the market alone.

You almost dropped the credit chips you were counting.

“Alone?”

He stood near the door, already dressed for the heat, hair tied back in a way you had started pretending didn’t do anything to you. His cloak was pulled over the arm, because people had seen it and you both agreed the attention wasn’t worth it.

He looked at you and nodded once. “Yeah.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

You looked down at the credits spread across the table, then back at him. “Are you sure?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change much, because it rarely did, but a flicker of amusement went through his eyes. “I know the way.”

He did.

He knew the way because he had been going with you for weeks now. He knew which stalls sold honest parts and which ones sold faulty ones. He knew the woman who kept spare copper wiring under the table. He knew the mechanic who paid you late but always paid eventually. He even helped when you took freelance repair jobs.

He knew your life now.

Still, you frowned. “What do you even need from the market?”

His face went blank too quickly. “Things.”

“Things?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not an answer.” You narrowed your eyes.

Bucky looked away.

Oh, that was definitely suspicious.

You sat back in your chair, credits forgotten beneath your fingers. “You’re being weird.”

His mouth twitched. Then he adjusted the strap of his satchel and said, “I’ll be back before the second sun gets high.”

You wanted to argue, and not because you didn’t trust him. You did, more than you should have. More than you liked admitting to yourself. But the thought of him walking into town alone made you frightened. 

Because if he didn’t return, you’d be alone again.

Bucky noticed and softened his voice. “I’ll come back.”

You hated how badly you needed to hear that. So you rolled your eyes and looked back down at the credits. “You better. I still need you to fix the west panel before the next sandstorm.”

“I know.”

“And if you get robbed, I’m not rescuing you.”

Then Bucky said, very quietly, “you think I’d need rescue?”

You waved him off without looking up, because your face had gotten warm for absolutely no reason. “Go away.”

He did.

The hut felt too quiet the second he left.

You tried to ignore it.

You sorted credits. You wrote down what you owed for fuel. Checked the payment from the repair job you had done three days ago and cursed the client under your breath because he had absolutely shorted you. Then you started organising scrap by resale value, because apparently you were the kind of person who needed busy hands to avoid thinking about a man going to the market alone.

You were halfway through separating usable wiring from junk when the first shadow passed the window.

You froze.

That was way too many footsteps to be Bucky. 

Your hand moved toward your blaster. The door blew inward before your fingers reached it.

Then, white armour filled the room.

Stormtroopers.

For one stupid second, your mind couldn’t  make sense of them inside your hut. They belonged on ships. In garrisons. In your childhood.

Not here. Not in the doorway Bucky had fixed. Not stepping over the threshold of the one place in the galaxy you had made for yourself.

Then one of them raised a blaster.

The first shot scorched the wall where your head had been.

You grabbed the knife from under the table and drove it into the gap beneath the nearest trooper’s helmet. He went down choking. Another one lunged at you. You slammed your elbow into his throat plate and tried to reach your blaster, but there were too many of them, too fast, too loud.

A rifle butt caught you across the ribs and you hit the floor hard.

Still, you kicked, bit, and scrambled.

You got one by the ankle and dragged him down with you, feral and furious, because if the Empire wanted you back on your knees, they would have to break you first.

So they did.

A trooper’s boot came down on your leg, and the pain was instant and blinding.

Your bone broke, and you screamed before you could stop yourself.

The sound ripped out of you, ugly and raw, and for a moment the whole room went white. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past it. Your hands clawed at the floor as pain tore up from your shin into your hip.

A trooper grabbed your hair and yanked your head back.

Then, you felt the cold metal of a blaster pressed to your temple.

That brought the room back into focus.

A trooper crouched in front of you. His helmet tilted slightly, almost curious.“Where is the Winter Soldier?”

You blinked through the pain. “What?”

The blaster dug harder into your skin. “The asset. Where is he?”

Asset.

What, was Bucky this mysterious Winter Soldier? The high value asset they were transporting in carbonite?

Because Bucky wasn’t that to you. He wasn’t a weapon or a thing. When you thought of him, you thought of him sitting at your table with a bowl of broth in his hands. Bucky repairing your generator without saying a word. Bucky lying stiff beside you in bed, afraid to breathe too loudly. 

Your fear turned into hatred pretty quickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The trooper hit you. Your cheek split sideways and blood filled your mouth. “Where is the Winter Soldier?”

You laughed.

It was a terrible sound, wet and shaky and half-mad from pain. “I don’t know what a Winter Soldier is.”

He landed another hit. This time, your vision blurred.

A trooper stepped on your broken leg again, not hard enough to finish it, just enough to make sure you remembered they could. You choked on a sob and hated yourself for it. 

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“The asset was tracked to this dwelling.”

You swallowed blood. “Well,” you rasped, “your tracker’s a pile of shaak shit.”

The blaster pressed harder on your skin.

You could feel the circle of it now. You knew if you stopped being useful, you were going to die. 

You thought, absurdly, of Bucky at the market.

Bucky, choosing fruit with too much consideration. Bucky. trying not to get overcharged. Bucky walking back under the suns with that careful focus of his, maybe carrying whatever mysterious things he had refused to explain.

Now, your hopes have changed. You hoped he stayed away. You hoped he ran.

The trooper leaned closer. “Last chance.”

You looked at the black visor where a face should have been.

Your whole body shook. After all, the hurt made the edges of the room pulse. You were terrified. Only idiots and dead people pretended not to be.

But you had been raised by Imperials.

You knew this game. You knew what they wanted.

And you would never let Bucky become one of theirs ever again.  So you bared your bloody teeth.

“I said,” you whispered, “I don’t know.”

The trooper’s finger shifted on the trigger.

That’s all, folks! You thought cynically to yourself. It was a short life, and not necessarily a good one, but at least I don’t regret anything!

Then the trooper’s helmet snapped sideways. A giant crack crack split through white plastoid.

The blaster meant for your brains went off into the ceiling.

For half a second, the whole room flashed bright in your ears

Then the body dropped hard.

You flinched against the floor, blinking through blood and dust and the watery edge of your own vision. Your ears rang so badly the entire world seemed like it was underwater. You couldn’t breathe right. Every inhale pulled pain sharp through your muscles. Your broken leg throbbed in bright, sick waves that made the edges of the hut bend and smear.

Another stormtrooper went down. Then another.

At first, you didn’t understand what you were seeing.

A shadow moved through the doorway where your door used to be.

You saw a hint of dark cloak and loose hair. After adjusting your focus, you saw a silver arm catching the light.

It was Bucky, you realised. 

Oh.

Bucky.

He didn’t shout your name or make some grand heroic entrance.

He just did what had to be done. Tactical, cold, and frighteningly smart. 

And stars, you had never seen anyone fight like that.

He strode into the room like the violence he was about to commit had already happened in his head and his body was only catching up. When a trooper lifted a rifle, Bucky’s beskar hand closed around the barrel and crushed it inward with a shriek of ruined metal. His other hand struck once beneath the helmet. The trooper dropped before the broken weapon hit the floor.

Another turned, but he was too slow. Bucky was already there.

You tried to keep your eyes open, but everything came in pieces: A flash of beskar, A boot sliding through blood, A white helmet hitting the wall hard enough to leave a dent. A gloved hand reaching for him and then bone bending the wrong way. A blaster firing wildly.

Bucky ducked under the shot.

Bucky turned the blaster around and ended the trooper with a shot meant for him.

He didn’t waste motion. There was no anger in it, not the way you understood anger. Just cold, brutal certainty.

It was beautiful in a way that made your stomach twist with grief, because this was what they had wanted from him. This was what the Empire had built out of a broken man and called useful.

This was not the Bucky who fixed your heater. Not the man who listened to you complain about watered-down fuel with the seriousness of a battlefield report.

This was the weapon they had come for.

This was the Winter Soldier.

And you hated them for it so much it burned through the fear.

A stormtrooper stumbled backward over a body, trying to raise both hands.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. You blinked, and the trooper was on the floor.

Another tried to run. He didn’t make it past the threshold.

Then there was only one left. The one whose boot had pressed into your broken leg until your scream tore out of you.

He backed away from you now.

Not far enough. Never far enough for Bucky.

Bucky turned his head.

The man raised his blaster with shaking hands. Bucky closed the gap between them before he could fire.

You didn’t see the killing blow clearly.

Maybe that was mercy. Maybe your body simply gave up on looking.

Then, there was only blissful silence. 

Your hut smelled like blaster smoke, hot metal, blood, dust, and the bitter remains of your caf from that morning still sitting on the table. The west panel that Bucky had promised to fix hung crooked from the wall. Your door was gone. Your floor was covered in dead men.

And Bucky stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard.

For one moment, he just stood there with his hands loose at his sides, like he didn’t know where to put them now that there was no one left to hurt.

You tried to say his name, but it only came out as a broken, wet, little sound.

Bucky turned so fast it scared you.

The bloodlust emptied out of his face, and just like the Winter Soldier vanished.

What was left was your Bucky.

He looked mildly horrified, though he could bring himself to regret what he did. His skin was pale beneath the dust. His cerulean blue eyes blown wide as he studied in your cheek, your mouth, your leg, the blood under you, the way you were curled around the pain like your body was trying to protect itself from being alive.

He dropped to his knees so hard you heard it.l“Hey.”

His voice barely worked.

He crawled the last distance to you, hands hovering over you, not touching yet. His metal fingers flexed open, closed, open again, like he was afraid they would forget how to be gentle.

“Hey,” he said again, softer, rougher. “Look at me.”

You tried.

Your left eye, for lack of a better word, was failing. Your vision kept dipping in and out, Bucky’s face breaking apart and coming back together.

His hand moved toward your leg, then stopped when he saw the wrong angle of it.

His mouth parted, but sound came out at first.

“No,” he breathed.

It was almost nothing but a ruin of a word.

“No.”

You wanted to make him stop looking like that.

You wanted to tell him you were fine, even though you were very much not fine. You wanted to tell him his repairs were going to be useless if he kept letting stormtroopers blow doors off their hinges. You wanted to say something sarcastic enough to make this less frightening.

But your tongue was heavy and your teeth were red. Your leg was a star going supernova beneath your skin.

Bucky swallowed hard and slid one arm beneath your shoulders.

“I have you,” he said. “I have you.”

His other arm went beneath your knees, careful around the broken leg, so careful it made tears spill down your temples and into your hair. Even that tiny shift dragged a whine out of you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

You could feel him shaking now. It was a tremor through his chest, his hands, the arm under your back. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, lifting you anyway, because he had to.

Because the floor was soaked with your blood and stormtroopers were dead around you and your little hut, your little life, had been cracked wide open.

You clutched at him with one weak hand, fingers catching in the front of his shirt.

Bucky pulled you into his lap right there among the bodies, not caring about the blood.

His metal hand cradled the back of your head, impossibly gently. His flesh hand pressed over your side where your ribs hurt, not pushing, just holding, like he could keep you together by touch alone.

His throat worked. His eyes wouldn’t stay on yours. They kept flicking away, to the bodies, to the broken door, to his own metal hand in your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

You blinked slowly.

Bucky’s face was close now. Too close for him to hide from you. His jaw was pulled tight, and his lips trembled. Dust clung to the dampness at his temples. Blood, not his, marked the line of his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

That was all he could manage.

Not I’m sorry I killed them.

No, Bucky might regret a great many things, but he could never be sorry for protecting you. 

He was just sorry that you saw.

Like the worst thing in the room was that you had seen what he could do.

It was that now, finally, he thought you might understand why they had put him in carbonite. Why they had called him an assert. Why stormtrooper squadrons with blasters had crossed the galaxy to a stupid desert planet to drag him back.

His eyes lifted to yours, terrified. He was waiting, you realised, for you to be disgusted by his actions.

Oh, Bucky.

Your heart hurt worse than your ribs.

You lifted your hand. It was pathetic, really. Your fingers barely obeyed you. Your arm shook with the effort. You missed his face the first time, knuckles brushing his collar instead.

Bucky caught your wrist gently. 

He held your hand in his like he didn’t know whether he was allowed to bring it closer.

You made a small sound of frustration.

His eyes narrowed immediately. “What? What hurts?”

You stared at him. He stared back, beautiful and ruined all the same.

So you used the last of your strength to tug your hand free, curl your fingers into his shirt, and pulled

You couldn’t pull far, but Bucky understood enough. 

His breath hitched

“No,” he whispered, like he was refusing himself something because he didn’t deserve it.  “You don’t—”

You kissed him, and it was not graceful. It was barely even a kiss.

Your split mouth pressed to his, and pain sparked across your cheek so sharply your eyes watered. You tasted blood. Your blood, maybe his. You didn’t care.

Bucky went utterly still.

For one terrible second, he didn’t breathe.

Then a sound left his chest, almost wounded, and his mouth moved against yours with a kind of careful desperation that made you want to sob. He kissed you like he was afraid you would vanish. Like he was afraid he would hurt you by being himself. Like he was trying to ask forgiveness without having enough words to build the question.

His hand stayed at the back of your head. His thumb moved once against your hair.

When you pulled back, he followed for half a breath before stopping himself.

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “You came back,” you whispered.

Bucky’s breath shuddered.

“Of course.” It was hoarse and almost angry with how true it was.

That was more than enough.

Your fingers loosened in his shirt.

For a moment, you just existed there in his arms while the world tilted around you. His heartbeat was too fast beneath your palm. His breathing kept catching. Every few seconds, his grip adjusted, checking you, making sure you were still there.

Then his gaze dropped to your throat, just between your collarbones, as if he remembered something. 

His face changed.

You frowned weakly. “What?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted you against him with unbearable care, keeping your broken leg supported, and reached into the inside of his cloak.

His hand came out closed around a small piece of metal.

For one exhausted, feverish second, you thought it might be medicine.

It wasn’t.

A necklace slipped from his fingers.

It has a simple chain and a little pendant. The silver metal curled around a blue stone, cloudy at the centre, bright at the edge. It wasn't polished or perfect by any standards. It was handmade and slightly uneven. 

It was… lovely.

So lovely your breath hitched.

Bucky looked down at it like he didn’t know what to do with this gift now that he had brought it into a room full of death.

“I got it for you, from the market,” he said.

You blinked at him, throat closing.

He stared at the necklace, not at you.

“You said it was your birthday when you saved me.”

You forgot, for one stupid second, how much pain you were in.

“You remembered?”

Bucky’s thumb rubbed over the little blue stone once.

“You said.” His brow furrowed, like the memory was delicate and he was afraid of breaking it. “The night before you found me.”

You didn’t even realize he had heard you at that point. You were just rambling to him in his post-carbonite fugue state, you didn’t even realise he would remember the information for a later date. 

Your birthday.

Your stupid, lonely birthday.

You remembered that day, having a cold caf in your hands. You remembered watching the black sky over your hut. You remembered the tears running down on your face. You remembered making a pathetic wish made on what you thought was a star.

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

You had thought no one in the galaxy had heard you.

But whoever the maker was, they had sent him.

Frozen in carbonite, maybe. Falling out of the sky, maybe. Half-dead, half-gone, dragged through the atmosphere by an Imperial ship.

It didn’t matter.

He had remembered.

Bucky, who still lost whole pieces of himself. Bucky, who remembered snow and names and falling only in fragments. Bucky, who couldn’t always trust his own mind.

Bucky remembered that his ship fell out birthday.

A broken sound left your lips, and his head snapped up. “Does it hurt?”

You laughed and cried at the same time, which was a mistake because your ribs immediately punished you for it.

“Don’t,” he said, helpless. “Don’t do that. Just stay with me, okay?”

“You bought me a necklace,” you whispered.

His mouth tightened, like he was bracing for rejection.

“I wish I could get you it sooner,” he said. 

“Bucky….”

“I saved credits from repairs.”

“I know, Buck.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“I wanted…” He stopped as the words failed him.

His teeth clenched worked once, then he tried again.

“I wanted you to have something from me.”

Your lips parted.

Bucky looked down again, ashamed of the softness, maybe. Ashamed that the hands that had just killed men could still want to give you a pretty thing.

His voice went smaller. “You have given me so much.”

Oh.

Oh Bucky, as if you needed repayment. As if your kindness was currency. As if you needed him to give you something to be loved. 

You only wanted him. 

Carefully, with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for delicate wiring, Bucky shifted the chain around your neck. His fingers brushed your skin. The metal was cool at first, then warmed almost instantly against your throat.

The clasp took him longer than it should have. His hands were shaking too badly.

You watched his face as he worked. The furrow between his brows. The tight set of his mouth. The way he kept pausing whenever you breathed wrong, checking if he had hurt you.

Finally, the necklace settled against your chest.

The little blue stone rested above your heartbeat.

Bucky’s fingers stayed there for half a second longer than necessary.

Then he pulled away like he had no right.

You caught his wrist. “Bucky.”

He looked at you.

You wanted to say it properly: You weren’t afraid.

He had saved you.

Whatever the Empire had made him, it didn’t  get to own every part of him.

That you had now seen the weapon, yes, but you had also seen the man who fixed your water filter, remembered your birthday, listened to your useless stories, and came back.

But pain was dragging you under. Your thoughts were slipping loose, and words were hard.

So you said the only thing you could, “Stay.”

He bent over you, forehead pressing to your temple, his breath shaking against your skin.

“Always,” he said.

Outside, the suns burned over the desert. Somewhere beyond the ridge, more Imperials would come, more ships, more hunters. 

But in your ruined hut, with your blood drying on his shirt and his gift resting over your heart, Bucky held you like the galaxy could take anything else from him and he would still refuse to let go of this.

And for the first time in your life, you knew that neither of you would ever have to be alone again.

You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.

Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.

Bucky.

The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.

But you.

You’d been a fucking goner.

Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.

Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.

You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.

“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.

“Think so. Just maintenance?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”

You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.

But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.

Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.

“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.

Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-

He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.

“What?”

His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.

“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.

You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.

You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.

“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.

God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.

“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”

You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”

“I don’t know things from the 80s.”

You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.

You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.

“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-

“You want me to go?”

Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“

Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.

God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.

“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.

“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”

“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”

“Too much time with Sam.”

“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”

“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”

You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.

And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.

“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.

“Do you like cowboys?”

“I’m neutral.”

“Do you like space?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”

You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”

Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”

“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.

“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.

“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.

He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.

“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.

It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.

“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.

You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”

He nods. “Just like you told me to.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.

“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”

“Sam’s right.”

Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”

You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.

It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.

“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”

“That is my favorite kind of thing.”

“I know.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”

You shrug. “The grocery store?”

Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.

The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and  you let it take over.

How much you want him. How much you need him.

You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.

“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”

And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.

“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.

This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.

“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.

“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”

You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.

“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.

Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.

You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.

But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.

That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.

It’s all just a fantasy.

You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.

He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.

You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.

You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.

That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.

You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.

“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.

“Nope.”

“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”

“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch.

The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.

“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good for you.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”

You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”

“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”

Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.

“Ah. So it’s something.”

“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“

“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”

You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.

“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.

You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.

But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.

“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.

He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”

You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.

“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.

Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.

You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“

“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.

“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.

His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.

His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.

When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.

There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.

Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white  knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.

“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.

You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.

“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Princess Bride.”

“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”

Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”

You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”

“Stark says you get invited.”

You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.

“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.

Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.

But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.

“Oh- Okay.”

Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.

He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.

“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.

You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.

You get messy. He has no idea.

That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.

You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.

He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.

“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.

“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”

Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.

“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”

You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.

When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.

“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.

You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.

But your hand finds nothing.

Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.

Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.

You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.

“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.

There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.

Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.

“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.

“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“

“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.

“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”

Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.

You last ten minutes.

The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.

You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.

Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.

The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.

Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.

You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.

And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.

You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.

You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.

Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.

He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.

The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.

Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.

He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.

“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”

Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.

He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile. 

When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.

You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.

“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.

Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”

You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”

Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.

You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.

“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“

You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.

“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“

You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.

He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.

Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-

“Something on my face, doll?”

You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.

Bucky looks worried. He said something.

“Hm?”

“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.

You’re so, so fucked.

It only gets worse.

Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.

“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.

“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.

For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.

You last about a week, with that one.  Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.

“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.

“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.

Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.

You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.

His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-

Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.

Always so kind.

“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.

“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.

“Anything I can help with?”

You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-

“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”

“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.

You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”

And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.

You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.

First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.

Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.

You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.

“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”

And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.

Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.

“Bucky, I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”

You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“

“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”

You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.

“Bucky- Get off-“

He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘

“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.

“I- I don’t know-“

“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”

You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.

He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”

You shrug. “You wanted me to.”

Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.

“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.

You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.

It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.

Then something shifts.

He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.

He’s hard.

Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.

You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.

And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.

Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.

“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”

He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.

Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.

What the fuck just happened.

Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.

“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”

You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”

You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.

Bucky hisses, hips jerking forward. “Careful,” he grunts. “Gonna strangle me.”

“S- Sorry-“

“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”

You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.  

“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”

You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.

But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.

Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.

You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.

He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.

He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.

It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.

And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.

It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.

And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.

But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.

But only ever in his head.

✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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