It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.

They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.

It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.

How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?

You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.

Bucky.

He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.

Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.

“What are you doing—”

“What are you doing—”

You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.

Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.

When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.

While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.

Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.

To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.

You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.

Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.

Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”

He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.

The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.

“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”

You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Look, I—”

“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”

Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.

Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.

“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.

Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”

AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.

Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.

“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.

Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.

AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.

“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.

You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”

AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”

The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.

“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”

Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”

Big enough to fit the both of you?

“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.

Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”

The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.

Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”

You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.

“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.

“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.

“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”

Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”

“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”

Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.

This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.

“I don’t know about this, Sam—”

“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”

You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.

Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.

“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”

Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.

“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”

Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”

“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.

He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.

“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”

“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”

Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”

You felt your eyebrow twitch.

“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”

“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”

“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.

“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.

You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.

“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.

“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”

He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”

You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.

“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.

It looked incredibly small.

It looked too intimate.

It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.

“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”

“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.

You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.

You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.

Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.

Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.

“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”

You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.

“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.

You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.

Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.

“Let go,” you said.

Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.

He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.

“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.

He didn’t.

He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.

You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”

You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.

The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.

Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.

His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.

“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.

You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.

“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.

“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.

You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.

A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.

“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”

Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”

He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”

“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.

You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.

The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.

An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”

“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”

“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”

Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.

You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.

But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.

“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.

Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.

“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”

The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.

“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.

The paddles lurched toward you.

“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”

Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.

“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.

His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.

“Now give me these damn paddles—”

But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.

With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.

Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”

“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”

Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.

With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.

One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.

Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.

You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.

“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.

When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.

You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”

Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.

You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.

You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.

Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.

“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”

As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.

You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.

Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.

“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.

“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”

Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.

Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.

“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”

“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.

“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.

“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”

“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”

You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.

Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”

Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.

“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.

After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.

“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”

You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.

Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.

Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.

“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”

“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”

Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.

The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.

The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.

Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.

Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.

Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.

Bucky was shirtless.

You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.

His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.

You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?

Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.

Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.

Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.

“Bucky… can you keep it down?”

But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.

“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”

“Bucky, listen to me!”

“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.

You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.

“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”

When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.

He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.

“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.

“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”

You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?

Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.

You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.

Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.

In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.

“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”

You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”

Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”

A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.

He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.

Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.

“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”

As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.

Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.

“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”

Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.

“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”

You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.

“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”

You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.

“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”

Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.

With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.

You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.

“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.

Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”

There was another pause.

This time, Bucky broke it.

“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”

The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.

There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.

Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.

He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.

You had already fallen asleep.

The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.

From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.

You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”

A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.

“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”

You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.

“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”

You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”

“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”

“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”

“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.

Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”

Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.

Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”

“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”

You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.

“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”

Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”

You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.

When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”

Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.

He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.

The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.

“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.

The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.

“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”

Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”

“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”

Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”

Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”

The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.

“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”

While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.

You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.

For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.

For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.

Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.

The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.

Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.

Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.

Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.

Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.

“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.

The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.

“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.

Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”

As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.

He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”

Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.

“Here, let me help you.”

To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.

With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.

You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”

Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.

“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.

You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”

The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.

Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.

As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.

You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.

The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.

Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”

He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?

Were you trying to pull his leg?

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”

Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”

More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.

You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Do you want to leave—”

“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die.

His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.

You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”

“What? Hey—wait—!”

Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.

This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.

“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”

The Forties.

“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.

You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”

You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.

At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.

Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.

The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.

“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.

As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.

In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.

He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.

It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.

After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.

As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.

But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.

“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.

For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.

“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”

This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”

With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.

“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”

You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”

Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.

“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”

You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”

The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.

“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”

“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.

“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”

“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”

“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.

He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.

“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.

He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.

“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.

“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”

“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.

You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.

“You broke Sarah’s truck.”

Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”

You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”

He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.

Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.

“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.

“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.

He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.

“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”

“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.

He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.

“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.

“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”

Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.

“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.

“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.

“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”

You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.

You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.

“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”

“300 East,” you answered quickly.

“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”

Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.

“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”

“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.

“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”

“I don’t know.”

Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”

“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”

Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.

“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”

Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”

“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.

He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.

“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.

“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”

You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.

You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.

Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.

“Look at me—”

You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.

“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.

“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”

You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.

“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”

Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.

Was this what you had thought of him all this time?

That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?

“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.

You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.

“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.

Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”

“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.

“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.

But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.

He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”

“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.

“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”

Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.

“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”

“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”

“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”

With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.

He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.

“I want more.”

A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?

“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”

“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”

Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.

He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.

“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.

He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.

You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.

The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.

Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.

You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”

A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.

It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.

Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.

He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.

He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.

But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.

“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”

His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.

“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”

He was always looking for you?

Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.

“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”

His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.

You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.

“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”

With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.

The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.

You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.

Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.

A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”

Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.

“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.

You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.

From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.

“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”

Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.

The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.

“God—eager, are you?” you teased.

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.

His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.

With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”

Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.

The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.

Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.

Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.

Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”

“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”

Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.

It was enough to drive you insane.

Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.

You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.

“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”

A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.

“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.

Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.

Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.

“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”

“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”

Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.

Please?

Did you just say ‘please’?

He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”

Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.

You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.

“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”

When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.

You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.

“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”

Just once.

All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.

He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.

“P-please…”

The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.

With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.

“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”

Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.

“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”

Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.

“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”

Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.

“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.

The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.

He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.

“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.

You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.

All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.

“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”

“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”

Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.

“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.

“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.

“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”

A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.

Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.

But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.

It was too good not to.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”

Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.

You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.

He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.

His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.

“Come here, baby,” he cooed.

Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.

“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.

You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.

You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.

He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.

As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”

But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.

It was Sam.

He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.

“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”

Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”

He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.

He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.

“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

Fighting was one way to put it.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.

“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”

You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.

“Bet I can do it in two.”

“Oh, here you go again.”

i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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You marched into the sitting room where he was currently strewn lazily across the couch, watching the footy. Your heels clicked sharply against the floor, each step carrying the full, crushing weight of your fury. You stood purposely right in front of the television, blocking his view, your foot tapping as your patience wore incredibly thin at the sight of your far-too-relaxed husband.

“You look stunning, pet. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he teased, his dark eyes far too happy and clueless for your liking.

“Johnathan Price. Get up.”

The words came out cold, clipped, and squeezed through tight lips.

You could visibly see the color drain from the poor man’s face. He nearly hit the roof he sat up so fast, his military reflexes kicking in as his spine went completely rigid. If you weren't so profoundly pissed off, the sight of the legendary Captain Price scrambling like a recruit would have made you laugh.

A violent shiver ran straight down his spine. He knew he was in trouble. Big, catastrophic trouble.

In that exact moment, Johnathan's life flashed before his eyes. He scrambled to use every single ounce of brainpower he possessed to try and figure out what the fuck he had done for you to not only wear a expression of pure, unadulterated fury, but to use his full government name. It was a name he was certain you had only used twice in the entire history of your relationship—the first time being your official wedding vows.

He let out a weak, nervous chuckle, clearing his throat. “…Did I mention you look absolutely stunning, love?” he tried, saying anything in a desperate attempt to buy himself a few more seconds of survival.

But as he took a closer, frantic look at your elegant outfit, his eyes naturally darted past you to the small calendar hanging on the far wall. The date seemed to jump out at him. It hit him like a roaring freight train. Johnathan wanted nothing more in this exact moment than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Before he could even utter a syllable of an apology, you silenced him instantly, thrusting a perfectly manicured finger directly in his face.

“You have exactly one hour to fix this,” you pointed, staring him square in the eye with zero room for negotiation. “And I swear, if you don't, you will regret the day you were born, Johnathan Price. Do I make myself clear?”

Price swallowed hard, looking exactly like a schoolboy who had just been chewed out by his headmistress. “Y-yes, ma’am,” he stammered, the fearsome Captain reduced to pure obedience.

“Good.”

With a sharp flick of your hair and a mean, deliberate sway of your hips, you turned on your heel and walked out of the room.

Never in his life had he seen you this angry, but as he stared at the empty doorway, his heart hammering against his ribs, he realised with a sudden, dark rush of heat that—by God—he desperately wanted to see it happen again.

-

Simon Riley

“Bear”

Being one of the very few people permitted into Simon’s carefully guarded life meant a great deal to you—and secretly, it meant everything to him. Although he had never been the type to be overly or publicly affectionate, ever since your very first date, you had jokingly referred to him as a 'Bear' due to his mammoth, intimidating height. From that night on, the nickname had simply stuck.

It was a lazy Saturday morning, and you and Simon were currently tucked up beneath a mountain of blankets, completely tangled together. Unfortunately for your plans of productivity, Simon possessed zero intention of releasing you from his embrace. He had you completely caged beneath his heavy, solid arms, his massive frame acting like an inescapable anchor as he fully intended to hibernate for just a little longer.

“Bearrr, come on. Time to get up,” you chirped playfully. You kept your voice light, airy, and sweet in a desperate attempt to coax your sleeping giant of a boyfriend back to the waking world.

Simon only let out a low, gravelly grunt in response. Instead of shifting, his grip tightened automatically. One of his massive forearms locked like a steel vice around your waist, while his other thick arm hooked directly over your shoulder, burying your face right into his chest and effectively pulling you into a heavy, affectionate headlock.

“Simon! Simon! Baby, I can't breathe—” you dramatically cried out, your voice muffled against his skin as you feigned succumbing to death by a pair of elite-soldier biceps.

The moment his government name left your lips, he shot wide awake.

In a fraction of a second, the heavy drowsiness vanished. Simon effortlessly loosened his hold only to flip you onto your back against the mattress, pinning your arms to either side of your head. He loomed over you, his massive chest shadowing your frame, his dark, sleepy eyes filled with a mixture of sheer hurt and profound disgust.

“What did you just call me?” he demanded, his voice a low, rough rumble as he sought to confirm his ears had actually heard what they did.

You lay beneath him, utterly trapped, but you couldn't help the bright laugh that bubbled up at his sheer, unadulterated dramatics. “Oh, so that’s what it takes to get you moving, huh, Simon?” you teased, deliberately leaning into the provocation.

He didn't offer a verbal reply. Instead, a dangerous, wicked glint flashed in his eyes. His large hands slid slowly down your sides, finding your waist, and he launched a relentless, targeted tickle attack.

Completely unable to breathe through the sudden onslaught of laughter, your body writhed beneath his hands as you begged for mercy. “Please, Simon! I’m sorry!” you choked out between breathless, echoing laughs.

“Who’s that, dove? Never heard of a Simon,” he murmured evilly, his thick fingers continuing their torturous, playful assault without a single ounce of pity.

“BEAR! BEAR! I’M SORRY, BEAR!” you squealed loudly, your body twisting as you tried in vain to wriggle free from his iron grip.

Only when he finally heard his proper title did the giant relent. He let out a low chuckle, collapsing down onto the mattress right beside you. In an instant, he reeled you right back into his chest, pulling your back against him before raining a heavy trail of open kisses all over your hair, your temple, and the sharp line of your jaw.

“That’s more like it,” Simon grumbled, his voice vibrating deeply against your skin as he buried his face in your neck. “No more of that Simon bullshit from you, miss.”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at your incredibly dramatic boyfriend, but a soft, helpless smile spread across your face nonetheless. You loved every single unmasked, ridiculous piece of him. And, just as he wanted, you ended up spending the entire remainder of your Saturday tucked safely away from the world, being perfectly lazy and cozy in bed.

-

Soap “John Mactavish”

“Love”

You were heavily pregnant with your first child, and for the most part, the experience had been a complete dream come true. Johnny had miraculously managed to secure extended leave for these last few months, and he had been a constant, unwavering presence.

He was right there beside you for every prenatal class, eagerly sprinted out for midnight snack runs to satisfy your weirdest cravings, and would readily stand behind you to lift the heavy weight of your belly just to relieve the pressure on your aching spine. He was, without a doubt, the perfect partner.

On this particular evening, you were sitting on a stool at the kitchen breakfast bar. Johnny had insisted on cooking dinner from scratch, promising a hot, relaxing bath afterward to soothe your exhausted body.

“Nearly ready, lass. Hope you and the wee bump are hungry,” he teased playfully, glancing over his shoulder with a bright grin. He was a sight to behold, wearing a kitchen apron over his broad shoulders as he busied himself prepping the plates.

“Thanks, love. I’d be completely lost without you,” you beamed, smiling dotingly at him as he put the final touches on his culinary creation. You absentmindedly rubbed your stomach, noting that the baby was kicking quite a bit today. You didn't think much of it, given how incredibly close you were to your official due date.

But it was in that exact, unsuspecting moment that you felt it.

Your water had broken.

You could barely see your toes past the massive curve of your belly as it was, but as you looked down, a sudden, violent surge of panic shot through your entire body. The once-dry kitchen tile beneath your stool was completely soaked.

“U-uh… Johnny?” you called out shakily, your voice tight.

Johnny, who was still fully animated and yapping away as he plated up the food, let out a distracted chuckle. He didn't even turn around, completely misreading your panicked tone for a bit of banter. “Johnny? Aye, what’s with the formalities all of a sudden, lass? Usually I get a 'love' or a 'darling' when there's food on the line.”

“Johnny, listen to me—” you tried again, your breath catching as a sharp wave of adrenaline hit you.

“Who you calling Johnny, lass?” he teased, playfully shaking the spatula in the air, his back still turned. “You only use my proper name when I’m in the doghouse, and I know for a fact I’ve been an absolute angel today—”

“For fuck's sake, John!” you screeched.

The full government name cut through the kitchen like a flashbang.

The spatula fell silent. Johnny whipped around instantly, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of total bewilderment and sudden concern. He had never heard that specific, lethal tone leave your mouth before, and the sheer gravity of John completely shattered his playful mood.

“My water broke,” you said, staring right at him.

The legendary, highly decorated SAS sergeant stood completely frozen. He had a spatula gripped in one hand and a dinner plate in the other, utterly paralyzed like a deer in the headlights. In this exact moment, he did not look like an elite soldier trained to think critically under high-pressure, life-or-death scenarios. He looked like a man whose brain had just completely short-circuited.

“Johnny!” you screeched again, snapping him out of his trance as you began taking heavy, rhythmic breaths to regulate your racing heart. “I am about to have your child right here on our kitchen floor! I highly suggest you get us to the car or call an ambulance—whichever one is faster!”

“Y-yes! Right! Okay!”

With his military reflexes finally overriding his sheer panic, Johnny dropped the spatula into the sink, his training kicking into overdrive. He shifted into pure logistics mode, scrambling to grab the pre-packed hospital bag, your coat, and the car keys, his movements a blur of chaotic efficiency as he helped you stand and guided you toward the door.

Just as you reached the hallway, preparing to brace yourself for the drive, you reached out and grabbed his hand tightly, pulling his knuckles to your lips to give them a soft kiss. “Thanks, love.”

The familiar, gentle pet name acted like a tether, instantly dragging him back to reality. A massive wave of relief washed over his face, a bright, fiercely protective grin breaking through his nerves as he squeezed your hand back. He was ready.

-

Kyle  ‘Gaz’ Garrick

“Handsome”

Gaz came home from what you could only imagine was a brutal, exhausting deployment. He hadn't been himself since the moment he walked through the front door, clamming up every single time you tried to reach out to him. You knew it was part of the territory; being a military wife—especially to an SAS soldier—was never going to be a walk in the park.

Still, he had barely muttered more than five words to you over these last few days. He ate in silence, went to bed in silence, and ran off to God-knows-where during the day in a desperate attempt to clear his mind. You had tried your absolute best to give him space, but you were rapidly reaching your limit. You couldn't watch him drown in his own head anymore.

You woke up in the dead of night yet again to the sight of him sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor, totally stuck in his own skull.

Sitting up, you clicked your bedside lamp on, the soft golden glow cutting through the dark room. You shifted over and instinctively wrapped your arms around his broad, tense shoulders, placing a soft, lingering kiss against his skin.

“You okay, handsome?” you softly asked.

He brushed off your concern exactly as he had been doing all week, pulling away from your touch with a tired sigh. “I’m fine, love. Just tired. Don't worry about it,” he muttered. It was his usual defense mechanism—his way of telling you to go back to sleep because he didn't want to talk.

But you were completely fed up. Fed up with being pushed aside, and fed up with being kept in the dark when all you wanted was to remind him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. Not anymore.

Rejecting the dismissal, you climbed out of bed, marched all the way over to his side, and plopped down on your knees directly in front of him on the floor. You took his rough, calloused hands in yours, forcing him to look down.

“Look at me, Kyle. It’s me.”

Hearing his actual name—not his callsign, and not a soft distraction—caused his tired, shadowed eyes to meet yours. It was only for a brief, fleeting moment, but it was all the confirmation you needed to know that your husband was still in there.

“Kyle, look at me,” you whispered again.

As you spoke, warm tears began to well up in your eyes. When his gaze finally locked onto yours this time, it was filled with so much raw, unspoken pain that you couldn't help but let those tears fall, weeping silently right in front of him.

The sight of your tears seemed to shatter whatever walls he had left.

Slowly, his broad shoulders completely relaxed, the rigid military tension finally bleeding out of his body. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead down against yours in a silent, powerful gesture that let you know he was finally ready to let his guard down.

“God, I missed you,” he whispered, his voice cracking from the overwhelming release of pure emotion.

Before you could reply, he hooked his arms under you, effortlessly pulling you up off the cold floor and onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around you in a fierce, crushing grip, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“I missed you too, handsome. More than you could ever know,” you sweetly cooed back through your tears, wrapping your own arms securely around his neck and pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss to the side of his head.

You didn't know exactly what had happened to him over there, but in this moment, the details didn't matter. All that mattered was that your husband was finally safe in your arms, letting his walls crumble so you could help him heal.

-

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-

-

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Your group has spent almost a week on Ischia so far, a lovely little island off the western coast of Italy, for those too snobbish to deal with the tourists clogging the Amalfi coast. Or so Natasha claims. She’s the expert, after all. It’s been heaven so far. Massages, thermal springs, afternoons lounging by the ocean or with a cocktail by the pool. You've been relaxing like you’re being paid to do it.

The itinerary today consists of a personal boat tour around the caves and castles of the region. Natasha had spoken highly of the tour guide, who she’d been communicating with by email, stating that he came highly recommended. You’re just excited to soak in the sights and get some day drinking done.

A small boat starts to close in from the distance, pulling in to dock. Off the boat steps a man in sunglasses — tan, broad-shouldered, and terribly, unfairly gorgeous.

You’re suddenly grateful that you put a little more effort into your appearance this morning.

Yelena lowers her sunglasses dramatically. “Whoa.”

Natasha, smooth as silk, steps forward and introduces herself in perfect Italian, offering him a friendly but firm handshake.

The man smiles. Jesus, that face could launch a thousand ships.

He removes his sunglasses and hooks them into the collar of his shirt. “Your pronunciation is very good,” he compliments Natasha. “I’m James. Good to meet you.”

Stunned by the gorgeous sea-blue of his eyes, you blurt out, “You speak English?” Stupid question. Obviously he speaks English. You could kick yourself.

His eyes move to you, briefly flicking over you from head to toe, and he chuckles good-naturedly. “It’s helpful in this line of work.” He tosses a wink in your direction, which almost sends you into a cardiac arrest, and then offers, “Can I help you ladies with your bags?”

Before you or anyone can answer, he reaches for the cooler dangling from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. At this point, you’re fairly sure you’re experiencing a medical emergency, and you let him take the cooler because you are temporarily frozen to the spot. He smiles again, just at you, before taking Natasha's beach bag and the few other incidentals the other girls brought for the boat.

Yelena hooks her arm into yours and starts whispering excitedly. You focus on remembering how to breathe.

One by one, he helps each of you onto the boat, offering a chivalrous hand so none of you slip. His palm is warm and calloused and you are being very, very normal about it when you place your hand in his. You convince yourself that you’re imagining things when his hand lingers a few seconds longer than it strictly has to.

Once the tour begins, James is surprisingly easy to talk to. It helps that there are many beautiful things to look at other than his face while he speaks. His relaxed manner immediately puts all of you at ease as he tells you the names and histories of nearby castle ruins. There is the slightest ghost of an Italian accent when he speaks English, but when he speaks in Italian, it’s a little mesmerizing. You feel like you could listen to him talk all day.

He sails the boat into a cave and kills the engine, inviting all of you to swim in the cool of the shade. You do your very best to not act shy or intimidated as you strip down to your bathing suit with the rest of the girls. You shouldn’t be concerned with the male gaze. You’re on a girls trip, after all. 

But you can’t resist glancing back to see if he’s looking, and your skin warms when you see that he is. His gaze isn’t lecherous, but it’s certainly appreciative, and he doesn’t seem embarrassed to have been caught. His eyes don’t stray from your form, either, despite the three other beautiful women on the boat.

Suddenly, Kate slips on the edge and screams girlishly, grabbing into your arm and taking you with her as she tumbles into the water, and the moment passes.

Once you all have had your fill of exploring the cave, he sails you all to a slightly more open spot, the sunlight spilling over a nearby cliffside and warming the waters to a pleasant bath water temperature. As the boat slows down, a gust of sea-breeze carries away your hat and deposits it into the sea about twenty feet away.

“Oh no! Hat overboard!” Natasha cries, giggling at your put-out expression.

As the boat comes to a stop, James steps out from behind the wheel. As you move to descend the ladder to rescue your hat, he briefly places a hand on your arm.

“Stay. I've got it.”

All the girls’ jaws drop, including your own, as James peels off his shirt and tank top, kicks off his sandals, and tosses his sunglasses. There's just enough time to admire the ripple of his back muscles before he dives right into the water.

“Wow…” Kate marvels. “Gentlemanly.”

“Holy shit. This guy is unreal,” Yelena mutters.

In record time, James cuts through the water and retrieves your hat. Once he returns to the boat with a victorious smile and very wet, very tan abs on display, you do a very poor job of maintaining eye contact as you thank him and shake the water out of your hat. 

After almost an hour of swimming with the girls, the UV index and your grumbling stomach give you a good excuse to return to the boat. The girls snicker and whisper as you climb up the side ladder, leaving you and James on your own for the time being. You do your best to ignore them. You're just getting lunch, after all.

But when James reaches out a hand to help you up, his other hand finding your waist to steady you as your wet feet skid underneath you, food is the absolute last thing on your mind.

The two of you dig into the cooler anyway, cracking open a pair of beers and picking at the fruit and cheese Natasha had picked up from the market this morning. You try your very hardest not to stare at the way his tank top clings to his still-damp muscles, or the way sweat beads and trails down the column of his neck. You fail catastrophically.

As you recline in the shade with a towel draped along your shoulders, James asks you questions about your life in America, your hobbies, your career. His eyes don’t wander from you as he listens to the answers, giving you all of his attention. It's extremely flattering. He listens to you drone on about your awful job without complaint. Eventually, you grow tired of the sound of your own voice, and decide to ask questions of your own.

“You have almost no accent. Are you from here?”

He nods. “Born and bred. But I went to school in the states. Came back for summers until I graduated and decided to move here full time.”

“Can’t blame you. It's beautiful here,” you sigh.

He shrugs, the warmth of his gaze landing on you again. “The states have their own kind of charm.”

It feels very much like he’s not really talking about your homeland. Your eyes instinctively dart away from his, trying to hide a smile and a flush that you can’t blame on the heat.

He smiles easily, taking a swig of his beer. “But it’s good to slow down. This is a good place for that.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “You have family in America?”

“My father is American, my mother was born here in Ischia.”

“How did they meet?”

“My father studied abroad in Amalfi. He met my mother at a bar one night, and the rest is history.”

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “That must have been hard for them. The language barrier, the different cultures—“

He shrugs again. “Not as hard as you’d think. When you know, you know.”

You don’t really have anything to say to that, your brain going dumb underneath the intensity of his eyes on you. Luckily, you’re saved from having to craft a reply when Yelena climbs back up onto the boat and wraps herself up in a towel.

“So, James," Yelena asks with a deceptively innocent tone as she sits down next to you, “what does your girlfriend get up to while you sail around with tourists all day?”

You discreetly elbow her in the side. “Lena—“

She turns to you with a devious expression. “What? I'm just making conversation.”

James laughs softly. “She's busy, ehm… not existing?”

“No way are you single,” Yelena protests. “That doesn’t make any sense. You're ridiculously hot and you own a boat.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “Oh my god, Yelena—“

“I have discerning taste,” he replies with a shrug. So quick that you almost miss it, his eyes flick back over to you. Yelena raises an eyebrow at you and says nothing.

You could just about die, but the arrival of the two other girls on the boat saves you from death by flirtation.

The boat tour is drawing to a close, much to your disappointment, but James insists there is one more spot that you all don’t want to miss. 

He steers the boat towards a more populated swimming area, a smattering of families laughing and splashing in the sun. Then he surprises all of you by stripping off his shirt again and joining everyone in the water. Kate, Yelena, and Natasha applaud and hoot as he descends the ladder and lands in the Mediterranean with a splash. You just try not to stare like an idiot as he grins at you, shaking his hair like a wet dog while the rest of the girls squeal. 

As you float and swim and feel the sun on your skin, you think — this really is a beautiful place. Maybe the most beautiful. Everyone here seems free and happy in ways you almost never feel. You're sincerely sorry to be leaving Ischia in a few days.

The sound of shifting water nearby catches your attention, and you turn to find James approaching you.

“Can I show you something?” he asks, his smile gleaming in the sunlight. 

Over his shoulder, the smiles of your friends are encouraging. Kate even flashes you a thumbs up.

Fuck it.

“Why not?” you reply, summoning your most carefree self.

He swims out towards a nearby rock formation, and you follow in his wake. When you both arrive, he places his hand on your shoulders to move you. You fight back the shiver that threatens to run through you at the warmth of his touch.

“Turn this way. Good.”

You’re facing the west, where the sun is just beginning the descent from its zenith. You’re not sure yet what you’re supposed to be looking at, so you glance back at James for guidance.

“Now go underwater and open your eyes.”

The slightest whisper of anxiety creeps into your chest. You're not a surprise kind of girl. Giving up control has never been your strength. “Am I gonna see something scary?” you ask nervously, aware that you’re being a bit silly.

But James doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make you feel silly in the slightest. “No. Just trust me.”

For some reason, you do.

With a deep breath, you submerge yourself beneath the surface of the water and open your eyes. 

You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly isn’t this. Against clear, green water, tiny bubbles lit up gold by the sunlight fizzle from the sea floor up towards the surface. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. You stare around you in wonder, only to find that James has descended below the surface with you. 

His eyes find yours, and even underwater, there’s something warm and certain in them, something that makes your stomach flip like you’re sailing a ship through a storm. When you can hold your breath no longer, you break through the surface, laughing and gasping for air.

James resurfaces alongside you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he observes your mirth.

“That’s amazing,” you huff enthusiastically as soon as you have enough air to get the words out. “It’s like we’re in a champagne bottle.”

Treading water, James inches closer to you. “Hai degli occhi bellissimi,” he murmurs, so softly you’re not sure if he meant to say it out loud, or for you to hear it.

You have no idea what it means, but the way he said it makes your heart beat just a little faster. “My Italian isn’t as good as Natasha's," you reply.

“Means you have beautiful eyes,” he says simply, earnestly.

“Oh,” you say softly, a little too stunned for an elegant reply. “Thank you. Y-you have beautiful… everything.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and you giggle breathlessly too in spite of your embarrassment. Just as the moment feels ripe with possibility, just as his eyes slip to linger on your mouth, the atmosphere is disrupted by a distant ruckus. Hoots, hollers, and wolf whistles carry across the water from the boat, where the rest of the girls have gathered to spy on the two of you.

You roll your eyes at their antics, but James just laughs again in that easy, unbothered way of his. “Come on,” he says, swimming in the direction of the boat and looking over his shoulder at you. “We can’t keep your friends waiting.”

The boat speeds back towards shore, back towards the dock and the towncar that will take you back to your hotel. Soon enough, the fantasy of the flirtatious Italian stranger will be nothing more than that — a fantasy. You shove down the growing disappointment and focus on the whip of the breeze in your face, the salt spray, the warmth of the sun.

James once again insists on helping unload the bags when the boat is docked, and politely assisting the ladies in dismounting. His hand squeezes yours just slightly in passing, and you briefly entertain the thought of asking for his number, before talking yourself out of it. He's at work. It's probably good business to flirt, especially with tourists who he’ll never see again, who will leave glowing reviews with the booking agency. It probably doesn’t mean anything.

As James and Natasha settle up, he continues to make idle conversation. “Anything fun planned for this evening?”

Kate pipes up. “Just dinner.”

“Where?”

Natasha gives him the name of the restaurant, (her Italian accent flawless, you note with mild irritation), and James unexpectedly frowns, shaking his head.

“No. Absolutely not. It’s a tourist trap. And the food is terrible.”

“What would you recommend?” you ask.

He quickly pats his pockets, pulling out a sharpie and a crumpled receipt, and carefully writes out a restaurant name and address. “Here.”

He presses the piece of paper into your palm, his voice low and warm and familiar. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

It feels like it’s just for you rather than the whole group, and you feel your embarrassment flare up. Your girlfriends are probably watching from over your shoulder, with gleeful grins on their faces.

You’re jolted from your reverie when Yelena slings an arm around your shoulder and says to James, “You should meet us for dinner!”

Your head snaps in her direction, your eyes wide with surprise and a little mortification. 

James laughs softly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Dio mio, his arms. “I don’t want to intrude on your, ehm… girls trip.”

“You wouldn’t be. We'd love to have you,” she purrs, squeezing your shoulder almost hard enough to bruise, her eyes darting between you and him as if to communicate, say something!

James doesn’t reply, and he looks at you like you’re the deciding vote. Like he won’t insert himself where he’s not wanted, and he’s trying to figure out if he’s wanted.

Fuck it, your brain chants in the background.

“You should come,” you blurt, then backpedal your enthusiasm just a bit, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean, if you don’t have other plans.”

A dazzling smile spreads across James's face, and he shrugs. “Why not?”

“Please feel free to bring any of your hot Italian friends,” Yelena adds nonchalantly.

“Should we call and make a reservation?” Kate asks, already googling the restaurant name on her phone. “Can we even get a reservation this late?”

“I will take care of it,” James assures her with an easy, dismissive wave of his hand. “Go relax. Drink. Enjoy the sun. That's what life is about.”

You all make your goodbyes, and the relief that it will only be a few hours before you see him again washes over you. Of course, that relief is followed by a colony of nervous butterflies that take residence in your stomach, their fluttering worsened by the way his eyes follow you as you all pile into the towncar.

Despite James's instructions to relax, absolutely no relaxation occurs back at the hotel.

The car ride is a half-squealed debrief that has you hiding your face in your hands, the rest of the girls jostling you playfully and plying you for details. As soon as you arrive back at the hotel room and the door closes behind you, you’re swarmed. Natasha and Yelena spend at least an hour critiquing outfit options for you, digging things out of their own suitcases and throwing them in your direction. After you shower off the traces of seawater clinging to your skin, Kate harasses you into letting her do your hair, promising that she won’t make you look ridiculous. 

While you’re trapped in the bathroom, Natasha shouts over the roar of the hairdryer, “Your new boyfriend just texted me, dinner is at 8!”

You groan dramatically, but inside, your heart does a tarantella.

Once you've been poked and prodded and lotioned and potioned, Natasha wraps you in a strategically selected sundress – one with a hem that just brushes your knees and a neckline that ‘does you serious favors.’ You insist on a stop at the hotel bar before the car shows up — you desperately need a warm-up cocktail (or two) to calm your nerves, if you’re going to get through tonight without embarrassing yourself.

After a drive up a winding cliff side that turns Kate a little bit green, you arrive at the restaurant. It's gorgeous, all beachy stucco walls and blue patterned tiles. The hostess leads you all to an outdoor seating area with a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean.

Of course, leaning on the railing is another breathtaking view. James stands overlooking the sea, the evening breeze ruffling his hair, looking every bit like a priceless fresco you could find in a museum. His head turns to see your group walking up, and his eyes practically light up when they land on you.

You already know you’re done for.

There’s a handful of other patrons at other tables, and a small dance floor (you note with some trepidation), but the patio is mostly dominated by a large table reserved for your group. Already sitting down at the table are a few friends James invited, making good on Yelena’s request. A broad-shouldered man with sandy blonde hair and a dangerous smirk, another with shaggy hair and kind eyes and a deceptively muscular build, and a leggy brunette with dark eyes that Yelena eyes appreciatively. 

James introduces them one by one, but you don’t absorb their names because his hand rests at your lower back, and you can feel the warmth of it through the thin fabric of your dress.

He pulls out your chair as you sit, the wine is poured, and the evening begins.

James's recommendation doesn’t disappoint. It's a set menu, with plate after plate appearing from the kitchen as the night progresses. Fresh seafood, decadent pastas, and seemingly endless bottles of wine. 

It’s hard not to give in to the jovial atmosphere, especially once the wine loosens you up. James’s friends and yours volley interesting and humorous stories back and forth, with James chiming in to translate the occasional language gap. When he’s not playing translator, he leans in to whisper asides and little jokes to you, so close that his breath tickles your neck and sends shivers down your spine. 

Halfway through, a guitarist comes through and everything livens as music fills the air. He takes requests from the restaurant patrons, sings duets with those drunk or brave enough to sing with him. As food gradually disappears but the drinks keep flowing, restaurant staff pass out novelty percussion instruments and pull people up from tables to dance.

Naturally, because everyone has officially had enough wine for the usual inhibitions to disappear, your entire table migrates to the dance floor.

You’re just buzzed enough to bust a move without tripping all over yourself and the people around you. And you’re not dancing with James, per se, but you’re not not dancing with him. He's just in your orbit, one of many people moving to the music around you, one that you just happen to interact with occasionally. That is, until he maneuvers you into a spin, and his hand finds your waist to draw you close, and then you are very much dancing with him.

His laughter and yours cut through the music, your bodies moving in time with each other in a way you don’t bother to overthink, close enough to be intimate but not obscene.

His mouth dips towards your ear. “Mi piace come ti muovi.”

God, that accent never fails to unravel you, even clueless as you are to the content of what he’s saying. “What does that mean?” you ask over the din of the music.

He turns you into another spin and replies, louder, “You are a wonderful dancer.”

You throw back your head in laughter as you nearly crash into him on the spin’s recovery. “You are such a liar!”

“I don’t lie,” he insists, his arm snaking around your waist and pressing your body close to his. “This you cannot fake.”

Emboldened by the feeling, you drape your arms around his neck and feel the music, your hips moving in conversation with his, and for a little while, everything else fades away.

The evening winds down, the car arrives to take you back to the hotel, and regretfully, it’s time to say goodbye again. 

Under the backdrop of the sparkling night sky, James catches your elbow and asks softly for your phone. With a shy smile, you hand it off to him, and he quickly types his number into a new contact.

“You will call me?” he asks as he slips it back into your hands, standing close enough that you can breathe him in, the intoxicating mix of his cologne and sweat.

You raise an eyebrow playfully. “You want me to rack up your phone bill with international calls?”

“For you, I don't mind.” His hand finds your waist again, and he presses his lips to your cheek in a soft, lingering goodbye. You feel the slight scrape of his stubble and the fan of his breath on your skin, and maybe it’s the wine still in your system, but you feel a little weak in the knees.

After the rest of the girls load into the towncar, thanking James profusely and singing snatches of songs heard earlier in the night, he helps you in one last time. You squeeze his hand softly as you part, and you hope against hope that this isn’t the last time you’ll see him.

You wake up with the wine hangover of the century. Nevertheless, the only regret you have is that you didn’t kiss James. Well, you also regret not doing all the other things that come after kissing, either. But life is full of if onlys, and you resign yourself to letting this become yet another one of them. After all, you have one more night in Ischia, and then you all head back to the mainland. This is hardly the time to get in over your head with a guy you barely know.

With no big ticket events on the itinerary today, you spend the morning nursing your hangover in bed and slowly repacking your bag. When the afternoon rolls around, you and the girls rally enough to head down to the beach for one last hurrah in the sun and sand.

Of course, a hangover is no match for the spirit of the girls trip, and when six o’clock rolls around, you all venture back to the hotel bar for the aperitivo, wetting your whistles with the first drinks of the evening. After accompanying Kate for a bathroom break, you return to the table to find Yelena with your phone in her hands.

“What are you doing?” you ask, already feeling suspicious.

Yelena looks up, caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Don't be mad.”

You snatch the phone from her hands, only to see the screen open to an exchange of texts with none other than James (whose contact she has changed to Sexy Italian Boat Man).

“James and his friends are meeting us for drinks,” she says cheerfully.

You try and fail to be mad, but secretly you’re thrilled. Still, for the sake of feminism, you have to at least pretend to be irritated. “I thought this was supposed to be a girls trip,” you point out, crossing your arms in faux disapproval.

She pulls you back into your chair with a serious look. “Babe. You have a shot with the hottest man on the continent, possibly on earth. And no offense, but you really need to get laid.”

You drop your jaw, outraged, but Yelena's face is the picture of innocence. “I'm just being a girl’s girl! And maybe I want to see that hot little brunette number again.” she waggles her eyebrows over her drink. “Have a girls trip of my own.”

The drinking establishment Yelena picked is… well, trashy. There's no other word for it. Fun, but trashy. 

LED lights flash in blues and greens along the walls. The music is loud and danceable, and the drinks come in test tubes of many colors, labeled with cheeky pun names that James has to translate for the English speakers of the group. 

It's the perfect place to get tipsy, dance your ass off, and flirt with a hot stranger. All activities you definitely plan to engage in tonight.

Ever the gentleman, James buys a round of test tube shots for the group, and everyone snatches one from the bar top. As you try not to fidget with the hem of the dress Yelena lent you, you select something bright blue that smells like coconut and poor decisions. When you toss it back, it tastes all right, but the aftertaste burns like jet fuel, making you wince. Everyone around you makes a similar face before breaking out into laughter and chatter.

The bartender lines up a new set of test tubes, and you start to feel brave enough to flirt. You glance up at James, who stands just next to you, playing it devastatingly cool. You pluck another shot from the bar top like a dare.

“So, if we’re gonna keep meeting like this, you’re gonna have to teach me some Italian,” you declare, leaning closer to him to be heard over the music, or maybe just to be closer to him.

“Is that so?” he replies, following your lead and picking up a shot as well.

“Mm-hmm.” You lick your lips, tasting the leftover rum and curaçao, watching as his eyes follow the movement shamelessly.

James taps his plastic test tube against yours and says slowly, clearly, “Cin-cin.”

“Cin-cin,” you repeat. “What does it mean?”

He smiles, lifting the shot to his lips. “Cheers.”

Not to be caught falling behind, you toss back your shot, the second already going down easier than the first. Discarding your test tube on the bar top, you toss your hair out of your eyes and say, “Teach me another.”

Without missing a beat, he responds, “Balla con me.”

“Balla con me,” you echo, a little more clumsily, a question mark in your eyes.

“Dance with me.” He takes your hand in his and begins to pull you in the direction of the throng of rhythmically writhing bodies.

You feel the thrum of the baseline through your feet, vibrating in your chest. You feel the heat radiating off all the people around you, the warmth of arms around you as James brings you in close. The lights flash, the music pounds, and you move with him like your body already knows his.

The shield of strangers between you and the eyes of your friends makes you bolder. You feel anonymous, like you could be anybody. Like you could be the kind of girl who dances far too close with a guy she’s only known for a day.

So you do.

You turn in his arms, guiding his hands to your hips as they sway to the rhythm. He takes the invitation to shift closer, his chest pressed to your back, his hips right against the swell of your ass. The beat turns filthier, and you don’t shy away from it. 

Your hand wanders upward, behind your head to find purchase around the back of his neck as you move together, fluid, dangerous. His hands wander too, not feeling you up — he’s far too much of a gentleman for that. One hand splays against your ribs, keeping you pressed firmly against him as you dance. The other moves your hair off of your neck as he leans down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear and almost making you shudder.

His voice is low, warm, rumbling along with the bass line down to your bones. “Baciami.”

You huff something between a laugh and a sigh, turning in his arms again to face him. 

“Baciami,” you say, copying his pronunciation to the best of your efforts. To better hear each other, your faces are so close that your noses almost touch. “What does that one mean?”

“Kiss me.”

The sway of your hips slows, until they come to a stop. In the dim, colored lights, you can just make out the way his eyes dart from yours, down to your lips, and back again. 

Standing in the middle of a crowd of strangers in a country where you barely speak the language, you follow through on your words.

It’s everything you imagined it would be, and more.

Like everything else about him, his lips are warm. They move with instinct, with certainty against yours. It comes as naturally as dancing with him — the give and take, the dominance and surrender. His tongue nudges gently at your lips for permission, then sweeps into your mouth when you open for him. He makes a low, satisfied sound that you feel more than you hear. 

You’re completely pressed against him from thigh to chest, but your arms drift over his sculpted shoulders and behind his neck to pull him somehow closer. Just like in the restaurant, everything fades away except his mouth and yours, your body and his. 

His tongue strokes against yours, slow and decadent and filthy as the beat of the music. He tastes of sweat and amaretto and something addictive you can’t name. With the music blaring all around you, you moan shamelessly into his mouth, taking comfort in the fact that no one can hear it but him. Your hips tilt forward without permission from your brain, unconsciously seeking relief from the tension building within you. 

One of his hands leaves your waist, trailing to your lower back and stopping there, fingers bunching in the fabric of your dress like he wishes he didn’t have to stop.

Eventually, you both need to come up for air, and you break apart from each other, nearly gasping, still close enough to breathe each other in.

He speaks just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Vieni a casa mia.”

You blink, a little stunned, a lot turned on. “I think I understood that one.”

There's a laundry list of reasons why you shouldn’t go home with him. He's almost a stranger. You're in a foreign country. You’ve been drinking. You have a ferry to catch tomorrow. You're technically here with your friends.

Guilt surges in your chest as you glance back towards the bar. “My friends—“

James, glancing over the heads of strangers between him and the bar, chuckles and assures you, "I think they’ll get over it.”

Through a break in the crowd, you see Kate and Natasha engaged in what appears to be some kind of drinking contest with the boys. Yelena and the brunette, Ava, are surreptitiously sneaking off in the direction of the bathroom, holding hands.

Yeah, you’re the least of their concerns right now.

His hand lingers at your lower back, his thumb tracing very distracting circles that burn through your shirt and into your spine. “Per favore,” he murmurs in your ear, and you’re pretty sure it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

“That means ‘please’,” you say breathlessly, when you manage to find command of the speech centers in your brain.

He hums approvingly, his other hand brushing hair away from your face and cradling your jaw. “I like how you say that.”

He's certainly very persuasive.

You’re a grown up, with a smartphone that can share your location. You’re buzzed, but not even close to drunk. You've taken krav maga lessons. You can handle yourself. And James is a professional contact of Natasha's, making him more trustworthy than a stranger walking off the street. 

When he looks at you like that, every reason that you shouldn’t give in slips through your fingers like sand.

You take a deep breath. “Fuck it. Okay."

You still take precautions. You have James type the address into your phone and you text it to Natasha while he settles up the bar tab. When he summons a cab via a nearby taxi stand, you dictate the address to the driver in stilted Italian. You're not an idiot, after all. James bears your precautions without comment, gently pressing his lips to the back of your hand when the cab begins to move.

Because you still have some remaining class, the cab ride is an exercise in mutual restraint. You can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, and he doesn’t let go of your hand, this thumb tracing sweeping arcs across your knuckles. Stolen glances and heated looks probably give the two of you away to the cab driver, but you keep a careful distance anyway. For now.

His apartment is, like him, stupidly charming.

He gently takes your purse and sets it on a nearby table, stepping back to let you briefly explore. It's a little on the small side, with an outdated kitchen and a few cracks in the floor tiles. James opens a set of curtains and a sliding glass door to let the night breeze in, and just outside is a small patio and an adorable breakfast nook, a half wall overlooking the vast, glimmering black of the sea and sky. You slip off your sandals and gravitate towards the door instantly, that view of the water never failing to take your breath away even after a week on this island. 

James guides you wordlessly out onto the patio. Cool stone underneath your feet, you walk forward and place your hands on the half-wall, gazing outward. The warm night breeze kisses your skin, and you let your eyes flutter shut. His arms surround you again, his chest to your back like it had been at the club — but different now. Still charged, but softer, less urgent.

His lips meet the curve of your neck, pulling a sigh out of you. “Bellisima.”

You laugh softly, knowing that word. “I bet you say that to all the tourists.”

He smiles against your skin. “Maybe. But I don't do this.” Strong hands guide your hips, turning you in his arms, and his lips find yours again.

It's slow and sweet at first, but it doesn’t take long for the two of you to pick up where you left off at the club. Your ass and the backs of your thighs meet the cool plaster of the wall as he presses against you, his hands leaving warm trails as they roam over your spine, your waist, down to your hips.

His lips begin to explore as well, starting with the corner of your mouth, moving to the hinge of your jaw, the long line of your neck. Your pulse hammers in your throat as he nips gently and soothes the skin with his tongue, before his lips wander close to your ear again.

“Toccami,” he murmurs, the lesson continuing.

You repeat the word in a whisper. “Toccami.”

That smile plays at his lips again as his eyes find yours. “Very good.”

The praise settles low and hot in your belly, and one of his hands leaves your hip to intertwine his fingers with yours. 

“Means ‘touch me’,” he translates softly.

You nod in understanding. Keeping his gaze, you drag your interconnected hands up your torso, pressing his palm to your breast and arching into it immediately. 

“Toccami,” you whisper again, a plea instead of mere repetition.

He hums his approval, squeezing you gently and watching what it does to you with rapt attention. His other hand works the strap of your dress off your shoulder and his mouth descends, trailing hot, wet kisses over your collarbone, your chest, the soft curve of your breast that sneaks above your neckline. The hand still at your breast zeroes in on your nipple through the fabric of your dress, his thumb circling the numb slowly, firmly. You turn to putty in his hands, pliant and aching and gasping wordlessly for more, more.

His hands move lower to take your waist and lift slightly, and suddenly you’re sitting on the edge of the half wall. His eyes find yours, seeming to search for lingering reservations, or permission to keep going. You become briefly, acutely aware that you’re outside, and this isn’t exactly a secluded neighborhood. Anyone walking by on the sidewalk fifty feet away could hear you, even see you. But you’re on vacation, dammit, and you’ll never see any of these people again, and you really don’t want James to stop touching you.

Your legs part in invitation, and the hem of your dress rides up your thighs. James slots himself between them in an instant, his palms sliding along the newly exposed skin, his mouth closing over yours again.

You can’t remember the last time someone made you feel like this — sexy and free and so turned on you’re almost dizzy with it. The rough warmth of his palms drift higher, higher, until his thumb grazes your inner thigh, just shy of the edge of your underwear, so close to where you ache for him.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to ask roughly, “Okay?” and wait for your reply. You nod eagerly, your mouth already slack with want before he’s even really touched you.

James groans as his hand moves to the growing wet patch on your underwear. He strokes you there, licking into your mouth once again to swallow the needy sound that escapes you.

His fingers graze your clit through the soaked fabric, and you practically whine into his mouth as your hips buck to chase his touch.

When he breaks the kiss to breathe, you beg shamelessly, “James, please, more.”

He immediately obliges, nudging the fabric to the side and finding that same spot, circling the bundle of nerves slowly but with precision. The touch lights you up, your brain going fuzzy with pleasure.

Your hands gather fistfuls of his shirt to help keep yourself upright, to pull him close and bury your face in his neck as mortifying sounds begin to spill out of your mouth. He allows it for a minute as he patiently winds you up, your breaths turning to little huffs and pants interspersed with moans. But in time, his other hand finds the nape of your neck, gently pulling you back a few inches and angling your face up towards his.

“I want to see you,” he says gently, before slowly sliding a finger into your entrance.

Your head drops back at the sensation, your eyes fluttering closed. Soon enough, one finger becomes two, working you open without any hurry while his thumb keeps up those delicious little circles against your clit. He adjusts the angle here and there, exploring, searching, until the arch of your body and the desperation in your voice signals to him that his fingers have found their destination.

They stay there, curling against that spot and coaxing you towards the height of your pleasure until your thighs tremble, until you whimper his name without care for if the neighbors would hear, until your body is strung tight like a bow and begging wordlessly for release.

“That's it,” he encourages you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Let go for me.”

A few more pathetic sounds escape, and you’re shuddering around him, intense pleasure moving through you like a tidal wave, washing over every corner of your body before gradually retreating. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, the awareness of being watched so intensely turning you on even more, prolonging the orgasm until your fingers slacken their grip on his shirt and you collapse slightly against him. 

“Perfetta,” he mutters against your temple, then presses the gentlest of kisses there.

Once you come back to yourself a little and his hand finally retreats, you turn your attention to him. With your tiny dress rucked up to your hips and all of his clothes still in place, you feel a little exposed comparatively. One by one, you unfasten the buttons of his shirt and push the garment open, gazing at him appreciatively, like a marble statue you somehow get to admire up close.

As your eyes drag down his form, they catch the way he’s obviously hard and straining against his linen pants, despite being so, so patient with you. Your lips gently graze along his jaw, fingers trailing from his chest down to his abdomen, until they rest at the button of his pants. 

“You gonna let me return the favor?” you ask, your voice still a little weak, but full of want.

He chuckles softly and kisses you in what feels like a very enthusiastic yes.

As smoothly as you can while working blind, you unbutton his pants as you kiss him, drinking in the satisfied groan he lets out when your hand sneaks past the waistband of his boxers and wraps around the base of him. You give him an experimental stroke, and something unusual catches your notice. He’s softer than you’d expect — not soft as in not-hard, because he’s evidently very, very hard. He's softer in texture than you’re used to.

And then you remember an offhand comment Natasha made about Italian guys, about how certain… cultural customs were different from America’s.

You’re a little caught off guard, but the thought of him being uncut doesn’t bother you. In fact, you suddenly find yourself extremely curious.

“Do you have a condom?” you mumble against his mouth.

As he goes for his wallet in his pocket, you slowly and deliberately ease yourself off the wall and sink down to your knees in front of him. When he realizes what you’re doing, his efforts stall for a second, like his brain is rebooting. And then he’s pulling out his wallet like nothing happened, though his fingers move just a little faster as he plucks a condom from its depths and shoves the wallet back into his pocket.

You take the time to carefully free him from his boxers and get yourself a good look. Honestly, it’s not as different as you’d expected, possibly because he’s (clearly and achingly) hard. His cock is a nice length and a very nice girth, decorated by veins that make your mouth water, with a soft fold of skin hugging the tip. You wrap your hand around him and stroke again, fascinated by the way the skin retreats when guided by your hand, by the way his breath hitches as you work him.

Once he manages to unwrap the condom, he holds it out to you — you’ve already got your hands on him after all. But you hesitate, a little unsure of the mechanics involved in accommodating the… bonus features in question.

“Maybe you should do that part,” you say, trying not to appear as awkward as you feel.

James looks down at you with a split second of confusion, and then it dawns on him, and his hands replace yours to roll the condom onto himself with practiced ease. “Right. American. I almost forgot.” 

His expression turns slightly concerned, maybe even self-conscious, which is the opposite of what you want. He starts to ask gently, “Do you still—“

You nudge his hands away, grip him firmly at the base, and lick a long stripe along the underside of him in answer.

He lets out a startled sound, halfway between a chuckle and a moan. “Fuck, okay.”

Deciding that it can’t be that different from how you would normally give head, you follow your instincts, growing more confident with each swirl of your tongue over his cock, with each little noise he can’t hold back from making. 

When you close your mouth over the tip and sink down around him, part of you wonders how it would feel without the barrier, what it would be like to feel that softness along your tongue, down your throat. The thought sparks some excitement, but not enough to overthrow your good judgment. You really like James, but you’re not trying to halt everything for an in-depth conversation about testing and past partners. And your fuck it mantra only goes so far.

The head of his cock hitting the back of your throat brings you back to the present, and you deftly work your hand over the remaining length you don’t manage to take. James groans, low and rumbling, his hand flying to your hair to ground himself. Encouraged, you begin to set a slow rhythm, enjoying yourself far too much to rush this. Every helpless, grateful sound he makes makes you even wetter, makes you throb for him in ways you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Your eyes drift upward, and the ruined look on his face, the fluttering clench of his abs as he tries to control himself turns you on even more. You moan around him wantonly, try to take him even deeper, hollowing your cheeks on the uptake.

His hand tightens in your hair as he speaks breathlessly. “Aspettare.” Because you don’t know what it means, you assume it’s encouragement or praise from the way his hips twitch unconsciously. So you keep going, sinking your mouth down onto him again.

But then his hand cups your jaw. “Stop, stop,” he urges you gently as he withdraws, removing his cock from your mouth and gripping the base himself.

You look up in concern as you wipe your chin with the back of your gand. "Didn't you like it?” you ask, a little hoarse.

He nods, his other hand reaching to pull you up off your knees and into his arms. “Liked it too much. You are… incredible.” 

James kisses you, slow and deep, moaning softly at the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he pulls back, fixing you with that stare full of intensity and desire. “I want to fuck you now.”

The barely there lilt of his accent, the wrecked rasp of his voice, the bluntness of the statement — it all does several overwhelming things to you. Heat throbs demandingly between your legs in response.

“Okay,” you murmur, incapable of a witty reply at the moment. “Right here?”

He nods again. “Right here. Can’t wait.”

His hands close over your hips and turn you until you’re standing how you started this, your back to his chest, his mouth on your neck. A playful nip, a reverent kiss, and then his hands move you again, pressing firmly but gently between your shoulder blades until you’re bending forward. Your forearms meet the top of the half wall, and your pulse roars in your ears when you realize the implication of this position.

James makes an approving sound, squeezes one of your ass cheeks, and then fully hikes the hem of your dress up and over your hips.

You feel the drag of your underwear down your legs, the sudden exposure of all your most sensitive parts on display in the night air. You gulp nervously and grip the edge of the wall. You've never done anything like this before – any of this, really. Nerves mingle with arousal in the pit of your stomach.

Behind you, you hear the wet slide of his hand on his cock, slowly pumping himself, and the anticipation makes you shiver.

“Is this still okay?” he asks, his hand settling softly at your lower back.

You decide that you’re going to be brave about this, because the building desire in your gut is too demanding to ignore, because you’re not ready for this to stop. Because in spite of your nerves, you want it, bad.

“Please, James.” You deepen the arch of your back, practically presenting for him, too turned on to be as mortified as you would normally feel doing so.

He mutters something in Italian that you don’t catch, and he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, easing himself inside you.

It’s the perfect stretch, filling you so well your eyes almost roll to the back of your head when he bottoms out. With his hips flush to your ass, he groans appreciatively, leaning over to plant a kiss between your shoulders.

“You feel so good,” he mutters into your skin before straightening up, pulling out and thrusting languidly into you again. “So fucking good.”

With every roll of his hips into yours, you push back to meet him. It's relaxed and unhurried. Not punishing, not rough. Just pure sensation, two people enjoying each other’s bodies. The rhythm stokes your desire into a smoldering fire, gradually building higher and higher with each thrust.

His hand grips your shoulder for leverage as he drives into you from behind, slow but unrelenting. The position is vulnerable, but somehow makes you feel powerful at the same time – especially as his murmured praise underscores the wet slide of your bodies moving together.

The intensity climbs higher and higher, your moans growing more frequent, your head dropping down onto your forearms when it becomes too much to keep it aloft. Unable to help yourself any longer, you slip a hand between your legs to play with yourself, so close to the edge you can taste it.

Even though you can’t see it, you can feel that James is affected by the way your cunt squeezes around him in anticipation of the fall. His grip at your shoulder tightens, his thrusts hit deeper and become less controlled.

“Fuck, I — right there, I’m right there,” he pants, voice straining and desperate.

“God, James," you half-moan, half-sob, your free hand gripping the half wall with white knuckles.

Your fingers work furiously at your clit as he buries himself deeper and deeper, and it seizes you all at once — spikes of arousal and pleasure that you feel down to your very marrow, muscles contracting with every wave of it. Your cry is something barely recognizable as your own voice.

James groans something unintelligible in Italian, thrusts as deep as he can and stays there — hips twitching, cock pulsing, his torso folding over top of you as he holds you close and shudders softly.

The sounds of the waves in the distance, labored breath, and the engines of faraway scooters and cars blend into white noise, soothing you as you float down from the high. James presses his sweaty forehead to your shoulder, sighing with satisfaction.

“That was good,” he says simply.

You laugh breathlessly and push yourself up on your forearms slightly, regaining some use of your limbs. “Yeah. That was really good.”

With a soft grunt, he pulls out of you and helps you stand up straight, pulling the hem of your dress back down with his usual care and tenderness. Carefully, he removes the condom and tucks himself back into his pants. He leaves his shirt unbuttoned, his chest glistening with beads of sweat that make him even more difficult to look away from.

His lips brush your hairline in a lingering kiss, and he mutters, “Let’s go to bed.”

“Tired already?” you tease, your fingers sliding underneath the fabric of his shirt and grazing his ribs. 

James shakes his head as his eyes rake over you shamelessly. “I want to get you out of this dress.” 

Strong arms wrap around your waist, bringing you close, his nose nudging playfully against yours. “And I want to taste you,” he adds, his eyes dark and full of desire that still burns for you even now. 

Your mouth goes dry, and your knees go even weaker.

“The bed is more comfortable than the wall,” he points out casually.

You nod dreamily. “That sounds… perfetta.”

He laughs, kissing your cheek affectionately. “Perfetto. Perfetta is feminine, for you.”

You roll your eyes and kiss him, dispensing with the Italian lessons for the moment. “Just take me to bed, James.”

You wake up to possibly the most heavenly smell on earth — freshly brewing espresso.

Last night, after all of your spirited activities, you’d fired off a check-in text to Natasha and collapsed into James's linen sheets, the night breeze floating through the open window.  You'd slept like the dead, the pleasant weight of his arm slung around your waist and the sounds of the sea pulling you under.

Now, when you open your eyes, the bed is empty beside you. You stretch your limbs, reveling in the pleasant soreness that lingers heavy in your body, and reach for your phone.

The first thing you see is a text from Yelena, timestamped forty-five minutes ago.

good morning slut!!! text when you get this so we know you’re still alive and didn’t receive the dick of death

You roll your eyes, smirking, and type up a reply.

i lived bitch

Your phone buzzes just a few seconds later.

so proud of you :) nat says ferry at 1:00, do NOT be late. let me know if you need me to pack your shit

You wince at the hour, wishing you had a little more time to get your life together, and a little more time to spend with you-know-who. Sighing, you pry yourself from the comfort of his bed, shrug on his discarded button-down from last night, and venture out to the kitchen.

You find James puttering about the kitchen in only his underwear, humming softly under his breath. A moka pot sputters on the stovetop while he spreads jam on a few pieces of warm toast. When he spots you, that easy grin spreads across his face and he reaches for your hand. His eyes migrate down your form, noting his shirt on your back and your bare legs beneath it, and he looks immensely pleased. 

“Smells good,” you mumble, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

James pulls you into his arms, planting a brief but affectionate kiss on your lips. “Buongiorno.” 

“Morning,” your reply, smiling up at him wearily.

“You leave today.” It's a statement, not a question, and you detect a hint of disappointment in his voice as his arms tighten around you. 

You shrug, already resigned to your fate. “Yeah. Ferry to Sorrento this afternoon. I gotta get back to the hotel.”

“You have time for coffee.” Another kiss, this time pressed just underneath your jaw. “And a shower.”

“Is that your way of telling me I stink?” you ask facetiously, raising an eyebrow.

“It's my way of keeping you longer.” His lips continue their descent down the slope of your neck, and he reaches down to squeeze your ass playfully. “And getting you naked again.”

A cappuccino, a slice of toast, and a long and steamy shower later, you’re running behind farther than you’d like to be. It's looking like Yelena will have to pack your suitcase after all, but James, in true gentlemen fashion, offers to save time by driving the group out to the ferry.

Wearing your dress from last night onto the ferry is a no-go. It's a rumpled wreck, and wearing a hemline that high before sunset totally screams walk of shame. James generously offers you a button-down and a pair of drawstring linen shorts from his closet. You have to pull the drawstring tight so the shorts don’t fall off of you, and you’re sort of swimming in the shirt, but at least you look moderately appropriate for daytime. The shirt smells like him, which is a bonus.

You offer to send them back by mail once they’re washed. James shakes his head and insists that you keep them, as a little memento of your time in Ischia. The idea makes your chest ache with a bittersweet feeling.

It's a bit of a squeeze to fit all the girls and the luggage in James's Fiat, but they make it work. They're on their best behavior when you and James pick them up from the hotel (having been warned via text that you will push them off the deck of the ferry if they embarrass you). There's still a lot of giggling and conspiratorial looks and thinly veiled innuendo.

Before you know it, you’re all standing dockside, waiting to board the ferry among various strangers. The final goodbye looms over your head, like a dangling sword about to stab you in the heart.

Yelena loudly announces that she, Kate, and Natasha will bring the luggage on board, shoves you in James's direction, and starts grabbing bags before he can try to convince her to let him carry them. The girls escape up the ramp with their bags, leaving you alone with him.

James takes your hand in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “You will call me, yes?” he asks.

“I will,” you reply, meaning it. “If you’re ever in the states again, come see me.”

“If you ever decide to quit your job and come live the good life here, let me know.”

You laugh in surprise. Because that would be crazy. “I don't know about that. Once your country figures out air conditioning, or ice water, maybe I'll consider it.”

He shrugs, grinning. “It was worth a shot.”

Something delicate and uncertain hangs in the air for a moment, until James surrenders to it and wraps his arms around you, his lips finding your ear one last time. 

“Non dimenticarmi.”

You pull back a few inches to look into those devastating, oceanic eyes. “What does that mean?”

His fingers brush your windswept hair away from your face, his expression soft and fond. "Don't forget me.”

Your heart seizes up in your chest again.

“I could never do that,” you promise.

In the full knowledge that your friends are certainly watching from the deck of the ferry, and not giving a damn about it, you stretch up onto your tiptoes and kiss him. You take as much time with it as you can afford, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the taste of him, the feeling of his arms around your waist, the notes of his cologne.

After a moment, your lips part from his reluctantly. James squeezes you in one last embrace, then sends you up the ramp to board the ferry with the last of the passengers. At the top, you look back. He's still standing there, looking like a dream, and he pulls a hand out of his pocket to wave.

You wave back, then turn to go find your friends before you do something stupid like change your mind, like run back down the ramp and into his arms like a rom-com heroine who doesn’t have to deal with consequences after the credits roll.

As you move through the crowd of passengers, Natasha waves you over from near the bow. You arrive to a chorus of exaggerated kissing sounds and lewd moans from the three girls. But once Nat sees your downtrodden expression, she immediately takes you in her arms, telling you all about the things in Sorrento that will cheer you up and take your mind off Sexy Italian Boat Man.

“I give it six months before he comes to the US to visit her,” Kate mutters to Yelena, thinking you can’t hear her over the lap of the waves and the noise of the crowd.

Yelena scoffs and whispers, "I give it a year before she moves here.”

A/N: first one-shot to be posted on the new blog. hope you’ll enjoy!

Mr. Barnes is your clumsy, timid, and definitely too-hot professor. He might be nearly twenty years older than you, yet he still blushes the moment anyone shows even a hint of interest in his course.

You don’t exactly know when you began pushing at that invisible line between student and professor, curious to see how easily he’d lose his composure. Maybe it’s the way those adorable blue eyes sparkled every time you raised your hand to answer one of his questions. Maybe it’s the thrill running through your veins when you stayed behind after lectures, holding his gaze just a little too long to witness how easily the poor man turned red.

Or maybe it’s the urge to see him stuttering and whimpering under you.

You took a risk when you knocked on his office door to ask for clarification about your last quiz. Even if his gaze would linger on your exposed skin after you started wearing more revealing clothes. Even if he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes whenever your fingers accidentally brushed against his while handing him your paper. Even if he stumbled over his words when you softly greeted him with a soft “Good morning, Mr. Barnes.” every time you oh-so-coincidentally bumped into each other in the campus hallway. 

Those signs were very clear to you, so you stood up to round the desk, pointing at a question you didn’t understand and consequently answered wrong. He mumbled something about mounds, his eyes fixed on your chest as he looked up at you, then quickly shook his head, frowning at his desk, his cheeks lighting up with a beautiful shade of red.

“M—Mountains, I meant mountains.” He stuttered out. That’s when you grasped one armrest, swiveling his chair until you could comfortably set yourself on his laps. 

“Miss—” Mr. Barnes’ eyes widened, but you simply wrapped your arms around his neck, whispering about how much you needed him. His lips parted, not knowing what to do. He panted at the clear sight of the body who had been appearing in his sweetest dreams so many times—too many—since the beginning of the semester. Waking up, he would tug at his hair in despair, a wet patch soiling his underwear and shame curling hot in his stomach. How could he be sexually attracted to one of his students? His best student, nonetheless. 

But his resolve melted like ice cream under the scorching summer sun once you started moving, humping his half-hard cock straining against his black pants. 

“We are doing nothing wrong if we aren’t touching skin to skin, right professor?” You mumbled, grazing his lips with yours. Mr. Barnes shook, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, prayers for forgiveness echoing in his mind until he came in his underwear with your name on his lips.

As soon as he got inside the safe walls of his home, Bucky swore to avoid you for the rest of the academic year. No, for the rest of his life. He was terrified of how easily you could unravel him. The lightest brush of your fingers against his bare skin was enough to make him forget who he was supposed to be, all the walls he thought he’d built for himself crumbling with violent inevitability. Every glance, every curve, every soft, dangerous smile... The way you made him ache for more was almost unbearable. 

Two days later, you tugged down his zipper, kneeling to hide under the desk as soon as the class had completely emptied, and Mr. Barnes could only sputter your name in shock before your luscious, glossy lips engulfed him. His head fell back, letting you play with his cock until he came down your throat with a ferocity that left you with a hoarse voice for the rest of the day. You left with a filthy kiss that tasted like his cum and a playful pat on his pec, just two seconds before the door opened for the next lesson to begin. 

After two months of heated gazes thrown between a power point slide and a raise of hand, and an alarming number of orgasms in the privacy of his office, Mr. Barnes—or Bucky, as he told you to call him when you were alone—finally confessed he needed all of you.

He couldn’t take it anymore; even if you sucked the soul out of his dick, your soft kisses and the way you held him left him yearning for something beyond simple physical attraction. Right after your rendezvous, he always ended up with a hand around his stiff length, pretending it was your warm and wet pussy, before falling asleep imagining you were right there with him, your head safely nestled against his neck.

Last week Bucky stopped you after class, and oh, you would have kissed your professor right there on the spot as he clumsily asked you on a date, before his voice dimmed towards the end, suddenly self-conscious at the lack of any reaction from your part. Bucky was definitely being an old fool. Why would a girl as beautiful and confident as you want to go on a date with a forty-year-old man who still can’t look a pretty girl in the eye without stuttering?

His doubts melted away with an eager kiss that made you both smile so hard your cheeks ached.

Now, in the quiet, dimly lit ambiance of his office, his plans to properly court you go up in smoke the moment you start making out on the small leather couch by his sturdy oak bookshelf. Gone are the loud echoes of avid chatter in the halls, as well as the pressing fear at the back of his mind of being caught by some noisy colleague trying to get into his office to bother him about the latest gossip. On the contrary, you seemed to thrive in it, always whispering about how scandalous it would be to be caught with the shy and professional Mr. Barnes’ cock down your throat. He never had the chance to discuss this fantasy of yours outside of your intimate moments, and probably he never would.

It’s already humiliating enough that Bucky ends up coming the moment you start talking about it.

It began with you staying behind in the campus library to finish an essay for his course, when you noticed his car still parked outside. After confirming via text that Bucky was still locked in his office grading some tests, you decided to surprise him. As soon as you crossed the threshold, he captured your lips with an eager kiss, guiding you to his couch so he could finally indulge in you after a long day of restraint.

Now, the only audible noises are the whirring of the old ceiling fan slowly spinning, and the squeak of leather under you. You hump his sturdy thigh as your hands gently cup his cheeks, covered by a grey-ish stubble that you want to see glisten in your arousal so desperately. 

“Bucky.” He usually wouldn’t initiate anything remotely sexual, instead opting to intertwine your fingers or leave gentle pecks on your neck. He only allowed himself to let go after you showed interest in going further. Tonight, it’s like Bucky doesn’t care about propriety anymore—maybe because you had agreed to go on a date with him, finally. Or maybe he finally understood you desire him just as much as he desires you.

You don’t know and honestly you don’t care, you just want this man to finally stick his dick into you and fuck you until you are forced to rest all day.

Your fingers wrinkle his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. Bucky’s chest heaves against yours, his hands firmly resting on your hips as he tries to preserve that miserable crumb of self-control he still prides himself to maintain around you. That’s the only thing that keeps him from fucking your mouth with his tongue in the middle of his lessons.

You let out a soft mewl. “Mr. Barnes, please. Just fuck me.” 

“Sweetheart, we can’t.” Bucky strains out, squeezing his eyes shut. Your sweet moans get closer and closer as you lean in, nuzzling your nose his jawline. Your lips leave a trail of soft kisses— kisses that feel far too innocent in comparison to the lewd movement of your hips. Bucky’s chin unconsciously tilts up to let you do whatever you want to his throat, from sucking to delicately biting the sensitive skin, until your mouth reaches his, and the kisses turn hungrier, filthier. His heartbeat accelerates under your palm as your other hand slides down, finally cupping his bulge. Bucky’s hands land on your ass, his grasp on the soft flesh is strong but still adorably hesitant, afraid of doing something that could disgust you— or worse, hurt you.

You’re pretty sure he would be the one to run away if he knew the things you want him to do to you. 

“Yes, we can.” You whine, kissing his cheek before you meet his eyes. “I don’t need a fancy restaurant, or—or a bed. I only need you.” 

Bucky’s cheeks turn pink at your honest yet fierce admission, the color spreading to his neck and ears as well. His limbs, albeit trembling, lead you down to lie on your back. Your smile is contagious as you realize what he’s doing, and your fingers promptly go for his white shirt, impatiently ripping it apart, the buttons flying left and right as you part the two halves to expose his broad and slightly hairy chest.

“Darling.” Bucky balks, before your arms wrap around his neck, and with a harsh tug, your lips connect again. You glide your tongue along his bottom lip, silently asking for access, and of course he obeys at once.

“Why—” You pant, gasping as Bucky, spurred on by your eagerness, trails a path of enthusiastic kisses down your throat. “Do you always act so surprised— oh!”

He travels lower, finding a sensitive spot of yours, right beneath your ear. His lips elicit moans and whimpers out of you that shamelessly echo into the open space of his office.

Finally, his hips move on their own volition, grinding his clothed bulge over your pulsing core. Bucky is still so clumsy, especially when he allows himself to drop all the doubts and uncertainties that hold him back, but that’s when you adore him the most: when he loses himself in your shared pleasure. He groans into the soft skin of your neck, finally reaching his ultimate destination.

Grabbing a hold of the hem of your sweater, he pushes it up until your torso is exposed for his eyes to feast upon. He is too eager to remove your bra, simply tugging the cups down until your breasts spill out. A sound that is dangerously close to a whimper falls from his lips at the sight of his favorite body part of yours. Each spot is gorgeous, don’t get him wrong, but your chest is simply spectacular. And after that time you let him come all over your tits, Bucky can’t look at your cleavage without getting hard.

You let him bury his face there, your fingers softly petting his hair as his lips latch onto your nipple. His hands shoot down, groping your thighs to keep them open, fingers kneading the soft flesh there, mimicking the slow yet intense pace of his mouth sucking on your turgid nub.

“Good boy, Mr. Barnes. Such a good boy.” You sigh, grinning as a soft, pathetic sound claws out of his throat at the praise, shuddering under your wandering palms. Pulling off with a gasp, he caresses his way up to fondle your breasts, pushing them together against his cheeks so he can nuzzle the soft skin. You giggle amused, remembering the time he fervently told you that he would not mind suffocating between them. 

Bucky licks both nipples until they’re shiny and swollen, before his shaky fingers reach your bottom half. Your panties fly somewhere on the headrest of the couch, carelessly discarded aside as the sight of your bare pussy short-circuits his brain.

It’s not the first time Bucky’s seen you naked, having already been blessed with the permission to finger you. Yet, his body stills for what feels like eternity, just staring at your wet core with the same devotion one would feel while admiring an invaluably precious treasure. 

His thumbs gently part your folds, allowing him to plant a soft kiss on your clit, before licking a long stripe from your hole to the throbbing nub. 

Your thighs jerk close around his head. “No, no! Need your cock, Professor. Please.” 

You watch as Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut, forehead resting against your hipbone as he sighs, probably to calm himself down as your taste on his tongue has his cock throbbing painfully. Then he stands up, quickly fumbling with his belt. His pants and underwear are removed in a single tug, and you both chuckle when he almost trips, his hand shooting forward to grab onto the couch. 

“I’m a mess.” He mumbles half-embarrassed, kneeling back between your spread thighs.

“Mh, a hot mess.” His pulse jumps, blue eyes slowly following the way your hand reaches down to rub your clit. “Now c’mere and make me yours.” You unconsciously lick your lips, staring at his stiff length standing proud and leaking against his abdomen. 

A nerd with a big cock, that’s professor James Barnes for you.

“You can lick me clean after, if you want.” 

“Shit.” Panting, Bucky wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking it a couple of times before lining the engorged tip with your entrance. Your hips squirm at the action, eager to finally feel him inside.

Until his eyes widen, body stopping short. “Wait, I—I need to prepare you first.”

How could he forget to stretch you open? He was so close to hurting you.

“No need to do that.” You breathe out, caressing up and down your torso in a way that almost hypnotizes Bucky. 

Your smirk makes his next protest die in his throat. Spellbound, he lets you guide him lower, until you can comfortably lie a slow kiss on his lips, his breath trembling at the way your tongue caresses his. He follows your mouth with a whine when you gently push his chest back.

“You have a big dick, professor, yes. But,” your hands tenderly cup his face, tugging him down again until your hot breath tickles his ear. “I always finger myself in the bathroom after your lessons.”

Bucky almost chokes on his own spit.

“Needed to do that before studying as well, I was so horny I couldn’t focus. Jus’ wanted to come here and bounce on your pretty cock.”

“Every time you say things like that, my brain just…” He trails off, not even knowing what he wanted to say. His thoughts just roam free when he’s with you, unable to stop himself from following his instincts.

Right now, he can only feel the warmth of your body under his, and the softness of your hands on his face. You claim every inch of his attention, an irresistible angel wrapped in lace and sin. 

“I know, Mr. Barnes.” Your little giggle prompts him to bury his face into the crook of your damp neck, his chest heaving as his cock gets impossibly harder at your confidence. Bucky whimpers when your hips buckle up to coax him in, your folds brushing against the sensitive tip of his cock.

“Can I?” His eyes land down, and he gapes once again at how pretty your pussy looks.

You simply nod, a quick, eager movement, anchoring yourself to his shoulders as he starts breeching your hole.

The small, hot room is filled with the sound of your heavy breath. Your hold tightens on the ruined shirt precariously hanging from his frame when you gasp in unison at the feeling of your walls clenching around him. Your eyes close in bliss as he keeps pushing deeper inside you, his hands firm on your hips, holding you still with the fear that a single movement from you might make him come embarrassingly fast. 

“Shit.” Bucky breaks the religious silence first, finally bottoming out. 

“It’s so big, oh my God.” 

“I know!” He whimpers. “Sorry.”

“Don’t—” You huff out a delirious laugh at the absurdity of this hot and smart college professor whining apologies for having a big dick. “You’re so cute, Mr. Barnes. Wanna move?”

His eyelids flutter shut in concentration, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “Yes, yes please.” He nods eagerly, the words leaving his mouth in a strangled plea.

The first pull of his cock is torturously slow, leaving you mewling for him until he forces his way back fully inside you. Tipping his chin up to kiss you, Bucky is interrupted by a loud moan escaping his lips without his permission.

“Fuck.” He grunts, forehead falling against yours at the feeling of your tight walls squeezing him again. 

Once Bucky sets a steady rhythm, often disrupted by stray, eager thrusts, the slightly painful sensation of being stretched open by his huge girth quickly shifts into pure pleasure. Your body now lies pliant on this cheap couch, moaning every time his cock seems to reach deeper and deeper.

“Wait!” Bucky gasps at some point. “L—Let me…” He halts his movements all of a sudden, shifting until your knees are pushed up to your chest. The new feeling has your eyes rolling back, his cock filling and slamming in and out of you at an even faster pace, his pubic hair grinding against your sensitive nub.

“You’re so tight.” He cries out. “Fuck!”

Your legs are burning because of the physical strain but you don’t pay them any attention, too lost in the way his tip abuses your sweet spot. His big body blankets yours completely once your arms wrap around his neck, dragging him closer. The sight prompts Bucky to harshly grab your thighs in an attempt to stop himself from coming.

“Can’t hold back anymore.” A whimper claws out of his throat. “So tight, so warm… My pretty girl… Need to come. Please, please, please let me come.” He blabbers, the muscles of his stomach tensing. 

“Already close?” You tease him with a condescending yet breathy tone. Fuck, he gets so whiny when he’s ready to fall over the edge, you can’t resist poking him a little. “You’re such a pathetic old man for your student’s pussy, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Fuck!” He wails, hiding his flushed face in the slope of your neck. His hips stammer for a second, coming to a sudden stop.

“What—”

“Was about to come.” His whisper is so hot and dejected against your chest it almost makes you feel bad.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, though.” Your hips cruelly jerk up, making him whimper.

“Sorry, sorry.” He rushes out a string of barely coherent apologies, before he’s moving again. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Hm, ‘s okay.” You gasp, not expecting the brutal pace. “‘M close too, you can come, Mr. Barnes.” 

Bucky realizes that you don’t understand what he meant, and he isn’t sure how to tell you without bursting into flames of embarrassment.

“Baby,” his voice breaks. “I—I don’t think I can pull out.” 

You had talked about it before, in the heat of the moment as you humped his bulge only for him to spill in his underwear, moaning about how good you would take him, how much you craved to feel his bare cock pounding inside you. You are both clean, and definitely exclusive. But Bucky had briskly promised you he would pull out.

Of course, that was before being inside you. Now, all reason has been hurled out of the window as the only thought in his mind is pumping you full of his cum until you can’t keep it in anymore, shamelessly soiling the couch with your arousal mixed together. A reminder that would taunt him whenever he crosses the threshold of this damn office.

Bucky is pretty sure he’s going to cry if you ask him to pull out now, but he would do it immediately, of course.

Your wanton moan breaks through his worry, arching your back as if his words had physically grabbed you. “Then don’t.” You sob, tightening your hold around his shoulders.

“Really?” He perks up.

You nod. “Can feel you twitch inside me, he needs it, professor. Needs to be inside me when he comes.”

“Fuck, yes! Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you thank you thank you.” With renowned energy, Bucky’s thrusts become downright animalistic, muffling your surprised gasp with his mouth.

“Feeling good? Am I doing good?” He pants on your lips, hazy eyes desperately searching yours.

“Yes! So good, Mr. Barnes, always making me feel so good.” You cry out, impossibly full and aching in the best way.

“I— oh my God.” He whimpers shamelessly, one of his hands traveling lower to rub your clit. You flinch at the added pleasure, letting out a very embarrassing squeal.

“Ah! That’s it, baby. Yes, yes, yes!” His breaths are fast with anticipation as he marvels at your features crumpling in pleasure, head tossed back and tits deliciously bouncing with every filthy roll of his hips.

“Can feel you’re close. Come, sweetheart, please come, please—” He begs in a broken cry.

“Bucky—”

A slow, creaking noise echoes from the outside, making you choke on your next words.

He stops cold, still buried deep inside of you, heart hammering against his ribs. The sound slices through your melodic moans, abruptly waking him up from the sweet torture that is your pussy clenching for him. 

You wait with bated breath, still unsure if the sound was real, or just a figment of your imagination. 

Then, it happens again.

The creaking continues, steady and closer. His eyes land on your confused face. “The janitor.” He gasps, realization dawning on him like a bucket of icy water. Cold sweat coats your back as your brain scrambling to remember if you locked the door.

It should be a reflex by now, you’re so used to doing it every day. However, your attention was immediately caught by Bucky unexpectedly taking you to the couch.

And now you’re not so sure anymore. 

He’s still motionless above you, now shielding your body with his as the janitor stops a few feet away from Bucky’s office. A door opens, and the cleaning cart is being dragged again, the sound getting slightly fainter. He probably got inside a nearby room to start his cleaning round. 

Bucky’s cock doesn’t soften through it all. As a matter of fact, his hips unconsciously keep up their humping motion, shallow, almost imperceptible. Your hole squeezes his length at the realization that he’s not as indifferent to your teases as you thought. He will never admit it, you already know that, but his actions speak louder than words, and that’s enough for you.

“Keep going.” You whisper. His head snaps toward you, staring as if he’s just seen a ghost. His eyes are telling a completely different story though, now darker and wild as you grind on his cock once. He chokes on a breath, his hands flying down to grab your hips.

“Let’s see if we can really get caught, professor.” You giggle, thrusting your hips up. 

“Wait, baby.” You simply smile at him, noticing how his eyes glaze over once again. His hips thrust into you. Hard. And now he’s fucking you again, faster and harsher than before. 

There’s only one problem: Bucky is fucking loud. That same man who had paled at the slight possibility of being seen fucking a student on his couch, is now moaning and grunting against the swell of your breasts.

He is at your mercy, too drunk from the feeling of your sweet pussy engulfing his cock so well. A red flush takes over his neck as he gets so close to falling over the edge, and right when his chest puffs out, lips opening around an embarrassingly loud groan, your hand shoots up, grabbing your pair of panties and stuffing them right into his mouth. It takes a moment for the professor to understand what’s going on, but when his tongue tastes your slick on the gusset, and his nose catches the unmistakable scent of your core, his eyes roll back. 

Bucky tenses above you, desperate sounds now flowing freely, muffled by your panties. You realize you’re sweating too, closing your eyes as you pray that the squeaking of the couch goes unnoticed to the outside world. 

“Gonna come.” You whisper into his ear. “You’re gonna make me come on your big cock, Mr. Barnes, and you’re gonna fill me up, right, baby? Look how pretty you are, my good boy.”

Your pussy spasms, and then your eyes are rolling back while Bucky fucks you through your orgasm, wildly pumping into you, hitting that sweet spot that makes you cry out against his neck. His cock throbs, and then his cum is stuffing you full, just like you wanted. Loud, broken whimpers spill into your panties, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips keep thrusting into you at a maddening pace, even though his balls have nothing left to give you.

He refuses to let this moment of pure, unaltered pleasure come to an end. 

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!” It’s only your meek squeak that pulls him out of the delirious state he fell in. His thrusts slow down, reluctantly coming to a stop, while his limbs tremble and his cock stays warmly snuggled inside you. The moment his jaw relaxes, your panties land on your chest, completely wet with his spit. Then, he grabs your face to crash his lips against yours, hot and needy, your hands refusing to let his shirt go, clinging onto him for as long as your lungs permit.

“Fucking hell.” Bucky gasps out, flopping down on your body. You are still dizzy by the intensity of your climax, but seeing him so unguarded and content makes a tired chuckle bubble up from your throat.

“So you really like the thought of being caught, huh?” Your eyebrows wiggle up and down, the left corner of your mouth lifting in amusement.

“Shut up.”

“Mh-mmh, want me to use my panties to do that?”

His cock twitches.

A/N: well well well... what a cute way to launch the requests for my 1.5k followers celebration 🥹 (already 40 followers away from 2k, this is insane thank you so much 🫂). this one is especially dear to me because it comes from a real-life friend of mine and is actually inspired by a true story (minus the love story part lol). one of their classmates has a baby and would occasionally bring her along to lectures, and knowing that I often take inspiration from real life, my friend suggested it could make for a cute bucky fic 😭 you may also notice that the layout for requests (and shorter stories in general) is a little different. partly because I’m running out of pictures for moodboards 🥲 but also because I want to differentiate them from my longer stories since I’m trying to improve my summarizing skills 😭 I really hope you’ll enjoy my shorter one-shots as well!

Universities function on rumor as much as fact, and Professor Barnes has acquired a reputation long before many of his students ever stepped into one of his lectures. He is demanding, precise, uninterested in excuses. Assignments submitted late are graded late, if they are graded at all, but questions are always answered thoroughly—provided they aren’t an attempt to compensate for poor preparation.

By the middle of September, punctuality has become an unspoken rule in his class. Late arrivals are met without comment, only a brief pause and a solemn look that lingers just long enough to make the entire room shiver.

It’s therefore difficult to imagine a classroom less suited to your situation.

Your son fell asleep in the car. That, in itself, is quite unfortunate. Had he remained awake, you would have sat outside with him a little longer, gathered your thoughts, considered whether attending at all was worth the anxiety currently twisting your stomach. Instead, Milo sleeps peacefully against your shoulder while you stand in the corridor outside the lecture hall, alone, staring at the door and trying to not think about the fact that you are carrying a diaper bag covered in cute cartoonish lions, and moments away from walking into a room filled with people who would undoubtedly have opinions and speculations about you and your son.

Everyone’s eyes fall on you the moment the door opens subtly beneath your careful hand. As much as you try to be silent, it would have been impossible to not notice you.

Curiosity proves far more common than judgement, though. Students glance up from laptops and conversations, register the baby, and immediately start wondering whether Professor Barnes had already been informed.

The answer becomes obvious a few minutes later.

He stops just inside the doorway, gaze moving across the room only to land on you almost immediately. His blue eyes remain there long enough that several students abandon any pretense of looking away.

You rise before he can speak.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice carries farther than you intend in the suddenly silent room. “My babysitter quitted.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t find anyone else.”

Professor Barnes listens in complete silence and that only makes the exchange incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he reassure you. Instead, he stands with both hands by his sides, his expression giving away so little that half the room starts preparing for the worst on your behalf.

Perhaps he expects more explanation. Perhaps you feel compelled to provide it.

“I didn’t want to miss another lecture.” The admission seems to embarrass you as your voice wavers a little.

The baby shifts slightly against your shoulder at that exact moment and you adjust him instinctively.

“If it’s a problem, I’ll leave.”

Professor Barnes glances toward the child with plain reluctance, then back toward you.

“How long?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“How long is this arrangement supposed to last?”

The question seems reasonable enough. Unfortunately, even reasonable questions occasionally require uncomfortable answers.

You look down, almost in shame.

“I don’t know.” The honesty escapes before you can soften it. “I’ve called a few places, but most of them have waiting lists.”

Nobody in the room appears particularly eager to be in your position. And Professor Barnes seems to find this information exactly as inconvenient as everyone expected him to.

The slight tightening of his jaw suggests a man being presented with circumstances he neither likes nor approves of, yet can’t argue against. For a few moments he says nothing at all. Then, he finally exhales quietly.

“Sit down.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“You can stay, but take the baby outside if he starts fussing.”

Your lips part in relief so quickly that it’s almost painful to witness.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.”

The Professor gives no indication that gratitude interests him and simply glances at the digital clock above his desk.

“Class started thirty seconds ago.” He states louder, throwing a stern look at the rest of the class, too busy staring at you.

The soft murmur reprises normally as everyone frantically starts reaching for their notes.

The matter, as far as he seems concerned, is closed.

At first, your presence in the lecture hall attracts attention. People look up when you arrive, track your progress toward your usual seat near the front, and observe with a curiosity they rarely bother hiding. A baby simply isn’t something anybody anticipates finding in Professor Barnes’ lectures, and for the first couple of weeks there is the persistent conviction that things would soon return to whatever passed for normal.

Instead, Milo keeps showing up and the lecture hall adapts accordingly.

Your classmates learn to move their bags when they see you approaching with your arms already full; somebody always seems to have a spare pen when yours disappears into the seemingly endless depths of the diaper bag, and more than one person has kindly shared lecture notes after discovering that trying to write while simultaneously preventing an increasingly fast infant from eating paper is a task bordering on impossible.

Milo, meanwhile, thrives under the attention.

He likes brightly colored pens and would become completely absorbed by them, tracking their movement with remarkable concentration as soon as the familiar clicks reaches his small ears. He inevitably falls asleep about twenty minutes into every lecture, regardless of how noisy the room happens to be. Your classmates also learn that laughter produces immediate excitement, his legs kicking enthusiastically while he looks around in search of whatever seems to be making everybody so happy.

Most notably, however, they learn that Milo has developed a favorite.

The first sign is the smiles. At seven months old, he smiles frequently enough that nobody considers it unusual. Babies smile at strangers, at ceiling lights, at absolutely nothing at all... but soon the pattern becomes difficult to ignore.

Every morning, without fail, Milo’s attention drifts toward the door shortly before Professor Barnes arrives. Sometimes he is playing with his favorite plushie—a small, soft bunny your best friend gifted him when he was born. Sometimes he is busy trying to pull your notebook from your hands. Sometimes he is halfway through a bottle.

None of that matters, though. The moment Mr. Barnes appears, Milo’s face lights up.

Every. Damn. Time.

“Oh, no.” You mutter one morning as your son nearly twists himself out of your arms trying to watch Mr. Barnes cross the room. “We’re not doing this.”

Milo responds by grinning even harder.

“You don’t even know him!”

False. At this point, Milo sees Professor Barnes with more consistency than he sees his own grandparents.

The problem is that his interest doesn’t stop at smiling.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the focus of that fascination appears to be Mr. Barnes’ vibranium arm.

At first, the fixation seems harmless: Milo watches it move whenever the Professor gestures, his big eyes following it in awe even as he writes across the whiteboard. If he passes nearby, your son instantly tracks the motion with the unwavering concentration of somebody witnessing a miracle unfold in real time.

“Oh my God.” You whisper exasperated one afternoon after catching him staring openly for nearly ten minutes. “Stop looking at him like that, baby.”

Milo ignores you, of course, and Professor Barnes remains apparently oblivious.

Or, perhaps, chooses to not acknowledge it.

Weeks pass and the fascination only intensifies.

By the middle of October, Milo has started leaning toward Mr. Barnes whenever he walks past your row. By the beginning of November, he is actively attempting to reach for him whenever the opportunity presents itself.

The inevitable finally happens on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

The lecture has been underway for nearly half an hour, most people having settled into the comfortable rhythm of note-taking and occasional distraction. Professor Barnes is moving through a complicated explanation that occupies nearly the entire whiteboard, his handwriting spreading neatly from one side to the other while students hurry to keep pace.

You are trying to copy a diagram one-handed while your son, who has apparently decided sleep is no longer part of his afternoon plans, occupies your lap and often attempts to interfere with your efforts.

The moment Mr. Barnes approaches the front row, his attention shifts completely.

His eyes immediately lock onto the vibranium hand and a few nearby students notice immediately.

Milo leans forward and you adjust your grip automatically. He only leans farther. Only then do you glance up from your notebook and realize exactly what has captured his attention.

The embarrassment makes your neck burn.

“Oh, baby.”

Several students look away in a futile attempt to hide their grin.

“Don’t do that.” You feel like crying, but Milo doesn’t care at all. His entire focus remains on the arm.

Professor Barnes, noticing the unusual silence that has settled across the room, finally looks over.

His gaze follows the direction of Milo’s, landing directly on his left arm.

You really hope the floor could open beneath your chair.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes.”

The apology emerges instant and desperate.

“He’s… a very curious baby.” You try to go for a smile but you are pretty sure it resembles a grimace.

Professor Barnes says nothing.

Milo, encouraged by the fact that his target is finally looking at him, immediately stretches both chubby hands forward.

The gesture is so earnest, so hopeful, that a few people can’t fight back their smiles anymore.

You look horrified.

“Milo.” You choke out, eyes wide and scared.

For a brief moment, Professor Barnes simply stares down at him. Until your son smiles: a proper curve of his lips that lights up his entire face. The kind that makes complete strangers smile back without meaning to.

The whole class gasps collectively, because Mr. Barnes nonchalantly extends his hand, allowing Milo to grab his fingers at once.

The victory is apparently everything he has hoped for as his delighted squeals echo through the lecture hall.

You drag your unoccupied hand down your face.

“Jesus Christ.”

Professor Barnes glances at you. “He’s fine.”

The statement should not, under any reasonable circumstances, make the situation more embarrassing, but somehow it does.

Milo continues holding onto the offered finger with obvious satisfaction, until the Professor turns back toward the whiteboard.

“As I was saying…” He clears his throat lightly, gesturing at the diagrams.

The lecture resumes, Professor Barnes continues teaching as though a toddler hasn’t just left traces of his own saliva across his hand… and Milo keeps clutching his fingers whenever he wanders close enough.

You spend the next forty minutes with mortification written all over your face.

By the time class ends, not a single person can confidently explain what the lecture has actually been about.

Everybody has become used to a version of Milo that rarely causes any trouble. He babbles, certainly. He occasionally attempts to steal pens. Once he managed to grab an entire page of somebody’s notes and crumple it beyond recognition before anyone could stop him.

Actual tears, however, are rare enough that the sound draws every eye toward the front row.

You want to disappear.

Your eyes widen so fast that it’s obvious you have been dreading this exact moment since the first day you brought him to class.

“No no no, please wait just a second.” You mutter, frantically gathering your things.

Milo only cries harder.

The notebook on your desk snaps shut, one hand reaching for the diaper bag while the other tries to soothe a baby who has apparently decided that nothing short of complete misery would properly express his feelings.

“I’m really sorry,” you fret, rising from your seat. “I’ll take him outside.”

Professor Barnes sets down the marker calmly. In a room currently distracted by a crying infant and an increasingly distressed mother, the movement attracts considerably more attention.

“Where are you going?”

You freeze at the sound of his deep baritone.

“Outside.”

“Why?”

The question catches you completely off guard.

“Because he’s… crying?” You reply unsure.

Mr. Barnes glances at Milo’s crumpled features and fat tears wetting his cheeks, then looks back at you, before sighing and simply holding out his arms.

“Give him here.”

You stare at him with your jaw slack.

“What?” You squeak out.

“Give him here. He’s clearly tired of sitting for hours.”

The rest of the students watch the scene unfold in disbelief.

“And you need to take notes.”

You are still staring at him as if he just started speaking another language.

Mr. Barnes lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve suddenly decided you don’t need them to pass my exam.”

Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, before carefully transferring Milo into his arms.

The crying doesn’t stop immediately. It does, however, begin losing conviction.

Mr. Barnes adjusts his grip with surprising familiarity, settling Milo against his right side before turning back toward the whiteboard.

“The problem with this interpretation is that it assumes the conclusion before the evidence has actually established it.”

The marker moves steadily across the board, and Milo hiccups.

A few minutes later, your son has reduced his complaints to occasional sniffles, until he falls completely silent, his head tucked against Mr. Barnes’ shoulder while he discusses course material with the same seriousness he brings to every lecture.

Nobody recovers.

The sight of Professor Barnes pacing slowly across the front of the lecture hall with a sleeping baby resting against his shoulder is significantly less unsettling than how natural he makes it look.

Once the semester has reached its final stretch, the idea that Professor Barnes merely tolerates Milo has quietly stopped making sense to anyone who was lucky enough to see the three of you interact.

It’s no longer unusual to hear him use the baby’s name as part of the natural rhythm of his speech.

“Milo,” he would say without looking up from the board when the baby starts to wriggle too close to the edge of your lap.

The sound alone is enough to calm him, which in itself has become one of those things students notice but don’t quite understand how to talk about.

Several colorful objects start appearing around his usually dull desk without comment. A teething ring in a muted blue kept inside the top drawer, pulled out automatically whenever Milo grows restless. A small cloth elephant with one ear slightly bent, usually resting near the stack of graded papers, which your son would immediately reach for the moment he is close enough to see it. A soft book with stiff pages and bright illustrations that makes a faint crinkling sound when handled with curiosity by his chubby hands.

Sometimes, he knows what’s happening to Milo before you do.

The lecture has ended five minutes ago, but you are still at the front desk with your latest assignment. Milo keeps squirming in your arms, not settling no matter how you shift him. Your eyes squint at the corrected paper, not really understanding what your professor did to reach the right result.

Mr. Barnes stands beside you, one hand on the desk while skimming the paper without any urgency. The room is mostly empty now, just the three of you and the faint sound of chairs being dragged somewhere down the hall.

You point at the problem set. “I kept ending up with two different answers here depending on how I handled this step, but I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

He gently leans forward and places his index finger on the sign he’d circled.

“Here.” He taps the bracket. “You’re only applying the minus to the first term. It has to go across everything inside.”

You exhale through your nose, half frustration, half acceptance.

“Right. Okay.”

He doesn’t comment and just slides the paper slightly back toward you.

Milo twists again in your arms, letting out a small irritated sound and your hand smoothes his back without looking away from the paper.

Barnes glances down at him.

“He’s uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still focused on the problem set. “He’s been like this for days.”

“He’s teething.” Mr. Barnes states calmly.

You finally look up at that, eyebrows lifting slightly. “How are you so sure, Professor?”

He looks at Milo for a second longer this time, then back at the assignment as if the answer isn’t complicated enough to deserve emphasis.

“He’s always chewing his hand and drooling a lot more than usual because his gums are probably swollen.”

You shift Milo higher against your shoulder again, watching him stare at your professor as he settles briefly. “That’s… annoyingly observant.”

That earns you the faintest glance from him, like he isn’t sure if you are complaining or just acknowledging a fact.

“Cold cloths help,” he adds eventually. “Not ice, just cool water. Wring them out properly.”

You go still, briefly throwing him a curious glance.

“You’ve dealt with this a lot.” You mention off-handedly.

He doesn’t look up immediately.

“No,” then, after a beat, “just paid attention when it happened to my younger sister.”

The chair beside his desk appears the following week without announcement, and nobody would have thought much of it if it hadn’t immediately become the place you end up during breaks, sitting with Milo while trying to breathe for a moment between lectures.

The first time it happens, you look at it uncertainly, hovering for a second too long before Mr. Barnes simply looks up from his papers and repeats, without hesitation, “Sit.”

He doesn’t speak much while you are there, but he doesn’t shut you out either. When you say something, he answers without looking up right away, usually just a few words before going back to what he is doing.

Sometimes you speak more loosely, just thinking out loud about how tired you are or how your day has gone, and he’d respond with a short comment or a quiet hum of acknowledgement. A bottle of water would be set within reach without comment, a granola bar placed beside your notebook as if it had been part of the desk arrangement from the beginning. When Milo squirms too much or reaches toward him from your lap, Mr. Barnes would take him without waiting for you to offer.

If he calms down, he would keep him there. If he starts fussing again, Mr. Barnes would walk a few slow steps around the desk area, still listening to your voice.

Most of the building has already emptied out, the usual echo of footsteps and distant conversations fading into a soft murmur. A new academic year has begun a few weeks earlier, bringing new classes, new students, and different routines to adapt to.

Kate is only passing through on her way back to the library after a quick coffee break when she notices that Professor Barnes’ office door isn’t fully closed, which in itself isn’t unusual during the day, but feels slightly different now, at this hour, when most doors have already been shut and locked into the night.

It stands ajar just enough to let the light spill out into the corridor in a thin line, and something about it makes her slow down without quite knowing why.

You are on the couch near the window, turned toward the coffee table, a stack of notes spread across your lap and the space beside you like you have tried to organize them into something manageable and then given up halfway. Your pen moves every so often, pausing in your fingers while your gaze drifts across the same line over and over again.

Milo is asleep against Professor Barnes’ chest, finally surrendered to exhaustion. One small hand is curled into the fabric of his white shirt as though even unconscious he has to make sure he’s still there.

Mr. Barnes is sitting beside you on the couch rather than at his desk, leaned back enough to give himself space while still holding your son securely, his other hand busy grading a stack of papers balanced across his knee.

Every so often his fingers adjust slightly against Milo’s back without looking down—small, automatic corrections that come too naturally, like his body has memorized the child’s weight by now.

Kate should have left then. Finding the three of you together isn’t particularly surprising. She has spent most of the previous semester sitting beside you, and after a while it became impossible to not notice things.

Mr. Barnes knew which songs made Milo stop crying, which foods he would immediately throw on the floor, and exactly how long he could sit through a lecture before getting bored. More impressively, he knew when you hadn’t slept. Kate had seen him arrive more than once, take a single look at you, and set a coffee beside your notebook before he’d even taken attendance.

She is ready to walk away, but Milo shifts.

A small movement, a restless ripple through sleep, followed by a soft whine tinged with the faintest edge of discomfort. His face tightens, brows drawing together, and his grip on Mr. Barnes’ shirt instinctively changes, fingers curling a little more firmly as if searching for something safe.

The Professor moves at once.

“Hey buddy,” he says quietly, voice dropping to a mere whisper. “It’s alright.”

He brings Milo closer against his chest, his other palm settling between the baby’s shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm. The papers on his knee remain untouched, his pen resting loosely between his fingers as he focuses entirely on the small toddler in his arms.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, almost absently. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

The tension leaves his body in gradual stages until there is nothing left, except the faintest lingering sound of his steady breathing. He doesn’t immediately go back to his task, instead gently leaning down to press a brief kiss to the top of Milo’s head.

That should have definitely been her cue to leave.

But Mr. Barnes stays like that for a moment longer, eyes on Milo as if confirming it has actually worked, then leans back into the couch.

“You are staring.” He mentions, but there is no edge to it.

You roll your eyes but it doesn’t land properly because there is still a soft smile on your lips. “You’re imagining things again.”

Mr. Barnes tilts his head just enough to look at you properly.

“Yeah?” He murmurs with a little amused smirk.

Milo decides to make a small sound in his sleep again, and Professor Barnes promptly glances at him, before looking back up.

At that point, his arm comes around your waist as he moves closer, pulling you in until your head lands on his free shoulder. His thumb brushes your belly once.

“You’re tired.” He mumbles.

“I’m fine.” Your answer is automatic, too quick.

That gets you a small, disappointed exhale from him.

“Hey.” He whispers, his fingers squeezing your hip once, causing you to slowly look up. Mr. Barnes just nudges his nose lightly against yours—an absent, almost teasing gesture that brings a hint of a smile on your pretty features.

Before you can open your mouth, though, he is already leaning closer, his forehead brushing against yours.

Your breath hitches at that, yet your hand still rises, cupping his jaw as your thumb lightly strokes the stubble on his cheek.

“What?” You whisper, softer now.

His eyes watch yours for a moment—shiny with exhaustion yet still so beautiful—then they flick down to your mouth, the lipstick from this morning now completely gone.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

The kiss is very different from the one you shared last night in your bed—a simple, warm press of lips that gradually deepens as the grip on your waist tightens in response to your cute, soft breaths. Your fingers curve more firmly against his face, holding him there as his mouth languidly move against yours.

The moment you slightly pull back, Mr. Barnes follows your lips once more, your faint giggle muffled against his mouth as he kisses you again, firmly.

His forehead rests on yours when he finally relents, his thumb gently stroking the sliver of skin that peaked out as the hem of your shirt shifted with you.

Your hands eventually wrap around his forearm, squeezing the muscle slightly before relaxing again. It’s only then that Mr. Barnes lets out a little relieved sigh as your head falls back on his shoulder and you finally allow your eyes to flutter shut.

Kate purses her lips in a poor attempt to hide her smile, and finally keeps walking.

— ⟢ END NOTES: I guess if I get better at this I might open requests for some of my stories! thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Perhaps it’s the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.

You’ve seen the videos — the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.

If ever given the chance.

But Gods work on mysterious ways…

It’s a buzzing Friday night in New York—bars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.

Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someone’s promotion, you don’t even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.

The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.

About you.

The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.

“It must be hard shopping for your style in your size.” Dani had drunkenly mocked.

“Summers have got to be hard on you.” Tiffany chimed in.

“Oh be nice to her. She just has more to love.” Frank laughed.

You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.

You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.

Slamming the last of your drink, you didn’t even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.

The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.

Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.

Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.

The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.

But it’s the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.

You can’t help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, who—even through his helmet—looks over the conversation.

Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels it’s going to drop out your pussy.

You take a step forward and then freeze. He’s huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?

Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.

Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.

You’re frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.

“You’re still here? We thought you left!” Dani pokes your arm.

You snatch it out of reach, glaring, “I was getting an uber.”

Frank materializes on the other side of you, “why are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Don’t be so sensitive.” He nudges Tiffany. “Right? We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”

The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, “yeah!”

You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.

He’s swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.

The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, “Need a ride?”

Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.

He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.

Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.

His eyes shift to the three people by you, “You know them?” His left index finger wiggles between them.

You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you don’t know these people. They’re just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, “No. I don’t know them.”

They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.

Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, “She’s with me.”

You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize he’s leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.

Mystery Man climbs on the bike, “I don’t have an extra helmet on me. I wasn’t expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,” and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.

You’ve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good you’ve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.

He’s hot. Not as in oh he’s hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.

Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.

When you don’t take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, “You can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.”

Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and can’t stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.

He licks his lower lip, “How’s it fit?”

“A bit big, but feels good.” You wink.

The man groans, “Jesus Christ.”

His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, “Actually, it’s-“ you give your name.

He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, “Bucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.”

And oh do you.

her name is maisie. soft and old-fashioned, just like simon loves. simon chose the name when he found her waddling around a dirty alleyway with trash stuck in her fur, searching for scraps. feeling pity for the little thing, he knelt down, held out a hand, and she barrelled to him without hesitation, like she'd been waiting her whole life for him to save her.

or maybe she'd been waiting to save him.

maisie's old now. muzzle's greyed along the edges, she runs a little slower when she's helping simon around the farm, a contrast from when she and simon were an unstoppable pair on duty in the force, taking down enemies swiftly and saving civilians in need. maisie'd trained with him. sniffing bombs, doing rescues, the works. maisie'd saved people from drowning, tugged civilians out from under rubble, found a hidden trapdoor rigged with explosives during a mission.

she'd jumped in the way between simon and a man with a sleek machete once and took a slice to her cheek, but she didn't mind at all. as long as simon was okay.

"stupid girl," he'd said, dabbing the whining pup's cheek with a warm washcloth those years ago. "shouldn't fight all m'battles for me. 's not fair you get hurt in place of me when i can handle it a lot better than you," she'd given him a playful head nudge and licked his cheek.

simon's not a sentimental man, not with most things, but when maisie's brought up in conversation, like when johnny goes, "oi LT, how's that pup of yours doin'? been a while since she's been on base," simon's voice always softens to talk about her. he scratches behind her ears much gentler than he did when she was younger, and if she's having a bad day, he'll carry her upstairs to sleep at the foot of his bed. no one, not even johnny, mocks him for it. why would they mock simon for adoring something so purely?

maisie still always perks up when simon comes home, tail slow and thumping against the floor and ears perking at the sound of the lock clicking, and she walks over to where he's entering and yips happily at her best friend. he always kneels to her, drops what he's holding to pet her cheeks. "there ya are, lil' miss. always know when i'm home. still got y'wits about you, hm?"

maisie was simon's first girl.

you were simon's second. first, a cute girl at a pub, then the girl he was dating, then his girlfriend, fiance, and finally, best of all, his wife.

his beautiful, soft, clever, precious little wife. you're the only person alive who can make him nervous and flustered. he's been trying and failing to get those horrible flips in his stomach to relax whenever he's around you. worse is the raging hard-on he'll get whenever you do the most menial, everyday tasks.

and your voice. the way he'd be in the house finishing up some work before he joins you for the night, when you'd stand by the doorway of the bedroom in a sheer, tiny robe and purr, "come to bed, baby, haven't seen you all day…" oh he's going to ruin you.

you're his everything. his home, safe place. he'd give up everything if it meant you'd never get hurt a day in your life. it kills him every time he has to leave you behind, when you stand on the porch of the pretty farmhouse you share, wrapped in one of his shirts with the sleeves swallowing up your hands and you look up at him with a forlorn expression that breaks his heart.

when he tells you through a letter that he'll be coming home soon, you wait in the kitchen with the windows open in one of the little dresses he bought for you with a feast prepared for him. the hem sways around your thighs as you pace the kitchen barefoot, glancing toward the gravel drive every few seconds.

maisie's paws patter gently across the hardwood as she follows you from counter to window to front door, tail wagging slowly like she knows he's coming. when the sound of tires crunching over gravel finally comes, you freeze. maisie perks up with a quiet huff and makes her way to the door, giving a single excited bark to tell you her best friend has arrived. you wipe your shaky hands on your skirt and rush onto the porch with excitement, just in time to see him climb out of the car.

simon, despite looking tired, is ecstatic to see you. there's a shiny glint in his eyes and a soft smile he reserves for you. he's broader from months in the field, tan and scruffed with deep shadows under his eyes. regardless, they light up when he sees you.

his shoulders drop in relaxation as he rushes toward you without pause, boots thudding on the earth, gaze locked on you. he scoops you into his arms so swiftly that you're lifted off your feet. you wrap your legs around him as he kisses your lips intently, then your cheeks and neck; he can't get enough of you. it's always like this, overwhelming at first because he needs to make sure you're real. he leans back just enough to take a look at you.

"look at you, lovie. been takin' care of yourself while i was gone, haven't you? look s'beautiful."

then, as if it physically hurts him to pull away, he finally releases you and crouches by maisie, who's been waiting for her turn with simon, wagging her tail with a slow, happy rhythm. he kisses her muzzle like always, then leans his forehead against hers, whispering, "missed y' too, old girl."

sometimes simon can't believe he's made you his wife. you, the kindest, most beautiful creature on the planet, is mrs riley. he's yours, every bit of him all belongs to you.

he adores you so much it's almost sickening. he wakes up before you and just stares, fingers brushing your cheek, neck, and soft hair, pupils dilated and heart thudding in his chest just from being near you. he has the physical reactions to you that he had when he first started dating you. in fact, they might've grown stronger.

maisie's his best friend, yes, but you're his whole world. but, there's one more girl.

one left, one small, soft girl nestled in his wife's tummy, tucked safe and sound inside you. you're pregnant with his daughter.

when he found out, he didn't speak right away, you'd been sick for a few days prior to taking the pregnancy test, and he'd thought you'd just had a cold, but the morning sickness and hormonal imbalance and missed period had been enough symptoms to get you to check. besides, he'd... been filling you up a lot more recently. you'd ran out of condoms and birth control kept making you sluggish and queasy, so you'd told him it was fine. told him you'd track your cycle, and that it wouldn't happen, not if he pulled out in time. but simon had been greedy.

simon's always fucking greedy. he can't get enough of you, your taste, scent, his cock nestled in you to the hilt, your soft gasps and breathy moans. simon would nod, swear he'd be careful and that he'd pull out, but when you're wrapped around him, skin to skin and he's so close and so deep, and murmur, "mmh! inside, simon please," with your big, shiny eyes, all his restraint flies out of the window and he'd fill you to the brim with his cum.

so it wasn't really a surprise, but when the test turned positive, and you'd shown him the faint pink line, he'd stared in silence, then took it from your shaking hands with a strange expression, thumb brushing the edge of the little piece of plastic like it was something holy. then he knelt by your tummy, hands cupping you, and asked, "you're sure?"

" 'm... 'm sure si,"

your daughter started showing as a little curve at first. simon noticed quickly. he noticed everything about you, especially now. how you got sleepier during the day, how you started getting cravings, how your hands kept wandering to your belly.

he can't keep his hands off you because he's so obsessed with the way your skin's glowed more from your pregnancy, how your hips and thighs and breasts plumped up, how your belly grew swollen with his child. "morning, little miss," he'd whisper to the bump, "you treat your mum nice, yeah?" you'd hum sleepily in response, threading your fingers through his hair.

maisie's noticed your state too. she's been extremely protective over you, curling up to your side in bed.

the first time the baby kicked, simon was sitting behind you on the couch, one hand on your stomach and he felt it, a tiny push under your skin, simon just blinked and then looked down at your belly with surprise. "she's sayin' hello," he murmured hoarsely, "little bugger knows her old man's home."

when you go into labor months later, it's late into the night. your water breaks after you've been in deep discomfort the last few weeks and aching to get this baby out of you. you knew it was tonight too. you and simon had been sitting awake tensely until now.

he sits up immediately, extremely alert, and scoops you up into his arms. he's terrified, truly, but is being strong for you as he rushes you to the front door while you whine and beg for him to hold you and not let go of your hand no matter what. "i know, wifey, i know, got you. you're safe."

maisie sensed it too. before he can put you in the truck, she scrambles to the door with the two of you. her tail lashes back and forth slowly, gaze locked onto you with her head tilted. she thinks you're in pain and wants to help simon protect you. simon nods to her, wanting to make sure she understands. "easy, girlie. you watch the house. i'll bring your mama back with the new little one, i promise."

at the hospital, simon praises you all throughout your labor, hand petting your hair softly. "y'doin' so good, baby. you've got her. you're almost there. just a bit more, yeah? that's it, that's my girl." even though he believes in you, hearing you in pain is making him genuinely distressed.

when you finally get your daughter out of you later, he stiffens and squeezes into your hand, staring at the wailing little girl being transferred into your arms. simon's eyes flood with tears and he just stares in disbelief at his daughter.

she's got the tiniest fingers, already curled into fists, and this soft little tuft of hair and lungs stronger than anything he's ever heard. simon leans over the two of you, cheek pressed to your head, hand shaking as he touches his baby's back. "look at her, lovie. look at her."

he sniffles softly, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hand and leaning closer to his child, who's slowly quieting down. "hi, sweet girl," he whispers, voice hitching as he strokes her hair. "I'm your dad. I'm your bloody dad."

when they go home, maisie is waiting at the door, tail wagging slow and anxious. she sniffs the bundle in your arms once simon lowers it close to her face. "gentle, mase," you remind her softly, letting the pup nose at your daughter's tiny sock covered feet.

"that's your sister," simon tells her softly. "you're gonna help us look after her, yeah?" you smile at simon and lean into his side, while simon's eyes flit between the three of you - at his old girl, still loyal and sweet, and his wife, the loveliest thing he's ever laid eyes on, and this soft little baby in his arms who already owns his whole heart. he feels so full. warm. safe, and at peace.

maisie gets to see two whole years of that baby grow.

two years of your daughter's tiny hands petting her head and grabbing her ears, of hearing giggles when she wagged her tail, or lazy sunday mornings of you and simon cuddled up with the baby between you, and her at your feet, watching quietly.

maisie's patient. she always has been, but something changed when the baby came. maisie understood her role in your and simon's life was changing. she was meant to stay a little longer in your lives to make sure everything was as it should be. long enough to be the baby's first friend.

"do-gee!" the little one would chirp, toddling after maisie on chubby legs, arms outstretched. maisie would just thump her tail and let the baby crawl all over her. simon has so many photos of them cuddling, in the backseat of the truck with your daughter beside her mid nap, of them playing, sharing toys, and more.

maisie showed the baby the farm grounds too, told the other animals to be gentle with the new tiny human and to keep watch over her like she once did. she didn't forget about spending time with simon, even if she was preoccupied with the baby a lot of the time too. she wanted to make sure her final days were with him.

even though the old girl's hips had stiffened, and the greys on her muzzle had spread to her chest, she still went with him every morning during rounds. across the fields, past the barn, through the fence line where the cows gathered. her gait is slower, more careful, but always determined.

until one morning. the sun was just coming up, you were still asleep, your (now) two year old asleep in your arms. he was up early like usual, wanting to go check the farm like usual on the drizzling morning after having his morning tea. he whistled by the door. "c'mon, mase. let's check the fences."

she didn't come. at first, simon thought maybe she was just slow to rise. but after several minutes with no response to her name and no sight of her anywhere near the porch or in the house, he grew worried. simon jogged out to the side field outside of the cow pasture where wildflowers grew, dewy from the rain.

and there she was, curled in a patch of daisies. her head rested softly on her front paws, eyes closed, like she was just asleep. but not breathing. maisie always let out little puffs of air and quiet snores when she slept.

simon couldn't move for a moment, frozen in place. he'd known that maisie's time was coming soon, but deep down, he hadn't accepted it. he thought she'd be with him forever.

he dropped to his knees in front of her. "...mase."

...

"mase?" simon touched her side, his hand shaking so hard it barely made contact, and there was nothing.

maisie, his girl, his first girl, was gone. in the flowers, the morning light, like she'd chosen that spot on purpose. she didn't want to make it hard for him, or you, or the little one. she went outside to die in peace.

simon pressed his forehead to her and sobbed.

he buried her right under the flowers. you were there, hugging simon quietly after he laid maisie to rest. your daughter didn't really understand, but held your hand and toddled up to the mound of soil curiously. after you told her maisie wasn't going to be around anymore, she said, "do-gee sleeping?"

simon nodded, throat too tight from the need to sob. he can't muster any words right now, because if he opens his mouth, he'll break down. so you take over. you pet your daughter's hair, pointing to the grave quietly. "mhm, right under there, baby. can't wake her, okay? she's gonna nap for a long time." your daughter nods, placing a daisy at the head of the mound and holding your hand as the three of you walk back to the house.

its hard for simon to break habits. he keeps reaching for maisie's ball and her stick with the intention of calling her to play outside, and reaching his hand out to the foot of the bed when he's half asleep so maisie can headbutt his palm. though he has his baby girl and his wife, a piece of him got laid to rest when maisie passed. a piece curled up forever in that field of flowers, resting after a job more than done.maisie held on just long enough, and when she knew they were safe, really safe, she let go. the quietest of goodbyes. simon will love her for the rest of his life.

see more in my cod masterlist!

see more in my main masterlist!

you finished using the restroom and went to the sink. you washed your hands and met simons eyes in the mirror. "sleep well?" you asked.

simon hummed, bringing an arm up to his tummy. he was trying to hide himself from you. "me too, you're so comfy." he didn't expect you to say that. he didn't respond to you, only staring at you as you fixed your hair.

"do you notice anything different?" he suddenly asked after a few seconds. you turned around to look at him. your eyes went from his head to his toes. "hm... you shaved?"

simon nodded. "oh, um yes, but that's not what i meant. anything else different?"

you studied him for a minute and frowned. "i don't see anything."

simon stared at you for a second. did you really not notice the pudginess of his tummy? it was so obvious.

"you dont see anything? really?" he asked one more time.

"other than you looking more healthier and brighter, no, i dont."

healthier and brighter, that's what you thought of him. he did notice his eyes starting to brighten up. he was getting the rest he needed. even his scars were getting softer after you made him put moisturizer on them so they wouldn't get dry.

"why are you asking?" you asked softly, hands coming up to his waist. he tensed under your touch and you felt it.

simon didn't say anything for a bit. his eyes were everywhere except you when he said, "you don't notice the fat i've got?"

you look at his tummy. honestly, you found it adorable. he was finally relaxing and letting himself live.

you shrugged. "not really. whats wrong with a little weight gain anyway?"

simon frowned. "you used to compliment my body when i was fit. i guess i just...i guess i thought maybe you didn't like my body anymore now that it's more softer."

you laughed. not in a mean way but in a you're-an-idiot-but-i-love-you type of way.

your arms wrapped around his middle tightly. "i love your softness. it's like a pillow. it's even better because it's you. a little weight gain isn't gonna stop me from loving you, si."

he felt relieved. he rested his hands on your cheeks and smiled. "i'm still hot?" you laughed and nodded. "very."

“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.