sashaisready

[sashaisready]

The Domestic Clause Masterlist

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

[sashaisready]

Right. And she’s not convinced anyway, she thinks this is just Lance wanting what he can’t have. Chris seems to be hiding something! Let’s hope things get clearer.

Feel The Burn: Chapter 12

Lance Tucker x Reader | Destroyer!Chris x Reader

Series Masterlist

Your casual situationship with notorious flirt Lance Tucker comes to a shocking head at a party, fortunately the mysterious stranger you meet that same night is more than happy to help take your mind off it.

Wordcount: Approx 3.1k

I know, I know. It's been a while, sorry. I struggled to get the dialogue right in this chapter (and I'm still not entirely convinced). Hope you enjoy it, it's all revving up now! As always, thank you for any comments/reblogs - your engagement is so appreciated.

Your phone alarm buzzes so loudly that it feels outright hostile, cruelly yanking you from your slumber. You swipe it closed and sigh as you sit up in bed, sleepily wiping your eyes. Chris is slumped facedown next to you, the sheets falling haphazardly around his waist. You take a moment to admire his broad back, the way his biceps are emphasised by how he grips the pillow. What a sight to wake up to. Suddenly, this rude awakening doesn’t seem so awful.

He lets out a low groan from next to you without moving his head up, his hand clutching at your waist as he attempts to pull you back down with him.

“Too. Early.”

His voice is muffled by the pillow, but it sounds even more gruff and scratchy than it normally does.

“Sorry, handsome, gotta open the café,” you reply gently, your fingers brushing over the soft fuzz of his hair.

“Mmph. Nope. Sorry everyone, no coffee today…” comes the faint response through the pillow.

You grin, bending to kiss his crown. “I’m not sure my customers would be very understanding if the café stays closed because I couldn’t leave your bed…”

“They’ll survive…Caffeine is bad for you, anyways,” he jokes.

He grunts and turns over to finally look at you, his eyes are a little bit red…bloodshot. You feel a pang of guilt at waking him at this early hour, now you know that he doesn’t sleep well. The thought takes you back to last night…finding him drinking from that bottle…the strange feeling in the air…Your body tenses at the memory…you scrub it away quickly.

Instead, you focus on the early morning sunlight, the way it sneaks in through the window and frames Chris perfectly. It almost looks like a shot in a movie, so perfectly lit.

“Sorry to wake you,” you whisper as you trace his cheek with your fingers.

He smiles crookedly, hooking his hand in with yours. “I always want you to wake me. You’re my favourite thing to wake up to”.

You smile back at him, “wow, corny”.

That earns you a smile in return, the kind that lights up the room. You’ve seen it many times now, but still feel a flutter of excitement every time he shares it with you.

“It’s true…” he kisses your cheek, “you have no idea how perfect this is. Waking up with you in my bed”.

You nuzzle your face into his and the two of you share a sweet kiss, basking in the peace of the moment and trying to extend it for as long as you can. You internally curse yourself for not having the foresight to arrange for one of your employees to open up today, you could have spent the morning tied up in bedsheets and the arms of a handsome man, instead of drowning in coffee grounds and pastry crumbs. A lesson for the future, now that you have a boyfriend.

Your boyfriend! You’re almost giddy, feeling like a teenager again. You can’t wait to tell Kat and the others.

You shower while he retreats under the sheets, and when you emerge from the bathroom the steady drone of his breathing suggests he’s dropped back off to sleep. You change as quietly as you can, doing your best not to disturb him. After you’ve gotten ready, you gently peel the sheets back and find him sound asleep, feeling a rush of relief that he’s able to get a little more shut eye before he gets down to the auto shop later.

You plant a light kiss on his cheek and tuck him back in, essentially tiptoeing out of the door so that he doesn’t wake. Your smile stretches across your face as you head to the café, you must have been doing it for longer than you realised as your cheeks almost ache. You’re just so happy.

Happy.

🏍️

You’re lucky enough to find a white blouse that you’d stashed in the office at Filter and Foam. The large collar hides Chris’ possessive display from the night before far better than the top you’d packed for that morning. You look at yourself in the small mirror affixed to the office wall as you button it from the bottom-up, turning your head to see the marks peek up from the base of your neck and decolletage. You can’t help but giggle to yourself as you relive the memory, tracing them with your fingertip one by one before they disappear under the fabric.

“When you’re at work tomorrow…the customers having no idea that I’m all under your clothes like this…” his words echo in your ears as you bite your lip, the excitement of your shared secret giving you a small buzz.

You snap a quick picture of yourself before the blouse hides (most of) the damage. It’s a risqué shot, not something you’d normally send due to your anxieties about revenge porn and photos falling into the wrong hands – but you’re caught in the moment, and you trust Chris. You like that you’re bolder with him, feeling electrified by the excitement.

You shoot it over to Chris’ number before you can talk yourself out of it, a giggle escaping as you set your phone down on the desk and get ready to open the café. It buzzes almost immediately, and you grin as you pick it up, seeing Hot Chris light up your phone screen. It feels somehow wrong to change his name in your contacts now, even if it is a little silly that your boyfriend is listed as such.

Don’t tempt me, I’ll be straight down there to finish the job…

You feel your face flush, your fingers trembling slightly as you reply. You squeeze your thighs together.

I don’t think there’s any space left…

Your phone buzzes again.

Trust me, I’ll find some. Have a good day, princess, and if any customers give my girl any shit – send them my way…

You grin at the screen, the ‘my girl’ etching itself into your brain and getting comfortable there. You could get used to this.

You send him good wishes for his own day and resume opening duties, a spring in your step as you get ready to start the day.

🏍️

Later at home, you sink into the couch and exhale as your head hits the cushion.

What a day. Today was relentless.

There are always the breakfast and lunch rushes, but can you really call something a ‘rush’ if it doesn’t stop?

Normally you get a flurry of customers first thing in the morning - getting their coffee and breakfast sandwiches, a muffin or a smoothie…but usually it settles down by mid-morning, and you get a chance to clean up and prepare for lunch. But today? Just non-stop. A steady thrum of people in and out all day long.

You know you shouldn’t complain, the store took an unprecedented amount of money today – and hopefully it’s a good sign that you’re winning more business against the competing coffee shops in the area.

But you also hadn’t anticipated this – so hadn’t put as many staff on the schedule as you needed, which meant everyone was flat-out. The lack of down time meant you didn’t get to clean as you went as thoroughly as you usually do, so the café was a mess by closing. As the boss - you knew it was your job to fix it, so you sent your exhausted team home. You stayed behind late to fix everything up yourself, fantasising about the team of animals Cinderella had to help with her chores.

So of course, you were dead on your feet by the time you arrived back, significantly later than usual. You had no energy to cook so had ordered food to be delivered, pouring a glass of wine to help unwind. You feel slightly guilty as you’re trying to cook more and not use the ‘I’m tired’ excuse to order takeout, but frankly, today was an exceptional case.

You snap a picture of your glass of wine and send it to Chris, moaning about the day from hell. He replies with all the right sentiments, as he always does, and you felt a little better. At least Marina is opening tomorrow so you can sleep in and catch up on some much-needed rest.

You close your eyes as you rot on the couch and waited for your food to arrive. You almost drift off to sleep when the doorbell pulls you back to reality a few minutes later.

“Coming,” you call out as you get up and head to the door. You hadn’t realised how hungry you were until the imminent prospect of food leaves you salivating.

You swing the door open, and your eyes bulge out of your head as you reveal the delivery driver.

…Except it’s not the delivery driver standing outside your front door. It’s a bright blue jacket that you’d know anywhere. Equally bright blue eyes stare back at you, their intent unreadable as your mouth falls open.

“Lance?” you sputter in disbelief as your brain struggles to take in the scene. You have a brief, wild second where you wonder if he’s taken on food delivery as a side hustle. Because why else-

“I need to talk to you,” he says sternly, pulling you from your thoughts.

He smoothly moves past you, walking purposefully inside as he leaves you slack-jawed and standing uselessly at the open door.

“Come right in…” you mutter sarcastically as you close the front door and follow the sudden intruder into your living room.

“Look Lance, I don’t have time for whatever this is. I have food coming and-”

“We need to talk,” he interrupts humourlessly as he turns to face you. You scoff incredulously at his arrogance, as if for him barging into your home is just business as usual.

You look at him then, really look at him properly since the surprise of finding him on your doorstep. It wasn’t immediately obvious, but suddenly you spot the signs that all isn’t well. His normally perfectly coiffed hair looks like its dropping from its usual hold, a few strands breaking free of the expensive product you know he uses. The t-shirt under his jacket is wrinkled and creased, but you know he doesn’t even leave the house without all his clothing carefully starched and pressed. Most damning of all, there are bags under his eyes – not a usual accessory for the man who will happily cancel plans to ensure he gets at least 8-10 hours of sleep every night.

“Are you okay?” you ask, a little concerned now. “Is it your mother, did she stop taking her pills?”

Lance may be an asshole, but something is definitely wrong for him to show up like this out of the blue…and looking like that. They may be small details that aren’t a big deal to many, but you once witnessed this man fixing his hair before answering the door to an Amazon driver. Annoyingly, you know him too well.

He sighs heavily and you gesture to the couch. He plops down onto it, and you join him, your brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’m sorry to just show up like this,” he mumbles quietly. “I just…I need to get this out. And my phone is still blocked so…”

You grit your teeth; you’d actually intended to unblock him after the strange truce that led to the two of you being ‘friends’. But you had been so busy with Chris and work…and his words to you the last time you saw him echo in your head…

“…he should be doing nothing less than fuckin’ worshipping you, anything else is bullshit and you know it!”

Maybe part of you didn’t want to unblock his number. Keep that door closed, as it were.

Lance doesn’t seem discouraged, looking at you almost forensically. It’s disarming to see him looking so serious, you’re so used to his mirth and apparent inability to tackle anything sincerely that this is jarring. You feel itchy, uncomfortable to be the subject of such a look.

“Lance, what is this…” you ask as you shift in your seat.

“I’m sorry,” he spits out.

“Sorry…?” you echo.

“For all of it. I wanna explain…”

You blink, bewildered.

He continues, his eyes fixed on the floor. Like he can’t face you. “That night at the party…I owe you an explanation.”

You look down at your hands, your discomfort evident. You’d done so well to move on and banish that evening from the forefront of your memory. Here he is dredging it all up again, as if picking at an old wound. Your shame burns your cheeks.

“Tuck, you don’t have to…”

“No, Cupcake,” he says firmly. “I do”.

He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Alright. Look. I need to say this. And I know you’re with Chris or whatever, but I need to get it out”.

You blink at him gormlessly, your fatigue simply not allowing you to take in all that is happening. What on earth is he talking about?

“I picked a fight with you at the party on purpose,” he admits softly. Shamefully.

Your eyes widen, surprised to actually hear him say the words out loud and confirm your suspicions. You weren’t going crazy – he really did blow up on you over nothing.

“Why?” you whisper, your voice slightly wobbly. “And why did you sneak out like that, and ignore me all week? What did I do wrong?”

He finally looks at you then, his eyes big and searching, like he can’t bear for you to think that. He clutches your hand almost instinctively, then drops it quickly, like it burns him. “You didn’t do anything, Cupcake, I’m sorry. It was all me…”

You gesture in anger, frustrated by his vagueness, the lack of clarity – it’s creating more questions than answers. This is a lot to take in when you’re already so exhausted.

“What are you talking about?!” you snap.

He sighs heavily and his eyes leave yours once more. “I had a…an epiphany, I guess. That morning I left…I woke before you did. You were sleeping so peacefully, nestled under my arm. It just felt so….”

He trails off…circling a hand in the air as if the words are there for him to find.

“…so right,” he continues. “So right. So…meant to be. I…I freaked out. I panicked…”

You glare at him, mouth pulled into an incredulous sneer as you try to absorb what he’s telling you.

“It was only ever meant to be casual. We both agreed that…” he sighs. “And yeah, it was…at first. But I started thinking about you more and more. You’d creep into my head at the weirdest times, sneak up on me. And then eventually…I didn’t want to see anyone else. Be with anyone else. Stopped going on dates with other girls. I’d only think of you when I was with them, anyway. Being with you…it was the only time things felt…quiet…right. Like the noise finally stopped”.

You feel nauseous, your head spinning. It feels like a bomb has gone off in your brain. The things he’s saying are painfully familiar…that’s how you used to feel about him. The fact that he was having those same thoughts? At the same time? You don’t regret that this series of events brought you to Chris, but still couldn’t deny the pang of regret you felt that neither you nor Lance had spoken up back then. What might have happened? What may have been different?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

“I’m not proud of it,” he sniffs as he looks down. “But it…it, uh, scared me. It was…overwhelming”.

You stiffen at his confession. You’ve never seen him like this. He seems…lost. Smaller, somehow. All of that bravado stripped away. Seeing him vulnerable is so jarring, so against everything you know as ‘normal’, it’s like the world has tipped off its axis. Cocky, asshole Lance is what you know, it’s familiar and recognisable. Exposed Lance? It’s unnerving. Unchartered territory.

“I didn’t know how to deal with those feelings,” he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, his voice is soft, quiet. “Didn’t want to pull that thread. So…I ran. I thought putting space between us would be easier. If I pushed you away…if you hated me, it would be easier to move on, squash those feelings…”

You swallow, a little hurt by his admission but that type of protective response isn’t entirely alien to you. Looks like you and Lance have avoidance in common…

“But…I fucked up. I knew it immediately. And when I tried to fix it…you’d blocked my phone number. Which was fair…And Kat told me to fuck off, correctly, when I asked her about you. And so, I decided the only way to fix it was to go to the coffee shop to see you. I knew your shift pattern, so I came down…I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. I just knew I needed to see you, and that you being mad at me was the worst thing in the world. No, actually, you being hurt by me was the worst thing in the world. Mad I can handle”.

You keep your eyes trained on a spot of lint on the carpet, doing your best to ignore the fire at the edges of your waterline.

“…but you were there with Chris. And I knew it was too late…”

You’re so still, frozen on the spot as you try to disentangle his words. The sound of your blood pumps deafeningly in your ears.

He pauses, anxiously rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I’m not trying to mess things up for you, or for Chris, alright Cupcake? I want you to be happy. Whatever that might look like. Can…can you just look at me, please?”

Your head feels like a deadweight, but you reluctantly manage to lift your face up to meet his eyes. They’re blazing, devastating, all-encompassing. You fight the instinct to look away.

He pauses, studying your own eyes like he’s committing them to memory, before he speaks again.

“I just…I needed to tell you this. I did those things because…it’s you. It’s always been you. I know now that I made the biggest mistake of my life. I shouldn’t have been a pussy and buried my head in the sand. But I couldn’t go another day without telling you the truth. At the very least, at least I can go to my grave knowing I was finally honest about how I feel, even if all it gets me is a kick in the balls and a wad of spit in my face,” he smiles sadly, “so…now you know…”

He looks at you expectantly, but you’re too dumbstruck to think coherently.

“Say something. Anything, Cupcake”.

Your throat is suddenly bone-dry, but you open your mouth to speak.

🥇

[sashaisready]

Dark, eerie but gorgeous. Loved it

What The Sea Takes

Pairing: Pirate!Bucky x Siren!Reader

Summary: You’ve lured men to their graves and turned death into an art for centuries. And when Captain Barnes comes along, you don’t hesitate to take him and claim him as your own.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: drowning; possessiveness; reader is unhinged; supernatural coercion (siren song as compulsion); obsession; manipulation; immortality themes; predatory behavior; siren magic; loss of control; dark seductive themes; implied death; not exactly a happy ending, I guess (at least not for poor Bucky)

Author’s Note: So, here’s a random little one-shot that’s been haunting the corners of my brain until I finally gave in and wrote it down. Fair warning though, it definitely is unhinged and doesn’t end particularly well, I guess, but it felt kinda right. If I were a siren, this would probably be my truest form, if I’m gonna be honest with you people lmao. I mean, who wouldn’t be obsessed with Bucky when he’s just so deliciously passing your ocean. Anyway, dive in if you dare. I hope you enjoy the ride ♡

Masterlist

You have lived in the lungs of the sea for centuries.

You were born from the ruins of a shipwreck, your first lullaby a bubbling wail downed by salt. The ocean draped herself around your throat and taught you how to sing.

You learned quickly. You always learn quickly.

You have kissed the spines of billion shattered hulls and rusting anchors, and danced with the splinters of forgotten fleets.

You have cradled the skulls of men who dreamed and believed they could own the tide and conquer your waves.

Foolish things. Pretty things.

You have pressed your mouth to their pulses, to the thrum-thrum-thrum of hearts still beating, believing, breaking.

You sang them down down down until their breath bloomed bubbles, and the bubbles bloomed pearls, and the pearls rolled soft and silver into your palms. You wear them around your neck like proof you don’t need.

Your sisters laughed with teeth like coral and eyes like dark pools. You built a kingdom of bones with them. A palace of jawlines. Thrones made of ribs and rings and wreckage. Crowns that still scream.

You are the sea and also what lives beneath it.

You are the breath that stops.

The shroud of calm that follows.

The shape of something hungry, just out of sight. Just under the hull. Just behind the smile. Waiting. Anticipating.

They call it darkness. You call it home.

You are a song with no words and too many teeth.

You are what the water remembers.

You are sharp-toothed and starved for the men who think they own the waves.

And they come in ships bloated with gold and rot and names that sound like violence. They leave only screams. You watch their shadows wobble across the surface - watch them mistake the sun for safety. Watch them pray.

They call you beautiful with their last breath, clutching at whatever of you they can reach.

They call you witch.

They call you mercy.

They call you god.

You do not care.

You live with the taste of copper on your tongue. Your veins are strung with rust. You live with the hush-hush hush-hush of the current in your ears. You hum the sound of drowning like a nursery rhyme - melodic and intimate.

You are not salvation. You never were.

You are the ache. The bite. The pull.

You are what waits.

And you are so very, very hungry.

And then he comes.

You taste him before you see him.

A sharp sting, metallic and blooming. Like blood on bitten tongues. Like an old bruise torn open again, purple-red and weeping. He enters the ocean not with his body, not yet, but with his presence, and it ripples across your skin like something meant just for you. The water tingles with it. The salt thickens. The air charges, tender to the touch.

Algae snarls its fingers through your hair, drags it across your eyes like a blindfold made of brine and memory. You blink. Once. Twice. Peel back the veil of salt and shadow and rise - just enough - to see.

He stands at the prow of his ship as if it is all his own. As if it owes him something. As if the ocean is a woman he’s already named.

Foolish thing.

Arrogant thing.

Beautiful, breakable thing.

The sea laughs. You do too. Inside your mouth. Inside your bones. Because nothing belongs to men - not the tide, not the wind, not the hunger that lives just beneath their feet.

But he is different.

You know it. You smell it. You feel it.

His hair is long, rain-dark and unruly. The kind that remembers everything. His eyes are grey, but not soft - not gentle. They are the quiet kind of storm. The dangerous kind. The kind that crouches in the distance for days, until one day it decides it’s done waiting, and it shatters the sky into pieces.

You see the way he holds the ropes, like he’s been tied before. You see the way he watches the horizon, like it’s a place he lost something.

They call him Captain Barnes in voices too small for him. As if a name could hold him. As if he is not made of grief and black powder and something godless.

You taste his voice in the waves long before it touches your ears. It leaks into the ocean, in the darkness of the night, when the moon spills herself over your black sea. It’s laughter and war and sorrow braided together - thunder that’s learned to forgive itself.

You can feel the way your hunger shifts, snarling, broadening in places it never has before. It is no longer want. It is greed.

Your sisters croon, their mouths full of longing, sharp and sleek. Their wet hair floats like kelp across the surface. Their smiles are all blood and bone. They want to devour him, same as any other. They see a man.

But you see the monster beneath his skin.

And oh.

Oh, how you want him.

You hush your sisters with your eyes. Deep-dark eyes. Black as the pit of the sea. Eyes that have seen gods drown and empires decay.

You hush them because he is yours.

Yours.

They do not understand. They have not tasted what you have tasted.

You breach the surface a little further. Barely a breath. Barely a ripple.

And you take him in.

He is standing there - this man built of splinters and cannon’s breath - his silhouette sliced in half by moonlight. His shadow bruising the deck. He seems to think he’s silent, but his soul makes too much noise. Haunted by the past, swarming with what won’t let go. The pain he wears is not protection, only a worn cover extended thinly over something still achingly soft. So soft.

His loneliness is such a sweet sweet scent in the air.

He is a man made of something broken and terrible and beautiful. You taste the battle still raging inside his ribs. The fury. You taste the hunger you are about to become.

You want him.

You want him the way a riptide wants the shore - tenacious and ruinous and without apology.

The night envelopes the ship like a grasping hand. The water is black-glass and velvet. The sky pours stars over your skin.

Your sisters roll their shoulders in the water beside you, wet hair hanging around their ravenous eyes. Their mouths are split wide open with questions. They ask why you wait, why you do not sink your claws into him, why you do not taste his wrong devotion on your tongue.

But they do not understand.

He is not like the others.

He carries his ghosts and does not bow. He walks with weight and does not drown. He commands the storm without believing he controls it.

He is not praying. He is not pleading. He is not afraid.

And oh - how rare that is.

Most pirates who thread through your brine-drowned veins - captains most of all - wear their fear like a thicket of broken glass sewn into their skins. A suit of thorns and howling fire meant to blind and scare.

They clatter and clank, jamming their roars into the salt air with curses and bluster, hoping the sea will believe them. But beneath their swagger, beneath their showy glittering mask, you taste the piercing copper tang of panic and trembling bones bleeding quietly through the cracks. The smell of sour sweat sticking to their backs.

Their fear is a shy, cramped thing. But it wafts from them, suffocating, weaving into the air around their ships like a curse you’ve known since the first breath of salt in your lungs. It tastes like iron left out to rust in the rain, like the stale breath of drowned men who forgot to beg for mercy once under your spell, and like cracked leather that’s been worn too long and too hard.

You catch it in the spaces between their bravado - the nervous curl of their fingers around cutlasses, the hitch in the pulse beneath their ribs like a stone caught in a river’s throat. It slinks in their silence like a shadow licking at the edge of your fangs.

You have swallowed fear a thousand times, tasted its thin drip as it slides down throats.

But him? Captain Barnes.

There is no fear. Not the kind you can taste, not the kind you can smell in the sticky air around other men. The men of his pathetic crew.

You smell the cold burn of winter-metal singing against the bones of forgotten wars, and the faint rust of wild rain. It’s the taste of iron stars fallen to the ocean floor - cold and glitchy and impossible to pull free.

He smells like something eternal, the crease between two worlds, where night breathes slow and continuous, and time folds like something halfway cracked. His shadow feels less like absence and more like a note hanging in the air just before the song starts. The air around him is laden with a kind of stillness.

And it speaks louder than any cannon blast.

It calls to you.

You continue watching him and listen to him snarl orders like they’re gospel, voice low and gravel-rough, thick with ruin. It tears into your chest like a new kind of ache. You want to sink your teeth into it. Sleep inside it.

It is too much.

You have never known what too much meant before now. You never had a limit.

So you sing.

You do the only thing you know.

You part your lips. You crack open your chest.

And you sing.

You sing softly, at first.

A breeze of light and lunar glow. A whisper, a breath. Only the tip of a knife. Only the border of a dream. It licks against the wooden belly of his ship and slips beneath the hull like something alive, something with fingers and a mouth and a consciousness. It slithers up through the wood, into the ropes, into the marrow of the mast.

Your song. Yours. This one has a name stamped into your teeth, and you are learning how to ache.

Your sisters follow. They always do. Their voices are silver-threaded things, woven of mist and kelp and old hunger. Wind across the tide. Laughter caught in bone.

But your song is different. It is for him.

It slides over the waves with a target in mind. Like bruises thumbed gently in the dark. Like the hush-hush of a promise not spoken but kept.

You sing and the sea stills.

You sing and the moon trembles in her reflection.

You sing and the wind goes mute.

And then he looks.

Oh.

He looks.

Eyes resembling fractured steel, smudged with shadow, effortlessly piercing through the gloom. He discovers you right away. Floating in the waves beneath him. And when he does, a part of you crumples. Caves in. Transforms into something different. Not gentle. Not soft. However, accessible. Open.

Your heart - if it can still be called that - blooms. A dark flower. An obsidian ache. Petals made of longing and teeth.

You smile. And it is not kind. It is not safe. It is not for mercy. It is for him.

Your smile is greedy, your hair is the black curtain of the ocean’s darkness, slick and swirling in the water that will be his doom.

You let him see - just enough. The curve of your collarbone. The idea of skin. A flash of teeth that do not belong in any human mouth.

You let the song curl around his spine. Wrap fingers around his ankles. You sing the promise of forgetting. The promise of freedom. The soft lie of drowning in you.

He steps forward. Once. Twice.

They shout. They scream. They call to him and try to hold him back, but he shoves them out of his way. Men who know nothing of gods or monsters or the way a man breaks when he is chosen by both.

But he does not hear them.

He never looks away. Not from you. Not once.

His mouth is parted. His eyes are wide. He looks at you like you are the first beautiful thing he has ever seen. Like he has been waiting for you across a hundred lifetimes. Across wars and winds and wrong directions. Across a life that’s been cut too short.

He steps to the edge of the ship.

The world is only him now.

And then he steps off.

He falls.

And oh, how graceful he falls. As if he was made to do it. As if he had done it before. As if gravity was always meant to end in you.

You catch him.

Your claws hook into his shirt. Into the fabric. Into the fragile warmth of mortal skin. His chest is a furnace. His skin sings against yours. You feel the frantic thrum of life still trying to understand what is happening.

But he does not fight.

He does not swim.

His arms hang in the water. His mouth still open, a question unanswered. Eyes wide, glowing dimly in the fractured moonlight. Blue, bright, too bright for this dark.

You feel him shift against you, his body heavy in the water, but there’s no panic in him. He simply exists within you. And you can feel the change, the subtle shift in his bones as his mind swells with the truth of it.

He is yours.

His eyes, the color of a moonlit tempest sweep across your face in a fabricated wonder. His chest has stopped rising and falling, but it isn’t fear. No. It’s something deeper. Like a man who’s just realized he’s been drowning all his life, and now, for the first time, he is truly breathing. You always loved the irony.

He drinks you in, every inch of you, as if trying to build you up in his memory. But even that isn’t quite right - because he’s not remembering. No. He’s learning you. He is learning what it means to be alive in this dark, this depth, this eternity.

Your fingers find the place where his skin ends and where you begin, and you trace every curve, every scar with the gentleness of the tide washing over shore. His body jerks at your touch, but it’s not from pain - it’s a shudder of something monumental and uncovered.

A smile unfurls on his lips - drunken, just a glimmer of softness beneath the unyielding gloom that is his gaze. It’s not a smile of joy, not of mirth, but something else. Something divine. The kind of smile a man might wear when he’s finally come to understand what his heart was always meant for, what it was designed for.

He can’t speak, but there’s this look - this trembling awe in his eyes, like the very fabric of his world has been torn open, and what was inside it, the very truth of him, is staring back at him in the reflection of your face. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he raises a hand, tentative, testing, to touch your cheek, as if afraid to break you, to break whatever spell you’ve woven between the two of you.

But you do not break. You never will.

Your tail shifts beneath him, slow and fluid, pulling him closer. You bring his face to the curve of your throat, the skin just beneath your collarbone, and you can feel him trying to inhale the very essence despite him floating in the sea.

He presses his lips there, soft at first, then with more insistence, more hunger. The kiss is clumsy. Desperate. It isn’t a kiss - it’s something more like giving his soul to you, like he’s coming home to a place he’s never known, and yet somehow always has.

His hand slides up your spine, his fingers grazing over your ribs, over the bone and the flesh that holds all your secrets. You feel him tremble under your touch.

The heat of his palms sears against your skin. But it’s not pain. It’s wonder. It’s the same feverish devotion that dances in his eyes, that simmers beneath his gaze, as if every inch of him wants to drown in you, needs to drown in you, but isn’t sure where he ends and you begin.

You pull him under. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper still. Until the surface shatters into memory. Until moonlight fractures into ribbons. Until sound becomes silence and silence becomes you.

You take him into the cradle of your world. The deep. The quiet. The cold.

You taste him all around you in the water. His wonder. His surrender. His slow, delicious descent into you. And it is rapture. It is sinister. It is the beginning of something no language has ever dared describe.

You watch his breath burst from his mouth in a million bright bubbles. Ghosts. Little ghosts. Racing for a surface he will never see again. Each one a goodbye to air, to land, to everything.

You touch his face. He shudders.

You touch his jaw. His throat. His chest. His hands grasp your waist - slow, trembling. Without fear. Respectful. Like he’s caressing an artifact. A supplication. He embraces you as if he doubts your existence. If he rushes too fast, you’ll send him back up.

But you will never send him back up.

His lips are blue so press your mouth to his. And it is not a kiss. It is a claim. It is a ritual. It is the sea writing its name in his lungs. Salt and seaweed and the core of the sea dealing between your teeth. Fractures and sunken stars. The light of the ocean glinting between your teeth. You exhale into him - your breath to his, life passed between parted lips.

He gasps.

He clutches you tighter. His big hands - oh, his hands - explore with awe, with enchantment, with something too big for his chest. You are soft and unsoft beneath his fingers. He touches you like he might learn you by feel alone, desperate and gentle, all at once.

You drag your nails along his spine and he moans. The sound barely makes it past his throat, but you feel it, you devour it. He arches into you, into your mouth, like need, like he’s never wanted anything the way he wants this.

And in him - you see that war that never left. You see the ghost of a man who once tried to be good and broke himself in the process. The guilt. The boy who used to have big dreams. You see the wounds and the wonder and the weariness in his hands.

You see the softness. Still hiding. Still breathing. Still waiting to be held under all that rugged exterior.

He looks at you like you are holy.

And you are.

You are not a woman.

You are not a monster.

You are faith wrapped in water, in fangs, in song.

And he - this man, this captain, this creature built from hurricanes - he is yours.

You kiss him again, and this time it is slow. Wet and wanting. Mouths slanting, opening, meeting again and again like waves crashing against the same rock. You breathe into him, over and over, and his hands curl into your hair, into your shoulders, gripping like he’ll float away without you.

You let him.

You let him fall.

You let him worship.

Because you are not salvation.

You are not home.

You are not mercy.

You are everything else.

And now - so is he.

You take him deeper. Down down deeper.

Through the folds of the ocean’s hemline, past the graveyard of your own making.

Past the ships that cracked like eggshells. Past splintered wood and salt-rusted rings. Past the bones of the men who once were in his position, who believed the sea was a thing to tame.

Their skulls still shimmer. Their teeth still grin.

You take him past the silent cities - where coral grows like spires from the bones of old empires, where fish swim through windows of temples no god remembers, where seaweed whorls around crumbling statues like long-forgotten lovers.

You bring him to the darkness where your sisters wait. They shimmer in the distance, slick as moonlight and twice as cruel. Their hair fans around them like blood in a wound, their eyes flicker - green, then gold, then gone. Curious. Envious. Hungry.

They’ve already stolen from the others - Captain Barnes’s crew - dragged men into the deep by their heels, by their screams, by their softest memories. Some still twitch. Some still dream. One is singing back, his throat full of salt, hanging off your sister.

But this one-

This one is yours.

You tell them so with your teeth. You bare them like knives. Your song turns sharp in the current, an ancient sound, a bleeding warning. You hum the edges of your threat into the water until it stings. Until they feel it in their spines.

They drift back. They always do.

You take him where the sea bore you, where the water drifts gracefully and smooth, where the darkness is soft, where the light has never touched anything and nothing ever bleeds unless you make it.

Where even the ocean holds its breath.

You take him there, and he lets you.

He lets you.

You want to press your mouth to the scars on his chest, to bite the stories that hide under his skin, to learn him by taste. You want to drink down the gold in his gaze and see if it will light something inside you, something ruined, something lost, something that once might have been called a heart.

You want to know what it means to want.

Even here, in the ink-black calm of the deep, he is looking at you.

Still.

As if the dark can’t blind him. As if he were made to see you.

He moves closer still, if it’s even possible, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder, the tender edge of your jaw. His mouth is warm against the coldness of the water. Warm against the emptiness. Warm with life. His body, heavy with the weight of submission, presses against you as though he wants to burrow himself within you. To disappear completely. And you let him.

And that smile - it blooms again. It’s softer now. It stays at the corners of his lips, and you can see the exact moment he lets go of all the remnants of the world that tried to shape him. The chains, the wars, the grief. He lets them slip off his shoulders as though they were nothing more than feathers. He does not breathe, but he also does not panic. He is soft and dreamlike and blissful, and in its stead is this soft, agonizing adoration that pierces through you.

He kisses the hollow of your throat, the tender curve, and you shudder at the sensation, the heat blooming where his touch lingers. His devotion is as true as the sea, as fierce as the storm, as endless as the depths beneath you.

And you think perhaps this is not a death.

This is a beginning.

So you hold him.

You hold him close, to your chest, against your ribs, where your song begins.

And he goes still.

The bubbles of his last breath appear - without fear, without fight, with peace. He fits against you like something carved for your arms. Like a missing piece finally finding the place it was meant to rot.

Your hair floats around him, a crown of night. Your claws rest against his side, gentle as death. Your tail curls, sinuous and silent, wrapping around his legs.

And you think, mine.

And you think, forever.

And you think, he will not leave me.

You will keep him.

You are the sea and you will keep him.

You are the sea, and the sea keeps.

You will keep him even if it breaks him - piece by piece, until he is part of the sea, until he is part of you. You will shatter him slowly, like tide on cliffstone, until the edges smooth and he stops remembering how to be anything but yours.

You will teach him to breathe the dark.

To see with his skin.

To hear the heartbeat of leviathans and not flinch.

And when he opens his eyes again, you will sing your name into the hollows of his throat. You will plant it beneath his tongue. He will speak it in his sleep.

And he will love you.

Oh, he will worship you.

Because this is not enchantment. This is evolution.

He will not return to the land. He will forget the sun. He will forget his name. He will never leave these waters.

And when the men above wail into the night, searching for their lost captain - when their voices are hoarse with mourning and terror and blame - your sisters will only laugh, teeth red with the taste of the rest of his crew.

You will be waiting in the deep, on your throne of ribs and ruin, your fingers woven through his hair, your mouth against his jaw, your song in his blood.

Because you are a creature of the sea, and he is the first man you have ever wanted to keep.

And the ocean will be your witness.

Your altar.

Your kingdom of broken stars and stolen gods.

He is yours now.

Forever.

Because the sea does not return what it takes.

Because what the sea takes, it keeps.

It devours.

It loves in the oldest, cruelest way.

By never letting go.

“And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

[sashaisready]

Ahh what a pair of silly Billys! The classic ‘I thought this is what you wanted - wait I thought this what YOU wanted’ - one of my fave crossed wirers tropes! ❤️ enjoyed this a lot and I’m not even super into sport AUs ❤️❤️❤️

Skating the Line (2)

Pairing | star hockey player!bucky x curvy!reader

Word count | 14k words

Summary | You thought your time on the ice was over. As a former figure skater turned team physician, you landed a dream job with the world’s top hockey team, the last thing you expected was to be thrown back into the world you left behind— or to fall for the team’s star player.

James “Bucky” Barnes is everything you've sworn off: cocky, gorgeous, and dangerously charming. Your chemistry is instant, electric… and completely off-limits. But the more time you spend together, the harder it becomes to ignore the heat simmering beneath the surface.

He calls you Sunshine. You call him trouble. And when the line between professional and personal starts to blur, both of you will have to decide if you’re willing to risk it all for something real.

Tags | (18+) MDNI, hockey AU, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, oral sex, kind of enemies to lovers? friends with benefits, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, mild trauma, betrayal, emotional vulnerability, bucky barnes is a player, bucky barnes also has feelings

A/N | This is the outcome of my entry for @artficlly's spin the trope challenge. I got "hockey AU" and love confession

Part 1 | Part 2

It had been a brutal winter. The cold had started early and it was the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The rink was always freezing— standard for an ice rink— but this year it felt worse. Or maybe your body just wasn’t bouncing back the way it used to. Your arthritis had flared up real bad this time too. Worse than it had in years. Your meds weren’t doing enough, and it was your hands that suffered most. Swollen. Stiff. Sometimes too sore to grip a pen, let alone wrap a wrist or tape a stick.

You'd been forced to succumb to using steroids to manage your flares and it was showing in your appearance. You felt bloated and swollen all the time. But you’d gotten good at hiding it though. Or so you thought.

You were in the med bay alone when Bucky snuck in, fresh from his morning skate, hair damp and curling at the ends. He didn’t speak immediately. Just watched you, leaning against the doorframe as you struggled to twist the cap off a bottle of ibuprofen with stiff, aching fingers.

“Hey, Sunshine. Need help?” he asked, voice low and familiar.

You jumped a little, but didn’t look up, not wanting him to see your discomfort. “I’m fine.”

He stepped inside anyway, walked straight up to you, gently wrestling the bottle from your grip, and opened it like it was nothing. Then, to make matters worse, he pressed two pills into your palm and nudged a water bottle toward you.

“Fine,” he repeated, followed by a short huffed breath. “Sure.”

You hated how tender he was when you were alone like this. How easy he made it feel to lean on him. You hated it because it made you want things you weren’t supposed to want. So you swallowed the pills and said nothing. Because things were different when you weren't alone.

Now that his good deed for the day was done, you expected him to vanish, in search of the attention of his groupies. But he didn't move. Instead he waited a beat, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out— soft, navy blue, folded together.

“Here,” he said, pushing the item into your hands.

You frowned. “What’s this?”

“Compression gloves,” he said casually. “Thermal-lined. Still lets you do your doctor-y stuff without locking your fingers up.”

You blinked, caught off-guard.

“I noticed you’ve been shaking out your hands more between games,” he said. “And Jim’s guy from rehab swears by these. Figured it was worth a shot.”

You held the gloves in your lap, still speechless.

“I mean— unless you already have a pair—”

“I don’t.”

He nodded, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“You shouldn’t have,” you said, slowly, tracing your fingers over the delicate stitching. They looked high grade— expensive. 

He just shrugged. “Probably not. Did anyway.”

You stared at the gloves, warmth blooming in your throat.

You slipped one glove on. It hugged your fingers perfectly. Warmed them instantly. You flexed your hand, and the pressure felt… good. Supportive. Easing the ache without drawing attention to it.

You swallowed around the lump forming in your throat.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you murmured.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and shrugged like it was obvious.

“I did.”

Six months into this arrangement— this no-strings, no-feelings, no-hope-of-it-ever-being-more thing— and somehow, Bucky Barnes still knew exactly how to get under your skin. And exactly how to take care of it.

Which made it infinitely harder to pretend this was just sex.

The silence between you stretched again, thick and too full of things neither of you wanted to say out loud. So instead, you slipped on the second glove— just to have something to do with your hands.

Bucky watched the way your fingers flexed in them. Something in his jaw ticked.

“They fit okay?”

You looked up. “Yeah. They’re perfect.”

The corner of his mouth tugged, soft and proud. But he didn’t leave. Didn’t say anything else. And neither did you. Because the air had shifted. Like it always did when you were alone together. The first few times, it had been easy— frantic, breathless, wordless. A way to burn off tension. But lately… lately, it always lingered too long. Held too much weight.

Just like now.

Your eyes met and stayed locked. He moved first— slow and deliberate— almost like he was giving you a chance to stop him. You didn’t. You never did.

His hand came up, brushed your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb dragging across your skin.

“You look tired.”

You huffed a breath. “Thanks,” you answered with an eye roll

He smiled. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Then how?”

He stepped in closer, breath ghosting against your skin.

“Meant you look like someone who could use a distraction.”

You swallowed hard. “And you’re volunteering?”

“Always.”

Then he kissed you.

And that was it.

Your back hit the exam table, gloves still on your hands as they tangled in his hoodie. His mouth hot, impatient against yours. Familiar and greedy. He pulled your hips right up against his with a groan so salacious that it screamed of exactly the kind of distraction he had in mind. His hands inched under your top until he had enough purchase to shove it up, baring your soft stomach to the cool air. Goosebumps erupted over your skin, but his warm palms were there to soothe them away. The callouses on them felt rough as he swept up your sides with an eerie confidence, tugging your bra out of the way with practiced ease.

“Still cold, Sunshine?” he murmured against your jaw, before taking the opportunity to graze his teeth over the skin beneath your ear.

“Not anymore.”

You clawed at his hoodie, fingers clumsy in your new gloves, desperate to get closer. The fabric bunched in your clothed fists until he took over, yanking it off in one swift, impatient pull. Before you could even catch your breath, his mouth was on your— hot and hungry— before moving down, trailing open-mouthed kisses over your chest. He bit and sucked at your skin like he couldn’t get enough, deliberately avoiding the one place you wanted him most.

You gasped and arched up into him, your hips twitching with need. Your gloved hands roamed his bare back, the velvety material dragging deliciously across his skin as you held him to you.

“Bucky…” you breathed, aching, pleading.

But he just chuckled darkly against your sternum, the sound vibrating through you like a threat. “Still wearing the gloves, huh?” he muttered, voice dark. “That’s hot.”

You laughed, breathless, tugging his waistband. “Less talking. More fucking.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His pants hit the floor, and yours weren’t far behind. And then he was between your legs, fingers sliding through your throbbing heat, teasing, tantalizing.

“God, you’re soaked, Sunshine,” he said, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. “All this from just kiss and a pair of gloves?”

“You’re not that special,” you lied, following it up with a small scoff.

He grinned, sliding two fingers inside you. “I think I am.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Moaning as you tipped your head back and rolled your hips into his hand. His fingers curled perfectly, knuckles brushing that spot that caused your breath to hitch and made you see stars.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “Always so responsive for me.”

You bit your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a whimper to affirm his cockiness. But it spilled out the second his mouth replaced his thick fingers. Your fingers— still gloved— curled into his damp hair, gripping as tightly as you could while he licked you with maddening precision.

He groaned against you, before flattening his tongue and dragging it upward until his lips closed around your clit. Then with a knowing glint in his eyes, he started sucking, just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Bucky— fuck!”

You gasped, sharp and helpless. Every single nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire. You were already trembling, your thighs straining in his grasp. That familiar tension was already curling low in your belly, getting tighter with every single suck of his lips. The absence of him where you wanted most made the ache almost unbearable. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and pulsing as your hips instinctively chasing more friction.

It was maddening. The way he held you right on the edge, unraveling for him, but refused to let you fall. A ragged moan slipped from your throat before you could swallow it down. And even then he wouldn’t give in. Holding you, suspended in that delicious, torturous space between craving and release. Like he wanted to make sure you’d remember this moment. Remember him.

“That all it takes, Sunshine? Little pressure, little heat?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” you growled.

“Not planning on it,” he said, voice rough with smugness.

He took a step back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But you could still see the results of your arousal glistening in his beard. He gazed down at you, eyes darkened and blown wide with hunger.

You barely had time to admire the taut muscles of his washboard abs, or the small tuft of hair just above the low waistband of his shorts, before he hooked his thumbs into them and dropped them to the floor in one smooth tug.

Automatically, you reached for a condom. They were stored in a secret section under the examination couch. It was almost second nature now, muscle memory from all the nights over the last six months the two of you had spent pretending this all meant nothing.

He beat you to it. His hands trembled slightly as he tore open the packet, for some reason his fingers weren't quite as steady as usual, and somehow that shook you more than anything else. He was always so sure. So cocky. Always in control.

But not tonight.

You opened your mouth— the perfect biting remark poised on your tongue, a last-minute attempt to create distance— but it died the moment he stepped between your thighs, lined up, and sank into you.

Slow… deep… deliberate… different.

Like he needed to feel every inch of you. Like he was trying to carve the memory of your body onto his.

You hissed as he filled you, spine arching off the examination couch. The stretch of him sent sparks dancing through your limbs. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied. It was aching and intense in a way you hadn't felt before. A kind of connection that crackled between your bodies, bigger than you could name.

Bucky let out a low, ragged groan, his forehead dropping to yours as he buried himself to the hilt. Breath hot against your mouth. His hands braced on either side of you, biceps trembling under the strain, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re always so— fuck.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could really do was hold on. Gloves hands scrambled on his back. Legs curled around his waist. That's when he started to move.

Each thrust was deep and controlled. Like he wasn't just fucking you. It felt like he was trying to anchor himself inside you. Like if he stayed close enough, deep enough, he could forget whatever demons he’d been skating away from out on that ice.

Your ankles locked tight behind his back, holding him deeper with a breathless moan. He groaned at the shift in angle, the way you clenched around him. And the sound of it just spurred you on. His next thrust hit that perfect spot. And you cried out, arms locking around the back of his neck.

His hips settled into a rhythm that was all power and promise. Steady. Grounding. Devastatingly deliberate. Each thrust served only to stoke the heat between your thighs. Every push, every pull was a sweet and somehow punishing drag that sent electricity up your spine. Your eyes rolled backwards as his hands slid beneath you, palms flattening against your back, holding you so close that your chests were pressed flush, your sweat-slick skin sliding over each other.

“Fuck— feel so good,” he rasped against your neck, lips brushing hot against your skin. “Always do. Can’t— can’t get enough of you.”

You rocked into him, chasing every stroke, every moan, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Wet. Hot. Relentless. The friction burned in the most exquisite way and the pressure coiling in your belly got tighter with every thrust.

Heat flowed through you, reaching through your limbs. Your breath came faster and faster as he drove into you, harder and harder, chasing that edge, that high, that free fall. He needed it just as badly as you did.

“You close?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, words gone. You could barely breathe.

His thumb covered your clit. He knew exactly where to find it— the north star for every one of your trusts. Your entire body responded immediately, muscles snapping taut in reaction to the pleasure denoting behind your eyes. 

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as you clenched around him, tight and pulsing, legs trembling uncontrollably as your orgasm ripped through you, wave after blinding wave.

Bucky swore, low and completely undone as he drove into you with one last desperate thrust, letting out a deep and guttural groan as his hips jerked and he spilled into the condom. Your walls milked his release as his body collapsed on top of yours, chest heaving, head bowed and jaw slack. His eyes squeezed shut as the last of the tremors wracked through him.

Neither of you moved. A mess of muscle and flesh, panting, trembling, limbs tangled with each other. Your damp, flushed skin glistened under the harsh lighting and your heart pounded like it was trying to escape your ribs. All you could hear was the sound of your mingled breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning system in the walls of the building.

Slowly reality crept in.

Bucky eased out of you gently, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash like it was just another routine. You sat up slowly, tugging your shirt back over your head.

He handed you your leggings in silence. Not cold, just… neutral. Practiced.

You pulled them on, adjusting the waistband, then slipped your gloves back on like armor.

“We’re still good?” he asked after a beat.

You looked at him. That beautiful, dumb, caring idiot who got you thermal-lined compression gloves and made you come like it meant something.

“Of course,” you said. “Casual. That’s the deal, right?”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right.”

You nodded, heart thudding harder than it should.

“Thanks for the gloves, Barnes.”

“Thanks for the cardio, Doc.”

And just like always, you turned away before the truth could slip out— before he could see the part of you that didn’t want it to be just sex anymore.

You caught the end of the press conference on the muted TV in the medical suite. You were finishing up your notes taking following the game. You'd stitched up one of the rookies, iced two shoulders and were currently trying not to think about the way Bucky had looked at you when he passed your end of the bench after the game.

That lingering gaze that never failed to draw you in. The half-smile like he had something to say but wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And now his face was on screen— larger than life— sitting at the media table beside Steve. He was still half-dressed in his gear, sweaty hair flattened under a backwards cap. His jersey was peeled down to his waist, and his lucky navy compression top clung to every inch of his broad, muscular chest. Every microphone crowded in front of him like a flock of birds.

He looked good. Too good to be real. Too good to be yours. 

You unmuted the feed.

“...nights like this,” Bucky spoke, his voice a little hoarse from the shouting on the ice. “They don’t happen without the guys beside you. I might’ve finished a few plays, but someone had to make the pass, win the battle in the corner, clear the lane.” He fiddled absently with the mic with his taped-up fingers. “We all showed up. I just got lucky being the one to put it in. I’m proud of what we did tonight, but we’re already thinking about the next one.

There was a flash of cameras. A reporter asked something you couldn’t hear clearly.

He gave a lopsided smile. That smile. It stupidly made your stomach flip, no matter how many times you saw it.

“I’m not gonna lie, I think my heart stopped when I missed that first breakaway. But Coach didn’t bench me, so I guess I owe him a drink now.”

His words were met with polite laughter.

Another reporter pushed in a follow-up question. “Barnes, anything you’d like to say to fans watching at home?”

Bucky turned to the camera, looking straight into the lens as he answered. And a slight change came over him. His expression shifted. Morphed into something softer, more sincere.

“Thanks for sticking with us,” he said. “Even when we’re a mess. Even when it looks ugly. We know you're there. We feel the support, every damn game. So this win’s for you.”

The words weren't for you. You knew that. But seeing the camera focus on those brilliant blue eyes, your chest tightened anyway. 

You turned away and that's when he said it. 

“And if you’re a girl, watching this in navy gloves and cursing at my missed shot and messy tackle? Well… I’ll do better next time.”

Your breath caught. Because that… felt personal. You turned back to the TV but the camera had moved on, focusing on Steve and Sam. 

It wasn’t for you. Of course it wasn’t. All the girls had navy gloves on. Those were the team colors. They sold navy gloves in the merch stalls before every game. 

But in your mind, you still felt the ghost of that smile tug at your mouth as you clicked the TV off and turned away. Your heart was doing that annoying thing it always did whenever he was in the room, or even just on the screen.

You hadn’t planned on going. But your body seemed to have a mind of its own these days. You’d told yourself over and over you were going home. What you needed was a nice long steaming shower and to catch up on sleep, and maybe for one night to pretend that you weren't tangled up in something so impossibly one-sided with Bucky Barnes.

But here you were. Loitering outside the bar the team always celebrated at after a home game win. It was a block and a half from the arena, a half-hidden hole in the wall that was easily missed and on the back side of the arena, which stopped hoards of people flocking into it in search of a celebrity.

You could still hear the lingering rumble of traffic and inebriated fans leaving the vicinity. It was cold out, so you slipped inside, taking off your coat and clutching it tightly to your ribs.

The place was packed, full with the usual crowd— many wearing jerseys, and all of them making noise. You scanned the crowd instinctively.  It was automatic, looking for him before you even told yourself why you were really here.

It didn't take long for you to spot him.

He was still wearing the same sweaty game tee, his locks messy and damp, like he hadn't bothered to shower. He was leaning back against the bar, beer in hand and laughing at what you presumed was a joke from one of his many admirers.

They surrounded him. A ring of moony eyes and tight dresses. All in the team colors. You knew who they were. Fans. Groupies. Puck bunnies. The kind who knew exactly how to flirt with a man like Bucky Barnes, and certainly had the confidence to do it in front of everyone.

Who could blame them? You were drawn to him in exactly the same way.

He practically glowed. You couldn't tell if it was from the win, from the pub lighting or your rose colored glasses, but he looked like he was under a spotlight. And he was totally at ease there, soaking in all the attention. It's where he belonged 

Being here was a bad idea. Watching these women fawning over him was something you hated. But you were glued to your spot. Standing there a beat too long. Just enough for that gnawing ache to crawl into your chest and settle there.

And if you didn't already think that the universe hated you, it took a knife and twisted it a little more. You watched Bucky slip his hand into one woman's hand and lead her away from the crowd into the booth where the two of you often hung out.

He didn’t see you. Didn’t know you were there.

You watched as they dipped into the shadows near the stairwell that led up to the VIP booths, half-hidden behind an old jukebox. Close enough to talk. Or kiss.

Your heart plummeted into your boots. You didn’t wait to find out which. You didn't want to see it.

You turned and left like a ghost before any of the rest of the team spotted you. You were met with a freezing gust of wind and you pulled your coat back on, hugging it tighter around you. No one stopped you. No one noticed. Not even him.

Outside, the night air bit at your cheeks. You blinked fast, kept your head down and walked quickly.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Just like between you, it didn't mean anything.

She was already touching him before they reached the edge of the crowd. Fingertips brushing his bicep, nails trailing lightly along the hem of his shirt like she didn’t care who saw. Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just gave her the same easy smile he’d offered every single other fan tonight.

She was stunning. Undeniably. Honey-blonde waves, dark lashes, that sharp, pretty kind of face that photographers loved. She had on a fitted crop jersey— his number— and a form-fitted leather skirt that hugged her hips just right. The kind of girl who knew exactly what she was doing. And exactly what people expected from her.

He leaned against the stairwell wall and let her talk. Mostly just smiling and nodding while she recapped the events of the final period, like he hadn't lived it himself. Every sentence was sprinkled with compliments, every laugh a little too long, a little too loud, a little too forced. She kept inching closer. Brushed something off his chest that definitely didn’t need brushing. Touched his chain. Tilted her chin up like she was expecting a kiss at any second.

“You were incredible tonight,” she purred, fingers playing with the drawstring of his sweats. “You’ve gotta still be buzzing. I know I am.”

He gave her a small, polite chuckle. “Thanks. Yeah, the team’s been working hard.”

“Maybe you need help coming down.” She leaned in, voice low, her breath brushing his neck. “We could go back to your place… if you’re not too busy.”

That was the opening. The cue. He could see it in her eyes, how easy it would be. No strings. No awkwardness. Just one night. She was offering herself on a silver platter, and everyone watching would probably bet he’d take it.

But Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let his hand fall to her waist the way she clearly wanted. He just smiled. Gently. And shook his head.

“I appreciate it,” he said, voice softer now. “Really. But I’ve already got plans.”

She blinked. Her expression flickered for half a second. Surprise. A touch of offense, maybe. But she recovered quickly. Gave a light shrug, like she didn’t care either way.

“Your loss,” she said, tossing her hair back with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Maybe,” he offered politely.

She sauntered back toward the bar with a sway in her hips, already looking for her next victim.

But Bucky… Bucky just stood there. Alone. In the darkness. Hands in his pockets, gaze unfocused. Because somewhere deep down, he knew exactly where he wanted to be tonight.

And it wasn’t here.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

Even the cleaning staff had gone home hours ago. The building was dark, save for the dull hum of emergency lights and the faint rattle of the old HVAC system which kept the ice solid.

Your apartment wasn't far away and you'd left your tablet behind in your office. You needed to finish up your treatment notes for your meeting with Coach Wilson the next morning.

You padded through the dim corridor, footsteps muffled by the rubber soles of your sneakers. You had snuck in through a side entrance which had unfortunately closed behind you on the way in, which meant you had to take a detour to the main exit on your way out. The cold bit through your hoodie, as you approached the corridor beside the rink, the air stinging even in this area.

Suddenly a new sound caught your ears. It was a familiar one, you heard it often enough. The scrape of blades on ice.

Your breath caught and you froze. There shouldn't be anyone else around. You hadn't seen anyone when you'd come in and no one had been scheduled to use the space until morning. Despite your fear, you crept around the corner, closer to the source of the rhythmic hiss and scrapes that echoed through the empty arena.

Anxiously, your fingers curled tightly in the pocket of your hoodie as you got closer to the gap between the stands where the team usually made their first appearance on the ice. Only when you poked your head around that final corner did you see him.

Bucky.

He was alone, out on the ice. Skating up and down the centerline. There was something different about him. Normally Bucky would glide across the ice, it was surprisingly effortless for someone his size and stature. But this was different. His shoulders were tense, and his posture looked like someone had wrapped a coil around him and he couldn’t move his arms. 

This wasn’t at all like the team’s normal warm up drills. This was something else.

He hadn’t noticed you yet and you remained concealed by the shadows, watching the way he carved the ice, the edges of his blades slicing through the silence without his usual precision.

Short puffs of breath fogged the air around him, coming out fast and uneven. Now and again, he glanced over his shoulder, like he was trying to outstake someone chasing him. 

You wondered who or what he was trying to escape. A memory, maybe? A feeling?

Unfortunately you recognized the look in his face. You knew it all too well. The determined focus which masked the internal turmoil. The need to move so you didn't have to think. The need to be alone so no one would ask if everything was alright.

Without thinking, you took a step closer and your foot slipped on the damp hallway floor and the rubber sole of your shoe squeaked loudly and caught his attention. 

His wide-eyed gaze landed on you as he turned toward the sound.

“Sunshine?” he called, peering into the shadows. His voice sounded rough, younger. His breath shuddered and his chest heaved just a little too fast for it to be normal.

You stepped out under the bright arena lights, hands still hidden in your pockets and shoulders up to your ears— embarrassed at being caught snooping.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” you said softly.

He blinked, once, twice, like he was trying to get his eyes to focus but it wasn't working. And he didn't step off the ice. He didn't move any closer to the boards. His eyes were fixed on you, like he was trying to figure out whether or not you were real.

“I didn't think anyone else was here,” he murmured.

You offered him a smile. “Neither did I.”

He leaned forward, setting one end of his stick in the floor, letting it support some of his weight. You could see from the way his fingers surrounded it tightly and his labored breathing that he was still suffering.

Now that he had stepped directly under one of the spotlights, you could see the dark circles under his eyes. His hair was damp with sweat and clung to his forehead, the ends starting to curl. But it was the haunted look he wore, the dullness in his normally bright blue eyes that made your chest tighten. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“Forgot my tablet.” You held it up like proof of your presence.

He gave a tired laugh disguised as a small huff. “Figures. You're the most hardworking person in this building. And the only one I know who has trouble sleeping.”

You didn't reply immediately, stepping away from the safety of the rubber flooring out onto the ice. Now you were close enough that you could see the tremor in his hand, the way his fingers shook and his jaw ticked.

“You okay?” you asked in a tiny voice.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Peachy.”

You tilted your head to one side, that special way you had for him to tell him you already knew the truth. “Wanna try that again?”

His smile finally faltered and he shrugged, giving you a nonchalant answer. “Couldn't sleep. Couldn’t sit still. Figured skating would help.”

“And did it?” you asked gently.

He looked away with a sigh, staring down at his skates as though they had grown a second blade. “Not tonight.”

Silence settled around you both, as you watched him actively look anywhere but at you. Your mind frantically searched for the right thing to say.

You hesitated, then, clutching the table to your chest, you said, “Come off the ice, Bucky.”

He blinked, his face suddenly hard. “Why?”

“Because you’re spiraling,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear, even though no one else was around. “And I can’t help you from the stands.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, wearing the look of a petulant child who had been told it was time to stop playing. But after a few seconds, he slowed over, exhaling sharply and skated over to you and stepped off the ice, his skates clunking heavily on the rubber mats.

He stopped right in front of you, breathless. “You always do this?”

“So what?”

“Show up at the right time.”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not always. But I try… for you.”

Your tone was light but he caught the meaning in them, earning you a broken breath of laughter.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he murmured, like it was the first time he truly acknowledged your place in his life. “With… with how you see me.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding, trying not to read into his words too much. “Maybe you could just let yourself be seen for once. Instead of being someone you want everyone to see.”

He flinched, it was subtle, but it was there. His eyes darted away as though he was afraid that you could actually see into the depths of his soul. Worried that you wouldn’t like what you saw.

You hesitated, then reached out— just enough to brush your fingers against the cuff of his sleeve. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

He nodded. Barely. But it was enough to get you started. You took a step backward, leaning against the wall.

“I used to do the same thing,” you said softly, nodding toward the rink. “What you were doing now. Skating. Not sleeping. Trying to outrun my own thoughts.”

Bucky watched you carefully for a second before joining you against the wall. Slowly he slid down to the floor with a small clatter as his stick fell out of his hand and he stared at the opposite wall. Now that he wasn’t looking directly at you, it was easier to keep talking. You sat down a little more gracefully and continued talking.

“After I had to stop figure— when my skating career ended, everything fell apart for me. I didn’t just lose my dream, I lost the only version of myself that I actually liked. I had no backup plan. And absolutely no idea who I was without my skates on.”

Bucky stayed silent, still while you got lost in your own past. But despite being back there in your mind, somehow it still felt like he was there next to you, giving you the courage to keep talking.

“And then in med school… it— it got worse. I kept thinking I’d fail again. That I’d screw it up just like I did the first thing I ever loved. The funny thing was I wasn’t failing, I was keeping up with everyone, and it showed in my grades. But somehow it didn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus on the material some night. So in the winter months, when they made a rink at the shitty little community rec center down the street from my apartment, I’d go there every night. Skate for hours. Not like training or anything, just laps… up and down…” You huffed a little laugh. “Skated ‘til my legs ached and my brain finally shut up… or I was just too tired to think anymore. Or the arthritis fucked with my joints so bad that I couldn’t get out of bed. Those days weren’t fun.”

You smiled faintly now, more sardonically than out of any kind of mirth. “It was the only way I thought to feel normal. The only way I could breathe when everything else felt like it was falling apart.”

Another moment passed in silence before you continued.

“So when I saw you out there tonight?” you said, looking at him now. “It felt familiar.” You put your hand on the floor beside him, not reaching out, but just there. Just in case.

He said nothing for a long time. But then he leaned closer and it was like the cold air that surrounded you vanished. And when he spoke, it was rough and filled with suppressed emotion.

“I thought skating would burn it off. Make it go away.”

“Does it?” you asked, looking at him.

Eventually he gazed back, eyes glassy and jaw tight.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

You nodded. “But it comes back?”

“It’s worse after games. Not every time. But when it hits… it’s like my body doesn’t know the game’s over.”

“Adrenaline doesn’t know the difference between a puck drop and a panic attack,” you said flippantly.

And he let out a bitter laugh. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be, I guess,” you sighed. “Just… the truth.”

He fell quiet again, hands flitting around, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. Without all the hockey gear and protective clothing on, he looked small, as he sat beside you without flexing any of his muscles. Gone was the flashy personality he showed the world, the cameras, the team, the long line of women.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“I’m supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The one who doesn’t crack under the pressure. Everyone looks at me like I’m bulletproof.”

“Do you want to be?”

He didn’t answer.

So you shifted closer and said, gently, “You don’t have to be that guy around me.”

That got his attention. He turned, and for once, there was no flirtatious grin. No mask of confidence. Just exhaustion behind those blue eyes. An unexpected honesty. A question in his eyes that asked if he could really believe you. He wasn’t sure if he should keep going, but something about your presence made him keep talking.

He huffed out a breath and looked away, like he couldn’t risk the judgement he might see. Bucky’s voice was quieter— not guarded as you might expect— just small.

“He doesn’t come to the games.”

You glanced up at him in confusion. “Who?”

“My dad.”

It was said too casually to be casual. The softness and vulnerability in his tone made your heart clench. But you didn’t say anything, waiting for him to speak.

“He still watches them,” Bucky admitted after a beat, his eyes fixed on a random point out on the ice. “On TV… at home. I only know ‘cause he texts me sometimes after. If we win and I’ve played well.” He paused and his mouth twisted. “If I don’t… I don’t hear anything.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, like he was trying to stop that feeling from earlier from creeping back up his spine.

“I don’t think I was ever good enough for him. Used to tell me I was wasting my time. That I wasn’t good enough. Too slow… too small… too distracted. Said I didn’t have the right mindset to be a winner,” he scoffed. “Whatever that means.”

You stayed quiet, watching his face carefully.

“I made the fucking league.” He let out a hollow laugh. “And he still acts like it’s a fluke.”

You could feel the bitterness in his voice, but for some reason you didn’t feel like it was aimed at his father. It almost felt like he resented the fact that he let it all affect him.

“He always made sure I knew I wasn’t his idea of an athlete. Not the kind he could brag about at work or whatever.”

He paused again, his hand flexing into a fist. But the words were now crawling out of his mouth against his will.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m still trying just so he’ll… I don’t know. Say he’s proud or some shit.” He gave another bitter huff. “Which is pathetic, right? I’m a grown man. Got a contract. Fans. Everything a guy could dream of. And it still isn’t enough to shut that voice up.”

Your chest ached for him. “It’s not pathetic,” you said, softly. “It’s human. You wanted your dad to believe in you. That’s not a weakness, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his jaw ticked spoke volumes. Gently, you lifted your hand and laid it over his. It was barely a touch, you didn’t wrap your fingers around his in any way. Patient. Testing. He didn’t pull away. You could feel his fingers twitch under yours, like he didn’t know how to accept comfort— only that he wanted it.

He finally looked at you again. Really looked. And something in your chest shattered. There was something so raw in his gaze… unguarded… and in that still, quiet moment between you, something in the air shifted. The affection you’d both been pretending wasn’t real, pretending was just chemistry and comfort, pulsed between you like a live wire. He blinked slowly, and then gave you a faint, almost disbelieving smile.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Say exactly the thing I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

You smiled, small and a little breathless. “Guess I’m just that good.”

His hand turned under yours, fingers curling just enough to hold on.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and steady now. “You really are.”

The two of you sat with his revelation for a while until you realized that your ass had gone numb from the cold hard flooring.

“Hey,” you said gently, giving his hand a little squeeze. “You wanna sit somewhere that’s not freezing cold and made of rubber?”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked down at your joined hands like he wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. But slowly he nodded. It was small but it was grateful. He scrambled up quickly so he could help you up and then let you lead the way through the dim corridor to your small office.

It was much warmer than the hallway. The team always complained about how sweltering it was when they came in, but you needed the warmth to work, or your joints would protest angrily. You deposited your tablet on the desk and clicked on the small desk lamp in the corner. The light cast a soft glow around the room, making it feel more comforting than the harsh LED lighting overhead.

Bucky dropped heavily onto the couch, unstrapping his laces and pulling off the skates. He looked exhausted and not in the way that sleep would fix—but he needed rest all the same.

You grabbed a large fleecy blanket that you stored at the bottom of your supply closet. It was something that had appeared one day without any explanation. You had asked the team but no one had stepped forward to claim credit. It was meant for moments exactly like this one— long nights, late games, or painful flare-ups. You laid it across his lap.

He looked down at it, rubbing the fluffy material before looking up at you with something unreadable in his eyes. 

“You take care of everyone like this?” There was a subtle look of his mischievousness shining through as he asked the question.

You shrugged. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it.”

That earned the ghost of a smile. Without speaking, you curled up beside him, tugging the blanket around your legs. Your knee brushed his and he didn’t move away.

A minute passed. Then another. And that’s when you felt it— his arm slowly slipping around your shoulders. The movement was tentative at first, but when you didn’t flinch or pull away, he tugged you into his side. It was incredibly warm and you were worn out, so you let yourself sink into his side, curling into him as you rested your head against his shoulder.

A wave of peacefulness washed over the two of you. Something that didn’t happen often for either of you. Usually your moments of closeness were accompanied by a feeling of breathlessness and buzzing. This felt different. This was the sort of closeness that terrified you and yet you craved it with every fiber of your being.

His breath slowed. Yours did too. And as the minutes passed, you both started to melt into the quiet surrounding you. You didn’t speak again. Not when his head tilted to rest lightly against yours. Not when his fingers found the edge of your sleeve again and curled there. And not even when your eyes fluttered closed and you both drifted off, tucked into the corner of a too-small office couch, wrapped in one another like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Because maybe, just for tonight— it didn’t.

The Howling C’s had pulled off a rather messy, albeit hard-fought victory. You wrinkled your nose as you weaved through the team’s locker room into the back corner where there was a small supply closet for medical equipment. It smelled of sweat, adrenaline and pizza. You smiled, lingering in your concealed corner, listening to the rowdy conversations of the over-excited players.

Raucous laughter echoed from the benches as a gaggle of inebriated rookies caught your ear.

“Honestly,” one of the rookies said, obviously tipsy, “I didn’t think she’d be cool, y’know? She doesn’t look like— like someone who’d be chill around guys like us.”

Another rookie snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… I figured the team doc would be, like, I don’t know. Gym rat type. Tight scrubs. You know, Instagram hot.”

Your hand froze around a packet of gauze. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. Heat rose over your cheeks, burning fast and deep, blooming from shame and anger in equal measure.

Their laughter was abruptly silenced and after a beat came Bucky’s voice— surprisingly calm, low and sharp as a knife.

“Maybe shut the fuck up before you say something worse.”

You heard the rookie mutter an awkward “sorry,” but you were already closing the med kit, sliding closed the cupboard door and walking out.

The door swung shut behind you with a soft thunk. Once you were outside the locker room, the hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, the only sound competing with the tight, careful rhythm of your forced breathing.

You only made it half way down before stopping, leaning your back against the wall, pressing your hands flat to the cool concrete in an attempt to ground yourself. The cold made your fingers ache, and you found yourself ripping off your gloves in search of the physical pain to replace the emotional one.

You weren’t supposed to care. You knew that. But it still stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. They were right, you didn't look like any of the typical stereotypes. Not a doctor. Not a skater. Nor the version of ‘attractive’ guys like that expected.

You’d fought to be here. You’d worked through every ache and flare and course of prednisone. And still… it took three seconds of a dumb comment to make you feel sixteen again. You sank down onto the floor and pulled your knees up to your chest.

Footsteps echoed behind you.

You didn’t look up.

“Hey.”

It was Bucky’s voice. Closer now.

You kept your eyes on the wall in front of you. “Don’t.”

“You okay?”

“I said don’t.”

There was another pause. Then came the soft sound of his body sliding down the wall beside you until he was sitting at your level, forearms resting on his knees.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. You both just sat there, surrounded by the hum of the arena above, the buzz of lights, your pulse in your ears.

Eventually, you spoke.

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Didn’t do it for you.”

You turned to glare at him. And he returned your gaze, unwavering. “Did it because that guy’s an idiot. Plus, if I didn’t shut it down, Steve would’ve. Or Dum Dum. Or Jim. Take your pick.”

“Still.”

“Still nothing. You don’t owe anyone ‘hot.’ You owe them ‘qualified.’ And you’ve got that in spades.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Was that a compliment, Barnes?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

His mouth tilted up a little. Not quite a smile. But not a smirk, either.

You let your head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. You took a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“It was just… stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But it wasn’t nothing.”

You opened your eyes again, tilting your head over to glance at him, if only for a second. 

There was a cut on his cheek and a bruise was already forming in his chin. He had an ice pack which lay forgotten on the floor beside him. You reached over and lifted it back into place.

“You’re a mess,” you muttered.

“Takes one to know one.”

You shook your head, but you didn’t move away from him.

“You want me to say something charming now?” he asked.

”God, no.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Good. ‘Cause I'm struggling to find the charm while I'm sat on this freezing floor. My ass is numb.”

That drew out a quiet chuckle and you got to your feet, brushing off your hands. 

“Come on,” you said, nodding toward the med bay. “I'm counting at least three new bruises I didn’t sign off on.”

“Lead the way, Sunshine.”

He followed you, matching the energy of an obedient puppy. You stood aside while he ambled in and the door clicked shut behind you both. The sounds of the team and the world outside were now muffled. Inside, everything was immediately warmer. Quieter and familiar.

Bucky hopped up onto the treatment table without being asked, wincing as he did.

“Jesus. Feels like I got hit by a pick-up.”

“You kind of did,” you said, flicking the overhead lamp on. “Twice. And then you punched it.”

“Still scored.”

“Congratulations. Here’s your prize: a black eye, a bruised shoulder, and a split cheekbone.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Totally worth it.”

You stepped between his knees, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves, and gently peeling back the shoulder of his jersey back to inspect the bruising. There were angry purple splotches blooming beneath his skin.

“Any pain when you breathe?” you ask, gently. 

“Only when I’m near you.”

You shot him an exasperated look.

“That was weak, even for you.”

“I’m tired,” he said, flashing you a grin before grimacing. “My good material’s reserved for when I’m shirtless and horizontal.”

“Unfortunately for you, that happens weekly.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, you pressed your thumb just under the worst of the bruising, testing for signs of something.

He flinched. Not much. But just enough.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You’re gonna hate the wrap.”

“Promise to kiss it better?”

“Promise to make it worse if you keep talking.”

That earned a huff of a laugh, low and warm. But he stayed still after that, letting you wrap the bandage tenderly around his chest, hands braced behind him as you moved with well-versed efficiency… mostly.

Your fingers lingered for half a second too long. Noticing the way his breathing slowed. The quiet tension in his shoulders. How he wasn’t flirting anymore. Not really.

You stepped back. “There. Done,” you concluded.

“No gold star?” he pouted.

“I’ll draw one on your forehead if you keep complaining.”

“You’d still make it look good.”

You tossed the gauze in the trash and pulled off your gloves. “You’re good to go.”

“Sure you don’t want to run a full-body assessment?” he teased. “Could take all night.”

You gave him a flat look. “You smell like beer and ego.”

He slid off the table with a soft groan, straightening slowly.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, voice lower, less performative.

You hesitated. Just for a beat before answering. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He nodded like he believed you. But he didn’t leave right away.

“That rookie’s a dumbass, you know.”

“I know.”

“But just so we’re clear?” He reached for the door, glanced back. “I think you’re hotter than fitted scrubs and filtered selfies combined.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms folded. “That your way of saying your standards finally improved?”

“Call it character development. Turns out I’m into women who could medically sedate me and emotionally eviscerate me— bonus points if they make it look effortless.”

He winked and your heart jumped— just slightly. You hated that it did. Hated how you felt like a high schooler with a crush. Hated that he gave you butterflies. Hated that you cared when this was all you were to him.

The room felt smaller suddenly. Bucky placed your compression gloves on the edge of the table, damp and cold from their brief stint on the floor.

“You like me in the gloves?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light.

“I like you in everything,” he said, stepping back toward you. “Or nothing. I’m not picky.”

He lingered there, fingers grazing the edge of the table like he was stalling. Like if he moved too fast, something between you might snap. Like you might break. Did he think you were too fragile for this?

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But something in the air had shifted. The space between you buzzed, held in a state of suspension. He glanced down at your gloves. Then back at you. His voice was softer when he finally spoke.

“You shouldn’t let assholes get under your skin.”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah. Well… can’t always control that.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood. And you realized that he did understand. Probably more than anyone else in your life ever had.

“You deserve better.”

His words were low. Steady. Like a fact. Not a compliment. Not like the charming words he normally showered over you. You looked up, expecting to see his signature grin, but there was no teasing glint in his eyes. Just a calm certainty. He stepped in close, lifting a hand to your cheek and brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he kissed you. Not the way he usually did. Not with the usual lust or desperation for something more. No, it was slow, soft, tender. Like it meant something more to him.

Your breath caught. You didn’t move— didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away. You just let it happen. His hand cupped your waist, resting there lightly. Not pulling. Just holding. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. And that— that was what made it more dangerous than anything the two of you had done to date.

Slowly your hands came to rest on his chest, palms sliding lightly over the taped curve of his ribs. You felt him flinch, but not from pain. No, it was from restraint. He pulled back slightly like it was the only way he trusted his self-control. But his forehead stayed close to yours. His breathing was shallow and his eyes dark, but his voice— when it came— was soft and unshaken.

“For the record?” His thumb traced your cheekbone again, featherlight in its touch. “I think you’re stunning.”

Your heart stuttered. You hated how much it meant to you. How much you wanted to believe it meant something more.

His forehead brushed against yours, and for a long second, neither of you moved.

You could’ve closed the space again. Could’ve kissed him harder. Could’ve tugged him down onto the table and given in to whatever this was building into. But—

“BUCKY!”

The shout shattered the silence like a slap. You both jolted apart just before the door slammed open and one of the rookies— red-faced and clearly tipsy— poked his head in.

“We’re doin’ shots and Wilson’s already got his shirt off— come on!” The guy blinked, eyes widening as he took in the scene in front of him. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh—just—yeah. Okay.” He ducked out before you could respond, the door swinging shut behind him.

Bucky sighed through his nose, the moment splintering into something half-frustrated, half amused.

You cleared your throat. “Duty calls.”

He grinned. Crooked. Reluctant. “Apparently.”

You bent forward to grab your gloves from the edge of the table. “Guess I’d better finish up here.”

He lingered a second longer, gaze roaming over your features as if begging you to ask him to stay. But you stayed silent and he turned away, throwing one last look over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Sunshine.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers to your lips as if to convince yourself it had really happened. But the buzz under your skin? That lingered. Long after he was gone.

You didn’t even bother to text him back. Your unspoken agreement didn’t necessitate it. You made a quick trip to the shower, shaved efficiently and applied a thin layer of make-up before grabbing your coat and leaving your apartment.

You moved on autopilot, going through the motions like muscle memory. Like this was the only option you had. Because deep down, it felt like this was the only version of closeness he’d ever offer you, and you hated yourself for taking it. Hated the way your chest ached with anticipation for his texts, how your stomach flipped at the thought of his hands, his voice, his heat… even when you knew it wouldn’t last.

Somewhere along the way, sex had stopped being simple… at least for you. Somewhere along the way, you’d started craving more than what he could give. You weren’t sure when exactly it had happened, only that it was too late now. The feelings had already taken root. And no matter how often you told yourself you were fine with this arrangement— casual, convenient— you weren’t. Not really.

But still, for whatever reason, when he called, you came running. Even if it left you feeling lonelier than before. Even if every touch carved out a little more hollow inside you when you left.

It was different when you were with him. You felt like you were his whole world. And that's why you kept going back.

Bucky opened the door to his luxurious penthouse apartment. Shirtless and grinning like he’d scored the winning goal in overtime.

“You took your sweet time,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“You texted half an hour ago.”

“Exactly. An eternity.”

“God, you’re so needy,” you teased in an exasperated tone, dropping your bag on the floor.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Congratulations, you ruined me.”

You rolled your eyes, already toeing off your shoes by the door. “Yeah, well. You had it coming.”

“Still do, if you’re in a generous mood.” He stepped towards you, fingers skating over the waist tie of your trenchcoat.

You didn’t respond. Just stepped inside, grabbed him by the waistband of his grey sweatpants, and kissed him. Hard. He responded instantly, hands sliding up your back, under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders.

“You wearing those compression gloves?” he muttered against your mouth.

“No. Why?”

“I like how they feel when you—” He broke off with a groan as you reached between you and cupped him through the thin fabric.

“Guess you’ll have to settle for bare hands.”

“Shame,” he said, peeling off your top. “I was gonna ask real nice.”

You smirked. “That ever work for you?”

“Once or twice. Mostly when I’m naked.”

“Wow, how convenient.”

He was already guiding you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing down your neck. “Come on. Don’t pretend you’re not dying for it.”

“Me? Please.” You shoved him back onto the bed and climbed into his lap. “I’m just here to check your vitals.”

“Mmhm.” His fingers were already unfastening your bra. “Hope you brought your stethoscope.”

“Didn’t need one. You’ve been loud since the moment I walked in.”

He laughed into your mouth. “God, I missed this.”

You straddled him, palms splayed over his chest, feeling the strong muscles beneath your fingertips as he leaned back on his elbows, eyes wandered over you like you were something to be unwrapped and he couldn’t decide where to start first.

“You're staring,” you said, breathlessly amused.

“Yeah. Trying to figure out which part to bite first.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “Dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t hesitate. There was no second guessing when it came to his mouth finding somewhere on your body to suck. He started on the curve of your neck and worked his way downwards, teeth dragging along your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. You pressed your crotch against the bulge in his sweats, rolling your hips against him and smirking when he groaned.

“Shit Sunshine, think you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’m the team physician,” you whispered, grinding slow and deliberate. “That would be against the Hippocratic oath. Technically, I’m reviving you.”

His hands slid behind your thighs, gripping tightly as he bucked up against you. “Then consider this a near-death experience.”

You kissed him hard, messy and hungry, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him chase your mouth with a frustrated growl when you pulled back. He flipped you effortlessly, pinning you under him with a practiced press of hips and thigh.

“You wearing anything under that?” he asked, dragging his fingers up your leg.

“Why ruin the surprise?”

He hummed. “God, I love when you make my job easy.”

He tugged your bottoms off in one smooth pull, tossing them aside without looking. His hand trailed up your inner thigh, warm and confident, like he’d memorized every part of you. You arched into the touch, already slick, already buzzing with needy excitement.

“You always this wet when you storm into my place uninvited?” he asked, voice husky, lips brushing just below your navel.

“You invited me,” you shot back, determined not to be so undone that you couldn’t counter his cheekiness.

“Didn’t think you’d sprint here,” he said, sliding two fingers through your folds, teasing, not yet giving you what you needed. “Next time I’ll add a disclaimer to slow you down a little.”

“Oh please, next time,” you panted, clutching at the sheets, “I’m making you wait.”

“Oh, Sunshine.” He looked up, lips hovering just above where you wanted him. “That sounded like a threat.”

Before you could think of a snappy retort, he was deliberately exhaling his hot breath all over your sensitive skin.

Your hips bucked instinctively. “Bucky—”

“Hmm?” he hummed, lips so close to you that you could feel the shape of his smirk in the heat of his breath. “Something wrong?”

“Don’t play with me,” you warned. Your breath was already shaky and your thighs had started to tremble.

“I’m not,” he said innocently.

You smirked mentally at the irony, there was nothing innocent about this mouth, or the way it moved. Down, but not close enough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh instead.

“Just admiring the view, Sunshine.”

“Admire faster,” you snapped, voice sounding wrecked.

Bucky chucked, the sound low and dark as he dragged his nose up the inside of your thigh. All the way up till he was maddeningly close to where you wanted him most. “You’re soaked.”

“Wonder why,” you bit out, fisting your hands in his sheets.

“Maybe I should take my time,” he mused, brushing the very tip of his nose against your folds. Grazing the skin with a featherlight touch. “You know, really get a read on the situation.”

“Barnes—”

He kissed you then. Just once. Slow. Firm. Excruciatingly exquisite. And all the air left your lungs.

“God,” you gasped.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as he finally settled in between your thighs. “Now hold still.”

Your breath caught the moment his mouth met you in earnest— none of the teasing now, none of the delays. Just heat, pressure, and the maddening rhythm of his tongue. Your hips jerked, while one hand flew to his hair and the other clawed at the sheets as a lightening sensation shot through you.

It was too much and not enough all at once. The drag of his lips, the way he groaned softly against you. It felt like he was enjoying this every bit as much as you were and that sent a fresh wave of heat pulsing through your bloodstream.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

Each flick of his tongue lit up nerves you didn’t know you still had. Every movement was deliberate, practiced, like he knew your body better than you did. Your thighs trembled, trying to close around him, but his hands were firm on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you at his mercy.

And you were. Completely. Utterly his.

There was a fluttering sensation building low in your belly. Familiar, devastating and totally inevitable. You tried to warn him, you really did. Tried to choke out a sentence, but all that came out was a gasp and his name, broken and desperate on your tongue.

“Buck—”

That was all he really needed. Not that it stopped him. If anything, he doubled down. His tongue pressed deeper, mouth claiming you completely. And you shattered completely. Everything inside you came undone, hips bucking, hands fisting tight in his luscious hair as the orgasm tore through you like a ravaging storm. It left you spent and breathless. Every muscle inside you trembled as the waves of pleasure crested and broke before slowly, achingly, they ebbed away.

He didn’t move away immediately. Staying a moment longer, lips still on you, but softer now, gentler, before pressing a final kiss to the inside of your thigh like he knew you needed to be put back together after what he’d done to you.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met yours— dark, intense, and far too knowing.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, rough with heat.

You couldn’t even speak. So you just nodded, chest still heaving. And somewhere, deep down inside— you hated just how much of yourself you gave away in that silence.

Your chest rose and fell as the last of the tremors of your release faded away, leaving your body feeling heavy but sated. But even in this state, you could feel him, the tension that radiated off him, the restraint was practically humming beneath his shin. He hovered over you, one arm on the bed to brace himself. His lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving, his eyes never leaving your face.

You reached for him slowly, fingers trailing down his stomach, brushing over the waistband of his sweats, still clinging low on his hips. You could tell there he had nothing on beneath them, not with how well you could see him growing for you. He hissed through his teeth as your hand found him— hard and aching and already damp at the tip. There was already a dark stain on the light grey material. You stroked him lazily at first, over the top, letting him rut into your palm as your fingers tightened just slightly, coaxing a low groan from his throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, you slid your hand under the waist band, moving lower. Your touch teasing the base before you dragged your thumb back up through the slick mess he was making of himself.

“Fuck—” His voice was rough and shaky, forehead dropped to your shoulder as you kept working him, slow and deliberate. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Sunshine.”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted slightly under him, spreading your thighs a little more as you let him press forward — the thick length of him sliding through your wet folds, dragging him through the heat and slickness he’d just pulled from you. He rutted against you gently until he was glistening with both your release and his arousal. He groaned against your softness, hips rolling in tight, shallow thrusts. Not inside you— not yet. Just grinding against you, letting your wet heat coat him, drag along him, every pass more desperate than the last.

It wasn’t just teasing anymore. There was more pressure. Friction. Need. His breath suddenly became more ragged, as his body trembled above you, the threads of his self-control fraying with every pass through your folds. You tightened your grip at the base, just enough to make him gasp.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped.

“I know,” you whispered, shifting your hips just enough to let him slide deeper through your lips, not quite where he wanted, but close enough to make him groan like it hurt. His jaw clenched and you felt it against your shoulder.

You shifted again, just enough for the blunt head of his cock to slip a little lower— still not guiding him in, but brushing where you were already sensitive. It made your breath catch and back arch.

Bucky growled low in his throat. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.”

“Then don’t,” you said, voice thick. “‘m not stopping you.”

He nudged forward, slick and hard and desperate to be inside, but you pressed your hand against his hip.

Not yet.

“Sunshine…” His voice was strained, eyes nearly black as he held himself still, every muscle in his body vibrating with desire. “You’re gonna undo me, you know that, right?”

Your lips curved in something akin to a smirk, but your breath was still shallow. “Just… stay like this for a minute.”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with how tightly you were pressed together, his cock hot and heavy against your soaked folds, your thighs clamped around his hips. He rolled them again— so incredibly slow and tortuous— dragging himself through your essence, barely holding himself back from slipping inside.

You moaned softly, head falling back against the pillow.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice hoarse, his mouth near your ear. “That’s what you do to me.”

You nodded, lips parting but no sound came out.

He rolled his hips again and there it was again, another delicious grind. Not just a hint of pleasure, but the kind that makes your whole body clench. Your thighs shook from overstimulation and need all at once.

But still, he didn’t push in. And he didn’t ask to. Because you both knew how dangerously close he was to filling you completely. It wouldn’t take much. Both of you were walking on a razor's edge. The careful balance you’d achieved could tip straight into something neither of you could pretend was casual.

You closed your eyes, not daring to look at him. Not with the way your body responded to his— trembling, every nerve alight and buzzing, caught between craving and caution. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged against your skin. He was still rocking into you— slow and shallow, sliding through your slick folds like he belonged there. And you wondered when he’d earned the right to be that close. But when it really came down to it, you let him. You let it burn.

Your fingers traced the ridges of his spine, curling at the base, your hips arching involuntarily with each glide of his cock. Not inside— not yet— but enough to keep you wanting.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word had been ripped from him.

You turned your head just slightly, and it was like you were possessed. The words spilled from your mouth like they were coming from someone else. Your lips caught the edge of his jaw as you purred. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, stilling his thrusts and looking down at you.

“Desperate.”

He groaned. Half in frustration, half in something closer to surrender. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He moved in a retaliatory way, the grind rougher than before. Hungrier.

You whimpered, nails digging into his back. “I—” You started but the sound caught in your throat.

He paused and you made the mistake of looking up. He lifted his head, not to kiss you, not to taunt you, but to look at you. His eyes locked onto yours and really looked. Like he was searching for something he hadn’t dared ask for out loud. Something that went deeper than skin and heat and friction.

Your breath hitched. You froze. Because for a second, you saw it. Felt it. The weight of everything. The desire, yes, but also the longing. His gaze softened, focused, like you were the only thing in the room that made sense to him.

It undid you. Because he couldn’t mean it. Could he? He couldn’t know what that look would do to you. How it cracked you open from the inside. How it fed a hope you’d spent weeks trying to starve out. 

This wasn’t connection, you told yourself. It couldn’t be. But you felt it creeping into your soul and it ached behind your ribs. That bitter, ugly tug of truth that you’d convinced yourself wasn’t possible. Not like this.

So you squeezed your eyes shut. Tried to ride it out. To stay in the moment, not dwell on the things you knew couldn’t be. You blinked, hard, chasing away the tears that burned. Tried to swallow down the feelings that bubbled up in your throat.

“Too slow, Barnes,” you teased, pushing at his shoulder and twisting your hips. “Switch.”

He let you. Let you guide him onto his back, let you swing a leg over and settle above him. You reached between you and lined him up, sinking down in one smooth motion that pulled a low growl from his throat.

For a moment, you rode him just like that— hands on his chest, breath shallow, movements precise. Controlled. Detached. No eye contact. But then he sat up. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pulled you close again. And that look was back— full of heat and ache and something far too close to tenderness.

You couldn’t take it. So you leaned in, and he lifted his jaw, almost like he thought you were going to kiss him. Instead you shifted again, sliding off his lap and onto your hands and knees.

“You wanna finish or not?” you asked over your shoulder, almost petulant.

Because in reality you couldn’t watch him look at you like that anymore, not when it didn’t mean anything.

He didn’t argue. Just repositioned himself on his knees behind you, ran a palm down your spine, and eased himself back inside. This time, he didn’t hold back. His rhythm was harder now, his thrusts deep and steady, hands gripping your hips pulling you into him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to let it numb you. Trying to let him fuck the feelings out of you like he always did.

But they wouldn’t leave. Every time he hit that spot just right, your body jolted with pleasure— but your chest twisted tighter. Every moan that slipped from your mouth felt more like a sob. Because it still felt like too much. Too close. And somehow, not close enough. You bit your lip hard, knuckles white in the sheets, willing yourself to hold it together. But your heart was already breaking— and he didn’t even know it.

You didn’t make a sound at first— just a sharp inhale through your nose, forehead pressed to the mattress, as if you could force it all back down with one well-timed breath. But Bucky knew your body too well. He slowed. Just slightly. The steady slap of skin softened, his hand on your hip gentling like he could sense it.

“Sunshine?”

You didn’t answer.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you rasped, too quickly. Too flat.

He stilled completely. You felt his hand slide up your back, warm and careful, tracing along your spine.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. Kept your face buried in the sheets.

“I’m fine,” you said, voice cracking on the lie.

He eased out of you— slow and reluctant, like part of him didn’t want to admit the shift had happened. You stayed frozen in place, but he gently coaxed you to roll over, to face him. And when your eyes finally met his, it was over. Because whatever resolve you had left crumbled under the weight of that look— worried, searching, soft. You covered your face with your hands.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please just— don’t look at me like that.”

He crouched beside you on the bed, a beat of silence hanging between you before he said softly, “Like what?”

“Like this means something,” you whimpered. “Like I’m more than a warm body you can call when you’re lonely or bored or—”

“Jesus, Sunshine.” His voice was laced with disbelief. “That’s what you think this is?”

You didn’t answer. Your breath came out far too fast, your chest far too tight. All of it was spilling out before you could stop it.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you admitted, choking on the words. “I just— every time I tell myself I won’t come back. That I’m done. And then you text, and I… I run to you like a fucking idiot, because it’s the only time I feel close to you. And then it ends and I go home and I hate myself.”

He blinked. His mouth parted, but nothing came out. You pushed yourself upright, dragging the blanket across your chest like it could hide more than your body.

“I can’t do this anymore, Bucky,” you said, voice shaking. “I can’t keep pretending this is casual when it’s killing me.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. Just watched you like he was trying to memorize the way you came undone— not just from pleasure, but from the weight of everything you’d been holding back. And then he did something you didn’t expect. He reached for you. Not to pull you close or coax you back into bed or kiss away the tension like he could distract you from the wreckage. He just… held your hand. His fingers slid against yours, hesitant but steady, and when you didn’t pull away, he laced them together.

“I didn’t know,” he said at last. Voice low. Thick. Honest. “Sunshine, I didn’t know it was hurting you.”

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. You were afraid that if you did, your resolve would shatter all over again. That you would give in to him.

He let the silence stretch out for a moment. Giving you time to breathe. Before—

“You always seemed like you wanted to keep it casual,” he said finally, voice rough but oh so gentle. “So I followed your lead.”

You blinked, confused. “What? What’re you talking about?”

“I asked you out,” he said, watching your face carefully. “More than once. But every time, you turned it into a team hang. Invited everyone, changed the plan. After a while I figured… okay. She doesn’t want me. She just wants something easy…. So I gave you easy.”

Your lips parted, breath catching. “Wait… those were dates?”

He let out a dry, almost amused sounding laugh. “Yeah. They were supposed to be. Sushi night. That screening downtown. Even the stupid art gallery thing you dragged Steve to?��

“I thought you were just being nice,” you said, stunned. “I didn’t realise…”

He gave a soft shake of his head, almost smiling— but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always made it a group thing. I figured you weren’t interested. So I thought if this was the only version where I could have you…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “I would take it.”

You sat in silence for a moment, reeling.

“I didn’t know,” you said quietly. “I didn’t realise they were meant to be dates.”

“I know that now,” he murmured. “But at the time? It felt like a rejection.”

“I thought… you had plans with your friends or something. That you were just— being nice. Inviting me along to prove we were… nothing more than teammates. Or friends.”

Bucky let out a sharp exhale and dragged both hands down his face. “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

You winced. “I didn’t think you meant meant it. I thought you were just being polite. Making me feel like part of the team.”

“Polite?” His hands dropped, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “I practically begged you to come with me. Took me a week to plan that sushi night, and you told Sam, Sam! Who then told everyone. I was trying to flirt and you sat me between Gabe and Dum Dum like we were chaperoning a high school dance.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly. “God. I didn’t know. I just— I didn’t think…”

“What?” he snapped, not harsh, but dark, dismal. Like the feeling had been buried, waiting to be let out. “Didn’t think I wanted you?”

“I didn’t think you wanted anything more than sex,” you said quietly.

The silence was loud. Broken finally by a laugh. Loud and bitter and so full of disbelief it made your stomach turn. “Jesus Christ, Sunshine.”

“What?” you asked defensively.

“You seriously thought I was just using you for a good time?”

You didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you know how many times I talked myself down? Told myself you weren’t interested, that I was just lucky to get even a piece of you?” His voice dropped, hoarse. “I thought you wanted this to stay casual. Every time I asked you out, you turned it into a team thing. So yeah— I stopped asking. Figured I’d take what I could get.”

“I didn’t know they were dates.”

“I know that now. But you have to understand how that felt.”

You looked at him, really looked. The tension in his jaw, the lines around his mouth, the bruised vulnerability in his voice. He wasn’t angry— he was hurt.

“I just didn’t think someone like you…” you started, faltering. “You’re— you. Bucky Barnes, the Casanova of ice hockey, the star of the team. You could have anyone. And I’m just…”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “Don’t do that.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.” He leaned in. “You think I kept texting you ‘cause the sex was good? You think I memorized your schedule, got Coach to stock your stupid favorite almond milk in the kitchen because I was trying to be a fuckbuddy?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you… liked me like that.”

“Liked you?” His laugh was quieter now. “God, Sunshine, I fucking love you.”

You blinked, speechless at his confession.

“I kept telling myself this was all I could have. That I should just be grateful for what you gave me. But every time I touched you, I hoped it meant more. Every time you left, I hoped you’d stay.”

Your throat tightened, emotion rising fast and hot. You felt the first tear slip down before you could stop it, and he was there, brushing it away with his thumb like it physically hurt him to see it fall.

“I never meant to hurt you,” you whispered.

“You didn’t. Not really. I just wish…” He shook his head, brushing off the apology, even though it meant everything to him. “I wish I’d been clearer, said something sooner.”

“I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

Bucky’s thumb lingered on your cheek, brushing away another tear. The tenderness in his touch surprised you, it was like he wanted to feel you, every part of you, even the broken ones.

Your chest ached. But not in the way it had before. Not with grief or longing. With relief. And love.

You leaned forward first, lips brushing his lightly. He returned it just as gently, like you were fragile. Like one wrong move and you might disappear. But you weren’t. You were right here, in his arms. You were his.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “Still can’t believe you didn’t know I was in love with you,” he murmured, a little frown on his brow. “You’re impossible.” he finished with a pout.

You rolled your eyes, but it was fond. “I didn’t exactly see the signs.”

“Well, they were neon,” he said dryly. “Like Vegas- style bright.”

You leaned in and kissed him, capturing his lower lip between yours before you sucked lightly, as if to say yes, I know now. Yes, I’m sorry. Yes, I love you too.

He smirked against your mouth. “You thought all that flirting was just team morale?”

You kissed him again, a little longer this time, your hand curling around the back of his neck.

“I invited you to an art exhibit on my off day,” he said, giving you a look. “And you brought Steve.”

You kissed him before he could say more. Another soft press of your mouth to his, equal parts apology and affection.

He smiled against your lips, carrying on now that he had caught onto your antics. “That was supposed to be a date. I even showered twice.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, fingers threading through the short hair at the back of his neck.

“You made me a third wheel our date,” he mumbled. “Steve talked about brushstroke technique for forty-five minutes.”

Another kiss. He barely managed to keep speaking this time, his hands sliding to your hips.

“I held your coat and bought you that overpriced matcha latte. And Steve got the thank-you hug.”

You huffed a laugh and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I sent you flowers that week,” he said, mock wounded. “You thought they were from the gallery.”

You groaned and kissed him again, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

“You’re lucky I’m still here,” he murmured back, voice low, hands smoothing along your thighs.

You looked into his eyes, soft with affection.

“You know I love you too, right?” you said quietly.

He froze, eyes searching yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You kissed him once more. “I love you, James Bucky Barnes.”

His breath hitched. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. His forehead fell to yours, taking slow breaths, like he needed to stay grounded.

“Sunshine,” he whispered. “Don’t ever stop saying that.”

His hands gripped your thighs, warm and solid.  Just holding you. Steadying you.

You didn’t stop touching him. You couldn’t. Your fingers traced along his jaw, the stubble there rough beneath your fingertips. It was like you needed to make up for all the times you could have shown him.  Shown him what he meant to you. His lips brushed yours again, so softly it was barely a kiss and more like a promise.

“I love you,” you whispered again. Just to see the way his eyes fluttered shut. Just to hear the shaky breath he let out, like the words reached somewhere deeper than you rralized they could.

Bucky kissed you then, really kissed you— like he couldn’t believe he’d gone this long without doing it like this. Like he didn’t just want your mouth, he wanted your heart. Your soul. Everything you’d never imagined giving anyone else.

You climbed into his lap without another thought. Immediately, his hands slid up over your back, reverent and slow, never breaking eye contact.

“Still not over how fucking beautiful you are,” he murmured.

You blushed and shook your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, smiling softly.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, leaning forward to press his lips to your jaw. Then your breast bone. Then lower. Then lower still. His hands were patient as he eased you down onto the bed again, following you, his body covering yours.

Every movement was gentle. Intimate. His hands on your waist, your ribs, your thighs. They explored your curves without urgency, like he was rediscovering you from the inside out.

When he finally pushed inside you, slow and steady, you both exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. Because in a way, you had.

You held onto him tightly, hands splayed across his back, your legs around his waist, and for a while, neither of you moved. You just breathed. Really feeling each other for the first time.

His forehead rested against yours again. “Okay?”

You nodded, your eyes shining up at him. “More than okay.”

Then his hips began to move. Deep, slow thrusts that weren’t about urgency or chasing release. They were about being close. Staying close. Feeling every press of his body against yours. Unspoken words, like an I missed you… or I’m sorry... and even I love you.

The room was quiet except for the sounds of your joined breaths, the faint rustle of sheets, the occasional soft moan when he hit a spot that made your toes curl. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice barely there. “You always have.”

And when you came, it was slow and aching and beautiful, and you did it with his name on your lips, his body wrapped around yours, his mouth at your temple whispering, “I love you.”

[sashaisready]

loool real

(thanks for reblogging! ❤️)

Feel The Burn: Chapter 14

Lance Tucker x Reader | Destroyer!Chris x Reader

Series Masterlist

Your casual situationship with notorious flirt Lance Tucker comes to a shocking head at a party, fortunately the mysterious stranger you meet that same night is more than happy to help take your mind off it.

Wordcount: Approx 2.2k

So sorry this took a while, life - y'know! But we're back and woooo it's all go. I don't think we've got many chapters left. As always, thank you for any comments/reblogs - your engagement is so appreciated.

“You think I can make it?” Chris asks you hopefully.

You pause before taking a leisurely sip of your drink, your eyes squinting as you scrutinise his chosen target. “Hmm…” you hide your smirk behind the glass, “I dunno…you’re not great at this…”

His jaw falls open in mock outrage, “wow. Even my own girlfriend doesn’t believe in me! Well…let’s see”.

He looks softer tonight, dressed in a grey zip-up sweater rather than his usual denim and leather. Tattoo covered; beard trimmed. Not that it matters to you, you like him in all forms. But you wonder if he made the effort especially just to impress your friends, the thought of which makes your heart ache. He looks back at you, his cerulean eyes sparkling despite the dimmed lights.

You grin and gesture for him to go ahead, and he shoots you a roguish wink in return. He picks up the ping pong ball and with a flick of the wrist it lands smoothly into the solo cup, splashing into the beer. A cheer rings out from the group around the table.

Kat applauds, “good shot!”

“Noiiice!” echoes Matt.

“Thanks guys…I’m glad someone is impressed,” he returns to the seat next to you and looks over at you pointedly. “Had to beat the naysayers…”

“Just trying to give you some motivation,” you shrug, “nothing like pure spite to spur someone on”.

“That’s true enough,” he laughs and takes your hand in his. You smile at the ease of this intimate gesture, it’s so effortless that it’s as if he’s been doing it for years.

He and Matt chat casually about sports, and you inwardly marvel at how easily Chris has slotted himself into the group, like a puzzle piece that should’ve always been there. He’s drinking with them, laughing along and cracking jokes. You can’t help but feel a sense of awe, and envy, that socialising and the mere act of ‘belonging’ seems to just be second nature to some. It’s always been much more of a challenge for you. But you’re not surprised, Chris is empathetic and curious, he makes people feel seen and heard. You also feel grateful to Matt that he’s making Chris feel welcome, given that he’s good friends with you-know-who…

As the game continues, Kat catches your attention and makes a show of gawking at you and Chris’ entwined fingers, smiling knowingly as her eyes meet yours again. ‘I like him’ she mouths.

‘Me too’ you mime back.

Your body slackens slightly with relief, you weren’t even aware of its tension before you feel yourself relax. It was important to you that your friends liked Chris, and vice versa – especially now things were getting more serious with him. Of course, you knew it would be fine on both sides, you liked Chris, your friends would too. Chris liked you, he’d like your friends too. But it was still validating to have that confirmed. You could see he was making an effort with them, even if that appeared effortless for him.

Chris gets up and taps the rim of your glass with one finger, “refill?”

You smile and nod, extending your glass as you thank him. He smiles at you as he takes it and heads to the kitchen with Matt in tow. You find that several different conversations have started around where you’re sitting but you don’t really have the ability to jump into any. You know you’re being silly; these people are your friends – they care about you and would think nothing of you joining in or interrupting, but the speed and rhythm of their chatter means there’s no clear ‘in’. You feel like you’re in your car waiting to merge into a busy road, but the traffic is so fast that you can’t find a suitable gap to drive into. The opposite of Chris, who would find a way to jump right in.

You smile as you quietly sit on the periphery and nudge yourself closer to Kat’s group, hoping to pinch a loose thread that you can latch yourself onto. With no point of focus, you quickly find your mind drifting.

Oh no. You’re being left alone with your thoughts.

Not good.

Every time this happens your mind ends up going back to you-know-who after you-know-what happened at your place last week.

And that was normal, right? To think about something weird that had happened in your life recently, something that had knocked the wind out of you because you wouldn’t have ever seen it coming in a million different lifetimes? Because you had so fundamentally misunderstood a dynamic that you’d previously assumed you had nailed down?

Sure, totally normal. But weirdly it still made you feel anxious every time it popped into your head.

You were happy with your decision. You’d chosen Chris, and there were no regrets in that. Lance had his chance, he’d missed it – he purposefully pushed you away when he got scared, launching a grenade in his moment of fear. And you can’t always fix the damage after an explosion.

Chris, on the other hand, had never shied away from how he felt about you. He’d been open on day one, his interest in you was loud and proud, practically written across his chest. It was never a game with him. He liked you; he made that clear, and if you didn’t reciprocate – fine, no harm, no foul. Rejection didn’t bother him or dent his ego because he never took it personally. If a woman wasn’t into him then she probably just had a different type, and he knew he was a bit rough around the edges for those who wanted a cleaner cut type of man. He couldn’t help that, so why dwell on it?

Lance was similar to Chris in some ways; he was certainly not afraid to speak his mind – didn’t really care if his loud or at times abrasive demeanour rubbed people up the wrong way. If anything, he thrives upon it. He knows who he is and if someone doesn’t like it, that’s a ‘them,’ problem. You’d learnt that quickly about him. That was another reason his ‘I was scared’ speech didn’t ring entirely true, when had Lance ever been scared to express himself? When had he ever shied away from honesty because he was worried about how it might land? It just didn’t make sense. You thought back to your time with him – was he telling the truth about his feelings? Were those glimpses of tenderness really snatched moments of affection that he allowed himself to reveal? Or was he just acting out because you’d moved on, and he simply wanted what he couldn’t have?

He was right about one thing, you had never said anything either. Never confessed your feelings to him. But that was different, wasn’t it? He hadn’t exactly given you an ‘in’ to do so, insisting on the casual terms. And unlike him, you felt things hard. The prospect of rejection, of being knocked back after appearing vulnerable, made you feel physically ill. You couldn’t stomach the idea that he may have said no, or worse, mocked you for it.

Still, you knew you had gone too far with how you spoke to him that night. Calling him broken, empty, unable to feel. It was nasty, mean. It wasn’t you. And it wasn’t true, of course he could feel. He wasn’t broken.

You had a right to be angry, but it didn’t give you a free pass to eviscerate him like that. You had considered reaching out and apologising, but that felt like opening a can of worms. At least this was a clean break for you both. Besides, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you now.

You find your glass sliding back into your hands as Chris leans over you, his lips gently brushing your temple as he passes you the now refilled drink. Your focus jerks back into the room as you smile and lean into him, your anxieties about the Lance incident retreating into that room in your brain where you try and keep the door securely locked.

“Great service – thank you,” you beam.

He returns your smile, and you concentrate on the warmth of his body on yours, the scent of his cologne, the softness of his sweater, the physical presence of him – grounding you as always.

🏍️

The night is a success. Chris blends himself so seamlessly into the group that any observer would think he’s known them all for years. You feel proud that your friends approve, grateful to Chris that he made the effort to win them over. As the evening winds down, the numbers dwindle as each of the attendees begin to make their way home. You say your goodbyes to the remnants of the party and thank Kat and Matt for their hospitality before strolling outside with Chris, your arms interlaced. Your glance at your phone, already blowing up with messages in the group chat about how cool they all think Chris is.

“Thanks for this,” you tell him softly as you head out to his car, “it means a lot that you want to get to know my friends”.

He shrugs, “of course I want to get to know them. They’re important to you, so they’re important to me. Besides…they all seem nice.”

“Yeah…they are,” you say fondly. “Good guys, all of them”.

“Hey…you remember this is where we met right?” he nods to the driveway where you took refuge after the blow up with Lance, the memory of Chris appearing from the side of the house still vivid and crisp in your mind.

“How could I forget? My knight in shining armour…”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Shining armour? Hm. More like rusted…corroded…”

You scoff and slap his arm, “don’t talk about yourself like that,” you scold. “It’s so shiny that it’s blinding. That’s what you’re always telling me, right? Accept the praise? Better practice what you preach…” you prod him in the side.

He chuckles, nodding in agreement, “yeah you’re right…my bad. I just mean, I’m not always a good guy, you know? So that kinda compliment throws me sometimes”. His voice is lower, quieter. The initial playful tone suddenly muted. A glimpse of vulnerability taps at his surface.

“What do you mean? Of course you’re a good guy,” you ask softly, masking the concern in your voice.

“I just mean I don’t always make good choices. That’s all”.

“Well, we all get it wrong sometimes. All make mistakes. Doesn’t mean you should beat yourself up about it. What are we talking about here, Chris?”

He stops, turns and looks at you. Really looks at you. His baby blue eyes, normally vibrant with exuberance and mirth, suddenly look darker, heavier. You’re unable to stop the furrow of your brow, the slight flutter of alarm in your chest.

“I just love how you see me,” is all he says.

“What do you mean? I just see you for who you are”, you reply.

He just nods, his mouth curls slightly at the side in a quirk of amusement but it feels hollow. “Yeah…yeah. I hope so,” he says enigmatically.

You don’t respond, unsure of the wider meaning of this conversation. It’s not like Chris to be cryptic. There’s something unsaid that won’t fully reveal itself. You’ve both reached his car now, stopping beside it. What does he mean? Where has this all come from?

You still can’t find the words, so you simply lean in and kiss him softly, hoping that it speaks for you. He reciprocates, taking your face in his hands as he kisses you back. It’s sweet, tender. Chris. You can taste the bourbon on his tongue.

“I know so,” you tell him as you pull away.

He smiles and uses his hands to mime a camera taking a photograph of you, his finger pressing on an invisible shutter button. “Just one for my memories,” he smiles as he opens your car door.

You hesitate, suddenly aware again of where you are. “You sure you’re good to drive? Pretty sure we were going drink for drink back there…”

He waves a hand dismissively, “oh, nah, don’t worry - I had a whisky at the start of the night but otherwise I was on those alcohol-free beers. They’re pretty good, taste just like the real thing.”

You nod, trying to retrieve the memory of what he was drinking throughout the evening. You saw him with beers, sure. They could’ve been the non-alcoholic ones. But you’re also pretty sure he had a glass like yours…

…but who can say. You’ve had a few drinks, not exactly a reliable narrator this evening. Besides, you trust Chris. He wouldn’t lie to you.

“Well, okay. If you’re sure. But I don’t mind getting an Uber, I can drive you back here in the morning to pick your car up.”

“No need, princess. Your chauffeur is in tip top shape, and your carriage awaits…”

His smile reaches his eyes again and the twinkle in them is back. The previous glimmer of something haunted no longer visible.

“Lead on, Macduff,” you laugh and slip into the passenger seat.

He moves around the car and gets into his own seat, winking at you as he starts the engine.

The slight ache in your stomach is probably just from too many drinks.

🏍️

[sashaisready]

that’s me in bed when I write/read smut

[sashaisready]

Skittle and a Hockey AU?? Well let’s settle in!!

Snarky banter with real feelings underneath?? One of my faves.

but I’m sure FWBs won’t cause any drama. (and of course bucky carries a condom even when on the ice)

Skating the Line

Pairing | star hockey player!bucky x curvy!reader

Word count | 10k words

Summary | You thought your time on the ice was over. As a former figure skater turned team physician, you landed a dream job with the world’s top hockey team, the last thing you expected was to be thrown back into the world you left behind— or to fall for the team’s star player.

James “Bucky” Barnes is everything you've sworn off: cocky, gorgeous, and dangerously charming. Your chemistry is instant, electric… and completely off-limits. But the more time you spend together, the harder it becomes to ignore the heat simmering beneath the surface.

He calls you Sunshine. You call him trouble. And when the line between professional and personal starts to blur, both of you will have to decide if you’re willing to risk it all for something real.

Tags | (18+) MDNI, hockey AU, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, oral sex, kind of enemies to lovers? friends with benefits, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, mild trauma, betrayal, emotional vulnerability, bucky barnes is a player, bucky barnes also has feelings

A/N | This is the outcome of my entry for @artficlly's spin the trope challenge. I got "hockey AU" and love confession

Part 1 | Part 2

Every game you were there. It was your job to be there. The Howling Commandos’ team physician. It was a coveted position, one that you’d secured with ease, much to the chagrin of many of your medical school colleagues. The opportunity to sit rink-side on every game played was the equivalent of having an all-season pass for the best hockey team around.

Skating had been your passion since you were a kid. You used to live on the ice, at the local rink in the summer and on the huge local pond when it froze over during the frigid winter months. But you were a small town girl with big dreams. That was until you were fourteen.

That’s when your life was turned completely upside down. That’s when the problems started. Your joints swelled. Your body ached. At first you thought it was from the repeated falls, but it happened when you were away from the ice too. Eventually your parents took you to see a doctor. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. That was what it was called. The thing that ruined your dreams of being a figure skater.

It wasn’t the pain that stopped you, it was the treatment. The medication affected everything. You gained weight, your bones became fragile and you broke several of them, but worst of all, it ruined your sleep. Over time, it stole all the joy from your life on the ice until, one day, the thought of it filled you with dread. That’s when you poured all your passion into something else. Medicine. The hours where you couldn’t sleep would find you slaving over medical texts instead. And now, here you were. Twelve years later, you were the lead physician for the World Champions on Ice.

It’s not where you’d pictured yourself. Ice hockey wasn’t something you’d ever shown any interest in before. You had imagined long hours in hospitals, even a private practice one day. But when the opportunity to join the Howling Commandos' medical staff came up, something in you stirred. Something you’d buried deep long ago.

When you filled out the application, you told yourself it was just another job. That you weren’t doing it for the ice. Or the nostalgia. Or the thrill of lacing up. But the first time you set foot on the ice again, you knew you were lying to yourself. You were early. It was a trait your father had instilled in you early in life. If you wanted to succeed, you needed to be on time. But there was no such thing as being on time. You were either early, or you were late.

The rink was empty when you arrived, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to don your custom made official team skates and test out the ice. You glided around silently, completely unaware of the audience of one you had acquired. A pair of steel blue eyes tracked your fluid motions, filled with awe… and someone else.

Over time you got to know the players. And there were a number of repeat offenders who you got to know better than others.

First there was Jim Mortia. Goalie.

You referred to him in your head as the backbone of the team. He was calm and unshakeable in the midst of total chaos. He could read the movements of the opposing team like he was analyzing a chess board. And he had the reflexes and instincts to match. The California born Japanese man was incredibly stubborn about his own injuries— always insisting you treat everyone else first— and one of the most observant people you’d ever met. You suspected he knew more about anyone on the team, including some of the coaching staff. And sometimes… he saw more than you wanted him to.

Next came Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan.

The mountain shaped man with his thick beard and even thicker New York accent had only one job: make the other team regret stepping on the ice. His defense only had one tactic— block the opposing team. Which wasn’t hard, his size made it near on impossible to pass him and his weight made his tackles a brutal take-down. His style was old-school, and so was his loyalty. Despite his gruff exterior, Dum Dum was surprisingly sweet and cracked jokes like his life depended on it. But you got the feeling that he would knock someone’s lights out if they so much as looked at you wrong.

Then there was Gabe Jones.

He was an excellent marksman. Opposing goalies feared his onslaught. He was cool-headed and moved like water on the ice. Sometimes, no one knew he had the puck until it was in the opposing team’s net. He was quiet in the locker room too, but when he had something to say, everyone listened. You liked Gabe. He respected people’s boundaries and was always the first to ask how you were doing instead of just listing off his complaints. He had a quiet laugh and an appreciation for jazz and sometimes you caught him humming old show tunes while icing his shoulder.

Steve Rogers was Captain.

He was the anchor of the team. Calm. Reliable. He wasn’t flashy, didn’t dazzle people with tricks up his sleeve. He was smart, clean, fierce and totally relentless. He really could do it all day. Where others might have used taunts to deter their opponents, Steve used strategy. And a moral compass that pointed north even under the worst kind of pressure. When he came in with injuries, he was polite. To a fault. Never complained. Always said thank you. He trusted you, and you trusted him right back. He was the kind of man you idealized. The kind that you’d expected to have been attracted to. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The picture of perfection.

At least that’s what you thought, until James Buchanan Barnes skated into your life.

The star of the team. Assistant captain. Media darling. He was the public face of the Commandos. Bucky skated like the rink belonged to him. So did the puck. His aim was flawless. Off the ice, he was annoyingly charming, dazzlingly handsome, exceptionally flirty and totally irresistible to man and woman alike.

He had skidded in late to practice when the coach was introducing you to the team. You remembered it like it was yesterday.

Coach Sam Wilson was half way through his pep talk. The season would be opening soon and they had games to prepare for. His voice echoed round the empty rink while the players stood around sizing you up.

“This is the new team physician,” Sam said. “She’s not here to babysit, so don’t act like children and she won’t treat you like them. You show her respect, you follow her instructions, and maybe— just maybe— you’ll spend less time in recovery and more time scoring goals.”

You offered the players a nervous smile. They were all practically double your size. A few of the players mumbled greetings, offered a reluctant wave or just nodded their acknowledgement. You felt yourself blush under fifteen pairs of eyes, all trying to figure out if you were a rookie, a hardass, or— worse— someone who didn’t get hockey.

Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, a door slammed open behind you, making you jump.

There was the sound of skates skidding across the rink and coming to a stop with a shower of ice particles over your brand new uniform. You knew who the latecomer was without an introduction.

Bucky Barnes. The team’s star center. The hotshot. Fan favorite. King of the last-minute goals. And apparently, zero concept of punctuality.

Coach Wilson didn’t miss a beat. Without even turning his head, he barked out a question.

“Barnes! You wanna tell your teammates why you’re fifteen minutes late to the first official practice of the season?”

Bucky’s voice called out, bright and breathless, in response. “Sorry, Coach. Got held up in the lobby.”

“Held up?” Sam asked skeptically.

You turned to look at him. Helmet in hand. Perfect hair. Beautiful eyes. Signature grin which had women throwing themselves at him at every street corner. “There was a crowd. Kids, mostly. Pens and jerseys. You know how it is.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Didn’t have the heart to say no.”

A few of the guys chuckled appreciatively, but Sam stayed stone faced.

“You want sign autographs through playoffs, or you wanna get on the damn ice?”

“Sir, no sir,” Bucky saluted Sam, trying to keep his face serious.

“That’s it, Barnes, extra sprints for you.”

“Awww, come on, coach,” Bucky groaned. “Just wanted the kids to start the season off right, s’all.”

Sam huffed through his nose. “Skate your ass over here and make a proper apology to our new team member before I’ll have you doing sprints til you puke.”

Bucky pushed off, gliding around the rest of the team until he came to a halt right in front of you. He skated like he was born for it.

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

Coach Wilson grunted, unmoved.

He turned to you and gave a bow, flourishing his helmet around before looking up with the biggest, most shit-eating grin.

“And you must be our new doc.”

You waved your hand over the stitching on your jacket which spelled out medic.

“Sorry for the dramatic entrance,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Nice to have you here, Sunshine.”

You blinked in surprise. “Sunshine? Really?”

His grin widened, like this was just the reaction he was waiting for. “Suits you. All wrapped up warm and serious, shining just a little too bright for this grim bunch.”

“Thought you were the star of the team, Barnes.”

“One of many,” he pointed over at his teammates, before taking a step forward so he was only a few inches from your face. “But you, you’re THE star. Special.”

You thought your heart stopped beating right there and then. The way he looked at you, the impish sparkle in his eyes spelled trouble.

“Fifteen minutes late and you’re handing out nicknames?” you answered sarcastically, trying to regain your composure.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good first impression.”

You opened your mouth to reply— something sassy but ideally keeping it professional— but Sam beat you to it.

“Barnes,” he barked, “move.”

With one last wink, Bucky turned, pushing off and rejoining the team with that same effortless glide.

You were left standing on the edge of the rink, trying to pretend that your heart rate hadn’t just spiked in the same way it used to when you were about to try out a new figure skating routine.

No. 

You were the team’s physician. An adult. This wasn’t high school. Or a romance novel. And James Buchanan Barnes was not going to derail your career with a charming smile.

You turned back and skated to the bench. One of the ways you wanted to prepare was to examine each player’s skating technique, to help you prepare for potential injuries and ways to avoid them. But every time the men started practicing their maneuvers, your eyes were drawn to one player. Bucky.

One word still floated in your head. In his voice.

Sunshine.

Damn him. You were screwed.

It didn’t take you long to find your rhythm. The team was chaotic, incredibly loud, a little rough around the edges, but they were surprisingly good company. And every single one of them showed you the utmost respect and often tried to take care of you. None of them knew about your skating background— it wasn’t something you talked about— so they frequently flanked you when you were called for on the rink to assess an injury.

It tickled you, being surrounded by these giants. It was nice to know they cared. Each of them had their own way of showing their appreciation. Dum Dum had come up with a variety of nicknames for you, Jim would often bring you cups of tea once he found out it was your go to beverage. Gabe shared with you his wide range of music, recommending his favorite tracks and the history that accompanied them. Steve was a little more reserved. Dependable and caring. He looked after his team and you were a part of it. “Need anything before I head out?” he’d always ask, like it was second nature to make sure everyone else was good before thinking of himself.

And then there was Bucky.

He was a tough nut to crack. One minute he was on the ice, laser-focused, impossible to catch, and the next he would be leaning against the squat rack in the weights room, surrounded by a gaggle of women who had somehow infiltrated the private facility and were fawning over his muscular torso.

On this particular occasion, you’d been passing by to pick up some resistance bands for a rehab assignment. The sight in front of you made you pause. One of the women— tall and blonde with a model-worthy figure— was laughing a little too loudly at something he had said. On his other side was a redhead with a high ponytail and shockingly long legs who had her hand on his bicep which he was flexing in a less than subtle manner for their benefit. You watched him murmur something in her ear, making her giggle.

You rolled your eyes at the visual. But inside your heart ached. You should have known better than to read anything into the smile he’d given you on the first day. This was the real Bucky Barnes. Flirting was probably something he did between reps. Trying to avoid drawing attention, you quietly bent down to pick up the bands you had come for and sneak out. 

You thought you’d made it; you were waddling down the hallway and were about to turn the corner and disappear down the hall when you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Instinctively, you glanced back.

It was Bucky. He was jogging to catch up to you.

“Hey, Sunshine.”

There was that smile again. Within seconds, he was at your side. A strong arm draped casually over your shoulders and he tugged you gently into his side as he fell into step with you. The first thing you noticed was his solid presence— warm and effortless. The next thing was the scent of his cologne, subtle and devastating: something clean, masculine, and of course, disgustingly expensive.

“You always sneak around corners like that,” he asked, voice low near your ear, “or is this just a ‘running away from me’ kind of thing?” You could hear the smirk without even looking up.

“Didn’t realize I needed to schedule my exit,” you answered snarkily.

Bucky’s lips curled up further. “Not usually. But when someone sees me getting groped by gym groupies and bolts like I’ve committed a crime, I gotta assume something’s up.”

“Didn’t think you noticed I was there,” you said coldly, looking forward again. “You seemed pretty… busy.”

He hummed against your ear and his hand gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’d be surprised at what I notice, Sunshine.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped. And you did your best to ignore it.

“Besides,” he went on, not noticing the change in your expression, “I was only half-listening to what they were saying.”

“Oh? Which half?” you asked sarcastically. “The compliments or the giggling?”

“Neither,” he chuckled. I was trying to see if you’d look back.”

His words gave you pause and you wondered if he was serious. You cast him a sideways glance to see if he was serious. “Why?”

He shrugged. And in the most shameless tone, he said, “Because I like it when you look at me like you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

Your eyes widened and your face burned. “I do not—” you spluttered.

“Sure you do,” he teased, pulling you a little closer. “It’s cute.”

You huffed and tried to wiggle out from under his arm, but he held you there gently. Not forceful. Just insistent.

“Come on, Sunshine. Don’t get all shy on me now,” he murmured, dropping the cocky tone and replacing it with something surprisingly sincere. “Listen— I was actually on my way to find you.”

That surprised you. “Why?”

“Team’s going out tonight. MacLaren's. Nothing wild or fancy. Just the guys, great beer and darts. Someone will probably get too drunk and hit their head.” He glanced down at you with those piercing blue eyes. “You should come.”

You raised a brow. “Me? At a team night out?”

“Yeah, you.” His thumb brushed the curve of your shoulder. It was casual enough but didn't fail to make your skin tingle. “You’re one of us now. And it’s about time you had some fun.”

For a moment you hesitated, scanning his handsome features for signs of mirth— was he teasing, or even being sarcastic? But when you looked into those dazzling blue eyes, all you found was sincerity— and was that a hint of nervousness you detected?

“I don’t know…” you started, but he cut in smoothly.

“If it helps, I promise not to flirt with anyone else tonight. Just you.”

There it was, that trademark smile. You felt your stomach do a whole somersault this time.

“Have you flirted with me before?”

His grin widened. “Sunshine, I’ve been flirting with you since the moment you skated into my life.”

You stared at him, stunned for a beat too long.

Then, before you knew it, he winked— because of course he did— and added, “Seven o’clock. Wear something you can beat me at darts in.”

And just like that, he peeled his arm off your shoulders and walked backward down the hall pointing at you with both hands then mimicking a tennis serve, as if to say that the ball was now in your court. Only when he tripped over himself did he turn around, not before tossing you one last smile over his shoulder before vanishing around the corner.

You were left standing in the middle of the corridor, clutching the resistance bands to your chest, wondering how the hell you were supposed to get any work done for the rest of the day.

MacLaren’s was buzzing. The team had taken over the back half of the bar. All the players were crowded around a chaotic mix of pitchers, fries, onion rings and rows and rows of shot glasses. They had taken over at the pool tables and their laughter rang louder than the cheesy music. Dum Dum was holding court with two pool cues and zero coordination. It was shocking for a man who had such precision on the ice.

Gabe was fiddling with the jukebox, attempting to make it play something with more taste and Steve was trying to stop a couple of the rookies from gouging each other's eyes out with darts.

As soon as you entered, Jim Morita grabbed you, wanting to discuss his hydration routines. Not your idea of a good time, but you endured it for a full ten minutes before you felt a warm hand brush the small of your back.

You didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

Bucky.

Up close, under the dim lights of the bar he looked beautiful— like he’d walked off the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine. He was in the team colours— black skinny jeans (which stretched dangerously to cover his thick thighs) and navy henley (which accentuated his eyes) with his sleeves pushed up over his forearms. And there was that scent again. 

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, his familiar grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Come with me?”

“Where?” You raised a brow, suspiciously. 

He leaned in, voice low in your ear but clear against the buzz of the crowd around you. “Somewhere I can actually hear you.”

Without waiting for your answer, he grabbed the empty glass from your hand and pointed toward the booths tucked away near the back of the bar. Clearly a place reserved for couples to make out. You hesitated, but Bucky had grabbed two full glasses of beer and sauntered off. So against your better judgement, you followed.

The noise from the rest of the team dulled as you walked, until you could just about make out the tune from the jukebox and the sound of distant laughter. Bucky waved you into one of the empty booths, and patted at the spot next to him. Instead of sitting beside him, you slid into the seat across from him, heart pounding in your chest for reasons you didn’t totally understand.

What was even more unnerving was as you sat down, he didn’t immediately wink at you, or crack a joke. He just watched you, with a soft smile on his face. One you hadn’t seen before.

“You look good tonight,” he said quietly, with more sincerity in his voice than you had ever heard before.

You snorted softly. “Did you just drag me away from the rest of the team to badly flirt with me in private? Ashamed of your moves, Barnes?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nah… well— maybe a little. But, no, not why I asked you here.”

“Then why?” You tilted your head curiously.

He leaned back, arms over the soft back of the long seat behind him and shrugged lightly.

“‘Cause I realized that you’ve been with the team for weeks now, and I still don’t actually know you,” he said, leaning forward onto the table now. “Not the med bay version, at least. Not ‘Doc Sunshine.’ I mean the real you.”

Your chest tightened, not expecting to hear that. So naturally you deflected.

“That’s because you’ve been too busy flirting with anything that moves to get to know me,” you said with a smirk, taking a sip of beer to hide the flush on your face.

Bucky ignored your snark. “The team loves you, you know that right? They used to hide their injuries until Coach threatened to bench them so they would see the last doctor. Now they’re lining up at your door.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing?”

“Jealous that I treat everyone equally? That you don’t get any special attention?”

Bucky laughed again, blue eyes sparkling bright in the darkness. “Oh I definitely get special attention.”

You scoffed. “Oh please.”

Bucky gave a slow shrug, watching you too carefully for it to be casual. “I so do. With Steve, you’re all business— tight wrap, straight lines, you're done in under a minute. But with me…” He tilted his head, mouth tugging into a smirk. “You take your time.”

“Oh please, I’m thorough with everyone.”

“Thorough, yes, just efficient,” he said, and his voice dropped a little lower. “You’re more careful with me. Like you think I might fall apart if you wrap too hard.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“And you always press your thumb right here—” He tapped the inside of his wrist, just below the bone. “Same spot, every time. I know it's not about assessing the bones, because you always do that before you start wrapping.”

He watched your expression carefully as the blush rose from your neck, covered your cheeks and tinged your ears. Your stomach flipped.

You forced a scoff, putting down your beer and trying to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt. “Maybe I’m just making sure your delicate ego stays intact.”

His smirk deepened. “So you admit you’re paying special attention to me,” he cried with delight, slapping his hands on the table 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes. Maybe I’m just taking my time because I don’t trust you not to pass out from a paper cut.”

His grin widened, like he loved that you were scrambling behind all that bravado. “Uh huh. That why you always smooth the tape down twice? Real thorough of you, Sunshine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I have to do it that way so it shuts you up for thirty seconds. Miracle, really.”

Bucky leaned back in the booth, clearly enjoying himself. “There are far better ways that you could get me to shut up, sweetheart. This way, you just keep giving me more to talk about.”

You crossed your arms tightly because you were afraid that he would actually be able to see your heart through your chest. “Pretty sure my job description doesn’t include being your entertainment,” you answered scathingly.

He leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “Pretty sure you like doing it anyway.”

You blinked, heart thudding traitorously in response to his words.

“I—” you started, then caught yourself, mouth snapping shut.

Bucky just smirked and sat back victoriously, his gaze very much still fixed on you. It felt like he was cataloguing every one of your expressions and reactions— what made you smile, what got you flustered. Suddenly his usual rink-side antics and charm vanished. Gone was the swagger but not his smile.

“You know,” he started after a moment’s silence. “I’ve been watching you. You don’t just fix people because it’s your job— you actually care.”

You raised an eyebrow at him “Is that… an actual compliment?”

“Just an observation,” he said quietly. “You make us feel like more than slabs of meat with skates on.”

You barked out a short laugh, suddenly uncomfortable at his sincerity, deflecting his words with sarcasm.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Barnes. I didn’t bring enough tissues for that sorta thing.”

He smirked. “Bet you brought gauze though. What do you think we’d find in that little bag you brought?”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, shaking your head.

“And you’re smiling. I’m right, aren’t I?”

He was and you were. Shit.

He pushed himself off the back of the seat and dropped his elbows on the table, leaning across it. His voice dropped a notch in volume. “So tell me something real.”

You gave him a withering look. “Like what?” you challenged.

“Something none of the guys know. Something about you.”

This caught you off guard. Was he really interested? You couldn't think over the way your heart fluttered.

A dozen answers came to mind— easy ones, safe ones. So many things you could’ve said— you hated cardio, or that you had a weird thing for horror movies, or that you found ice cream too cold. 

But you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you hesitated. You bit your lip and your eyes dropped to the half drink beer glass in front of you. You ran the tip of your finger over the condensation while you worked up the courage to tell him your story. The real one. 

When you glanced up again, his expression hadn't changed. His dazzling blue eyes were fixed solely on you. Not pressing, but curious. 

“It’s just…” you started slow but stopped.

He waited. No pressure. No urging. Just silent support.

��This job… it wasn’t really where I thought I’d end up,” you said finally, ending with a little laugh. “I didn’t even like hockey growing up.”

He tilted his head, eyebrows rising up in surprise. But he stayed quiet.

You shrugged lightly, fingertips drawing patterns on the side of the glass with the water droplets. 

“But I loved the ice. I always loved the ice.”

You saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. 

“I figured as much,” he responded softly. “You don’t move like someone who’s new to it.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Your first day,” he said with a knowing smile. “I saw you on the rink, you were doing laps before anyone else showed up. The way you moved— it was beautiful.”

He paused, like he was searching for the right words.

“You weren’t just skating. You were… gliding. Like you were a part of the ice rather than being on it.”

Your chest tightened. You had no idea that anyone had been there that day, let alone watching you. But he had been. Just like he was watching you now.

It was hard to know what he was thinking, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. So you looked away, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I used to be a figure skater,” you said quietly.

That got his full attention, but he still didn’t speak, didn't interrupt. And that's when you finally looked at him. 

“Used to have plans. The most amazing routines. The biggest dreams. I wanted to compete in the Olympics. Well, that used to be the plan before …”

“Before?” he asked gently.

“Before the arthritis started.” You forced a breath. “And then it all kind of vanished overnight.”

The weight of your revelation settled between you. Not dramatic. Just honest.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“I still love the ice,” you added, as though he hadn't spoken, lost in your own reverie. “Guess I found a different way to stay on it.”

Bucky nodded slowly, letting you have a moment before he said anything.

“Funny, isn’t it? How the thing you love most can hurt you the deepest. And you still chase it anyway.”

You looked at him then— really looked— and for a second you forgot where you were. Forgot the noise of the bar, the rest of the team, the half-empty glasses in front of you.

Your chest tightened again. This version of Bucky— soft, focused— was a rare sighting. But it was the real man under all the bluster and bravado. And it terrified you and made you swoon all at once. It made you want things you couldn’t afford to want.

So you said the only thing you could think of to break the spell.

“Are you planning on sleeping with me to get out of doing recovery exercises?” 

He smirked, but it was a touch slower than usual. “Would it work?”

You grinned back, grateful for the return of the overly flirtatious banter, the familiar rhythm. “Not a chance.”

He raised his glass. “To full-contact physio then.”

You clinked yours against his. “To concussions and poor choices.”

And just like that, the moment had passed. But that feeling? It lingered.

One of the team had hollered for Bucky soon after that, demanding he come and assist with a tie break decision on the latest pool battle tournament. He flashed you a smile and a wink as he bounced off to settle the score.

You’d drifted back to the crowd after that— feeling relieved… maybe? Or a little rattled. The men had already ordered another round of shots. Dum Dum was now holding three pool cues and claiming he could play left-handed if “someone taped his right arm behind his back.” Steve was playing referee again. The music was louder. The mood, lighter.

Bucky wasn't there. You tried not to look around for him, telling yourself you didn't need to. You tried. You really did. But it was like you craved his presence, the way he made you feel. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

But when you finally glanced around, he was nowhere to be seen. Not with the team, not at the bar, not by the jukebox. You glanced back toward the booths but he wasn’t there either.

Steve sidled up beside you as you were sipping the last of your beer. And you were grateful for his calming presence. 

“Hope we haven't scared you off from any future nights out,” he said softly, nodding toward the team's rowdy antics.

“Nah,” you answer in the same tone. “Grateful that you guys asked me to join you.”

Steve gave you a warm smile. “You’re officially one of us now. Survived your first team night out.”

“It was good of Bucky to invite me.”

Suddenly, like your eyes were drawn to him, you spotted him near the door. He was leaning over someone— a woman. Now that you looked closer, you realized it was the same one who had been clinging to his bicep at the gym. 

Blonde. Snatched waist. Long legs. Perfectly done makeup with lusciously painted lips. She laughed airily at everything he said. And she held his gaze.

He reached down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before leaning down to whisper against it.

Your stomach flipped. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were being squeezed like a vice. Of course he wasn't interested in someone like you when he could have someone like her.

It felt wrong, sulking in the shadows watching them but you couldn't seem to tear yourself away.

He looked up once, eyes skimming the bar like he was searching for something. Or someone. But then without another glance backwards, he opened the door. She walked out first. He followed immediately after. He didn’t look back.

You blinked hard, dragging your gaze back to the bar, not wanting Steve to catch your eyes lingering. Taking a slow breath, you forced yourself to focus on the rest of the team.

Beside you, Steve didn’t say a word.

He didn’t mention Bucky at all. Didn’t even glance at the door. But you knew he had seen. He knew everything about his team.

He just nudged a fresh glass of beer into your hands. “This round’s on me.”

You nodded, fingers curling around the cool glass without looking at him.

“Thanks, Cap.”

He stayed beside you while your brain spiraled. 

The next day after practice, the team was stoked. Riding the high energy of a perfect practice session. Morale was high even though their bodies were battered and bruised.

You were in the med bay, as always, ready to deal with the stream of grown men who would whine and wince over the smallest injuries. You were ready, running through your trial and tested recovery plans and icing regimes.

Bucky made a beeline for you the second he stepped off the ice.

You had just finished splinting a rookie’s fingers and slapped an ice pack over it before sending him on his way. Normally you would have looked up and smiled when you caught sight of him in your periphery, but today there was nothing. No smile. No acknowledgement. 

He smirked to himself. Alright, Sunshine. Let’s see how long you can ignore me.

He strolled over, wearing only his compression tee. “Morning, Sunshine,” he said, grinning, eyes soft.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t even glance up from your chart.

“Oof. Tough crowd,” he smirked, not letting your silence deter him.

He stepped closer, leaned casually on the counter next to your tray of supplies. Close enough for the scent of his aftershave mingled with sweat to drift over.

Still you said nothing.

“You lose a bet or something?” he asked with a frown. “Or is this just the vibe now?”

You finally looked up. Your face was unreadable, your voice clipped. “Do you need something strapped or are you just here to make noise?”

His eyebrows rose, caught between surprise and confusion at your tone.

“You’re in a mood today, huh?” he teased.

You turned away to hide your scowl, rifling through the tape drawer. “No mood. Just work.”

He narrowed his eyes, still grinning, but it was tighter now. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Why would I be mad?” you asked, your voice still icy.

He shrugged. “Dunno. You usually call me out when I’m being a pain in the ass. Now you’re just… cold.”

You turned around with the ice pack and gestured toward the table. “Shirt off. Let’s go.”

He smirked as he tugged his shirt over his head. “If you wanted to see me naked, Sunshine, all you had to do was ask.”

A fresh purple bruise was blooming near his ribs, but you couldn't take your eyes off the smaller bruises at his neckline.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you snapped.

“Hard not to when I’ve got you glaring at me like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t even roll your eyes. Just slapping an ice pack against his chest, pressing a little harder than necessary into the bruised spot on his ribs.

He winced. “Shit— okay, you are mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, teeth gritted together. 

“Then what is this?”

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

“This is me being your team physician.”

His smile faltered just for a second. But only a second before he put his charming facade back on.

“You’re a lot more fun when you’re roasting me.”

You stepped back, stripping off your gloves. “You’re good to go,” you said dismissively.

“That’s it?” he asked, voice rising and octave.

“That’s it,” you answered without changing yours.

He stayed seated, staring at you as you moved across the room. Something was off— he could feel it now. You weren’t teasing him. Your warmth had vanished. You weren’t his sunshine anymore.

But instead of asking the hard question, instead of acknowledging the tension pulling between you like a taut string, he leaned back and winked at you with all the bravado he could muster.

“Well, I’ll win you over at tomorrow's game.”

You didn’t respond.

He finally slid off the table and left with a cheerful, “See you out there, Sunshine.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, you let out the breath you’d been holding with a sigh, still wondering if he knew he had shattered your heart the night before.

Bucky wandered into the locker room, the ice pack still clutched against his chest. Most of the guys were filtering out, cracking jokes or heading toward the showers.

Dum Dum passed by, towel slung over his shoulder, a protein bar already half-devoured in one hand. He stopped mid-bite, squinting at Bucky’s exposed torso.

“Jesus, Barnes,” he said around a mouthful. “You been in a fight or a porno?”

Bucky glanced down at his chest, peering at the purple crescents blooming near his collarbone.

“Damn,” Gabe muttered, stepping up behind him with a smirk, stating the obvious. “That’s not from the game.”

Jim, drying off nearby, chimed in. “I thought we agreed: no leaving visible evidence. You’re ruining the team’s illusion of professionalism.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I tripped,” he deadpanned with a careless shrug.

“Onto someone’s mouth?” Gabe snorted.

“Repeatedly,” Dum Dum added. “Judging by that mark, she’s either really into you or trying to eat you alive.”

Bucky just smirked proudly which got a chorus of groans and whoops from the guys still around. Dum Dum threw the wrapper of his protein bar at him.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re jealous,” Bucky retorted, dropping his shorts and heading into the shower.

Bucky was toweling sweat off his neck when Steve appeared beside him, arms folded, a look on his face that said this wasn’t going to be casual.

“Got a minute?”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah, sure. What's up?”

They sat side by side on the bench. And for a second, Steve said nothing. Bucky waited, rubbing the towel against his shoulder like the silence didn’t bother him.

It did.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky glanced sideways. “That was a winning practice strategy. You're welcome.”

“Cut the crap, Buck. I'm talking about last night.”

Bucky’s grin faltered.

Steve stared at him. “You just disappeared last night.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I left with someone. Big deal.”

“It is when you spent the whole night flirting with someone else.”

Bucky stiffened, jaw tightening. “You keeping track now?” he asked, scathingly

Steve shook his head. “No. Just... looking out for the people who get caught in your wake.”

Steve regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, but it was too late.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky said, voice going cold.

Steve raised his hands, trying to defuse. “Buck, you're my best friend, but I have a responsibility to this team. And sometimes I just think maybe you don’t see the damage.”

“Damage?” Bucky repeated, like it tasted bitter. “You think I’m damaging her?”

“No! I think…” Steve hesitated. “I think you act like none of this matters. And it does. To her. Probably more than you’re willing to admit.”

Bucky stood abruptly, like he couldn’t sit still a second longer. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he shouted.

Steve followed slowly, keeping his voice low. “Maybe not. But I do know what it looks like when someone’s trying to prove their worth to someone who never gives a damn.”

Bucky froze. But Steve kept going.

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself just to prove something to him.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell— sharp, shallow— like Steve had physically struck him. 

“Don’t you bring him into this.”

Steve tried again, hands open. “I’m not—”

“You are!” Bucky’s voice was a low growl now. “You think just ‘cause you grew up with decent parents and a goddamn support system, you can read me like a playbook? You think I haven’t heard that shit before? ‘You’re not enough, James. You think talent’s enough? You don’t have what it takes.’”

Steve took a step back, his heart sinking.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No. I won't ever be good enough for you, either.”

He shouldered past Steve, yanking his duffel bag off the bench with an angry swipe.

“Next time, you can psychoanalyze someone who gives a shit.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving a guilty looking Steve staring after him, wondering how trying to help had made things ten times worse.

You knew from the moment the puck dropped that something was off. It wasn’t the team— they were dialed in, sharp, focused. But Bucky?

Bucky was downright feral. He was playing like he had something to prove. 

Every pass, every shot was laced with something vicious. Every check hit a little too hard. Every sprint faster than normal. And every time the other team so much as breathed near Steve or Gabe, Bucky was there, shoving, growling, taking up space like he owned the whole rink.

Soon the opposing team were playing just as dirty and the game was rapidly descending into a brutal bloodbath.

Try as you might, you couldn't keep a neutral expression behind the glass. You were on the edge of your seat, fingers curled tight around the edge of your clipboard as you bit down on your bottom lip.

Half way through the first period, Bucky was checked so hard against the boards that you gasped and stood up. You stepped towards the edge of the rink, heart lodged in your throat, but ready to rush over if needed. But he jumped back up right away, shaking off the tackle like it was nothing.

But you knew it wasn't nothing. You could tell from the way he skated, the way he blinked, like he was seeing stars. Steve skated over to him and whispered something, but Bucky ignored him, skating away.

“He’s playing angry,” Jim muttered beside you, watching the ice.

You nodded, biting the inside of your mouth. “I know.”

“That’s not good.”

No. It wasn’t.

He wasn’t playing for the team tonight. He was playing for something he wouldn’t name. And all you could do was watch helplessly.

By the second period, the score was tight. 2–2. And the atmosphere was tense. Every single movement on the ice felt frantic.

Minutes before the end, Bucky broke away with the puck. Skating toward the opposing team with a gleam in his eyes that you had never seen before. There was a fire that burned bright, but it wasn't passion, no, it wasn't the love of the game fueling him. This fire burned like the ice below him.

He struck the puck as three opposing players surged towards him in an attempt to block his play. But they were too late. 

GOAL!

The arena erupted.

But that didn't stop the momentum of the players in the rink. Two of the defensemen slammed into him, shoulders slamming into his chest and sending him flying off the floor.

Bucky went down hard, hitting the ice with a thud that silenced the roar in your ears.

Your body was moving before your mind had the chance to catch up with your emotions. Kit in hand, you sped across the ice with long purposeful strikes. You tried to control your breathing and push down the bile in your throat as you shoved his teammate’s aside and dropped to your knees.

Don't be unconscious. Don't be unconscious.

As you got there, he was already trying to sit up, hands braced against the cold floor and shaking his head as if it would clear the cobwebs from his mind.

You grabbed him by the helmet to stop him moving his head.

“Hey,” you said, tone sharp but even. “Look at me.”

His eyes met yours. A little unfocused. A little glassy.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” you said, gently. Your voice was warmer than it had been yesterday.

He was clutching his ribs, the bruise he already had was probably bigger now. Somehow his lip had split and his knuckles were red raw from punching someone earlier.

“You should come off.”

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there on the ice, blinking slowly, like he wasn’t sure if getting up was something he could even do.

You shifted slightly, unbuckling his helmet and taking it off. “Can you follow my finger, Buck?” you asked, moving it from side to side.

He did so without any trouble.

“Think you can get up?”g

Bucky nodded.

“Then come off the ice, Bucky. Please.”

You weren't sure if it was what you said or how you said it, but something cracked behind those brilliant blue eyes and he finally gave in. 

He nodded again, all the fight gone from his form.

You helped him to his feet. Slowly. Carefully. He winced as you looped your arm under his to keep him steady. He didn't resist. 

The arena thundered with cheers, but it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like you were both underwater. He raised his arm to the crowd before skating out with you. 

Neither of you spoke as you led him down the tunnel, skates clicking sharply against the rubber floor in the tunnel. His fingers twitched just slightly where they gripped your shoulder.

And you didn’t miss the way Steve watched the two of you go.

The moment you reached the med bay, Bucky slumped over onto the examination couch, his adrenaline levels crashing down. You approached him quietly, helping him out of his gear. Silently, you undid his laces and put guards on the blades before pulling them off his feet.

He was able to sit up enough for you to pull his jersey over his head. Then, you snapped on a pair of gloves and got to work. His ribs were a darker purple than they had been yesterday and you ran your fingers over the now faded love bites, before moving to cleaning his split lip.

Once you were done you moved back to checking his pupils — clearer now, but still a bit fogged. And for some reason it made you angry.

“How many fingers?” you asked, holding up three.

“Two,” he mumbled, then corrected himself with a small, dazed smirk. “Three. I’m kidding. I’m not concussed.”

You didn’t smile.

“You’re not funny.”

“You used to think I was,” he said, sadly.

Your hands stilled for a beat before resuming their actions, brisk and clinical.

“What the hell was that out there?” you hissed finally, pulling out tape to strap his ribs. “You cracked a rib, Bucky.”

He rolled his eyes, the smirk back in place.  He was looking more his usual but obnoxious self as time went on. “Please. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stepped between his knees, rubbing salve to the bruise below his collarbone a little harder than necessary. He hissed.

“Jesus, Sunshine, take it easy.”

“I am taking it easy,” you snapped. “Because if I wasn’t, I’d be yelling at you for acting like an idiot. For playing like you're invincible. You’re not superman, no matter how much you want the world to think you are. You break, Bucky. Just like the rest of us.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” he said, voice dropping into that teasing drawl.

You shoved the tape roll into his hand. “Here. You wanna be reckless? Strap your own damn ribs.”

That made him go still. But he caught your wrist before you could pull away.

“Hey.”

You didn’t look at him.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, hard. “You scared me.”

There it was. The truth laid bare.

His hand softened around your wrist. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you— charged and cracking. Then he broke it.

“You gonna kiss me, Sunshine,” he murmured, “or just keep patching me up and pretending there's nothing between us?”

You looked at him, eyes locking. Then finally something snapped inside you.

The next second, your hands were in his hair, his mouth on yours, and everything else went quiet.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. The slight clash of teeth as you found a rhythm amidst the heat. The sound of you moaning against his lips was something he'd been waiting years for.

He tugged you between his legs and his hands worked under your shirt with an urgency that sent a bolt of electricity straight up your spine. You gasped as his palms slid up your back, rough and hot against your skin. In return, you dragged your fingers down his bruised chest, making him flinch and hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck, Sunshine— if you’re gonna be that mean, at least let me get my pants off first,” he growled against your lips. “Come on, shirt off.” He was already tugging the fabric over your head.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t stop to think. You let it fall to the floor as you climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat on the exam couch. His hands gripped your hips, greedy, like he was trying to brand the shape of your body into his palms. Your mouth found him again, open and hungry.

He groaned into your mouth as you rolled your hips down over him, the friction sharp through the thin barrier of your leggings and his compression shorts. His fingers flexed, tightening on your waist as he pulled you closer, his mouth dragging down your throat.

He groaned when your nails dragged down his bruised chest, the pain making him break from the kiss.

“Thought I told you to take it easy,” he breathed.

You pressed your mouth to the bruise this time, gentler. “Maybe next time don’t scare the shit out of me on the ice, and I’ll consider being nice.”

His laugh was low and rough. “So I’ve gotta almost die to get your soft side? That right, Sunshine?”

You rocked your hips again, much slower this time, smirking as you watched his breath hitch.

“Not my fault you only respond to pain and sarcasm,” you murmured, dragging your nails up his sides, dipping and rising along the curves of each of his ribs, gentler still— but still enough to make him flinch.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Sunshine, you’re gonna kill me. What happened to that bedside manner?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Don’t be such a baby. I thought you were supposed to be the tough one, Barnes?”

His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “I am. But you keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last long enough to prove it.”

You grinned and rolled your hips again, deliberately slow. “Guess you better shut up and focus then.”

A deep, guttural sound emanated from his throat, and then his hands were in your waistband, tugging at them with an impatient insistence.

“You got any rules for your med bay?” he muttered.

You arched a brow. “Yeah. Don’t get blood on the floor. No one said anything about coming on it.”

His laugh was wicked, right before he ducked his head and bit down on the curve of your shoulder. “Jesus. You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he muttered before helping you off the couch.

His fingers hooked under your waistband and yanked your leggings down. You helped, kicking them off in a rush, your underwear coming right off with them.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, eyes raking over your bare thighs as he leaned back slightly to take it all in, lips parted, pupils blown.

You climbed back onto his lap.

“You really gonna ride me right here?”

You leaned forward, gripping his jaw and tilting it so your mouths almost touched. “Unless you’d rather cry about your bruises and go home alone.”

His grin was downright sinful. “You know I love a little pain,” he murmured, voice rough as he pressed his forehead to yours for a beat, breath hot against your face. 

Then he leaned back and slapped your ass with a quick sting that made you jolt. “Up.”

“Why?” you frowned.

He smirked. “So I can get my damn pants off before you ruin them… or I do.”

You stood again, just long enough for him to shove his compression shorts down, groaning low in his throat as he finally freed himself. His cock slapped against his stomach, hard and already flushed.

“See?” he muttered, voice thick. “Told you you’d kill me.”

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you noticed his size.

“No complaints?” he asked cockily as he saw your reaction. He grabbed your hand and pulled you back across his thighs.

You shook your head, moaning in ecstasy as he guided the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, dragging it through you once, twice. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“Condom?” you asked, your voice rasping.

“Back pocket,” he grunted.

You fished it out, tearing it open and rolling it on without ceremony. He throbbed in your hands, hot against your palms despite the latex barrier.

He caught your hips, guiding you into place, his hands firm, but breath ragged. Then slowly, you sank down onto him. Your breath stuttered. The stretch was intense, but it was the fullness that hit first. It was a sweet, aching pressure that made your entire body feel alive. It started in your core, flaring out in hot little bursts all over— up your spine, across your thighs, curling behind your knees and down your toes like sparks under your skin.

Bucky let out a breathless curse, fingers flexing hard around your hips like he needed to ground himself against the pleasure. “Jesus, Sunshine…”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body already rocking toward him. “Stop teasing,” you bit out.

“I’m not teasing,” he said, breath catching. “I’m savoring.”

And then he pushed your knees apart, filling you completely in one long, delicious stretch that made you gasp against his neck.

“God, Bucky—”

He groaned as your hips settled flush against his. “That’s it. Just like that. Fuck, you feel unreal. So tight.”

Slowly, you adjusted and started to move, grinding down with each roll of your hips and letting his thick length push over your slick walls. His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, jaw clenched, hands gripping your thighs like he was stopping himself coming undone right there.

You were sure there would be marks on your skin tomorrow, but you didn't care. Instead you kept moving, moaning as you chased the high, the inevitable release. “Mmmghhh!”

“Look at you,” he groaned through gritted teeth. “Bouncing on my cock like you don’t give a fuck who hears.”

You smirked, breathless. “Maybe I don’t.”

It didn't matter, you could both hear the roar of the crowd from the stands above you and it spurred you on to move faster.

His hands shot up to your waist, guiding your rhythm, pulling you down harder. “Yeah?” he groaned. “Then take it. Fucking take it.”

Your nails raked through his hair, tugging just enough to make him swear again. He leaned forward, catching your mouth with his. The was sloppy, urgent, filthy but didn’t let up as he thrust up into you now, meeting every grind with a pussy ruining rhythm.

The table creaked beneath you, paper tearing beneath your knees. You didn’t care.

Nothing mattered but the heat, the slide, the way his cock hit just right, over and over. The familiar coiled in the bottom of your belly appeared out of nowhere, making pleasure build overwhelmingly fast as it worked its way outward in pulsing waves. Your thighs trembled under the strain, your nerves firing up like electric shocks under your skin.

Every thrust sent a ripple through your entire body, that white-hot ache filled you, curling into your toes and clenching in your fists. You cunt closed around him involuntarily and he choked out a groan, hands tightening like he was holding on for his life. The friction was maddening, delicious, just on the better side of too much, and every roll of your hips sent that fizzing heat spiraling higher.

“Shit— don’t do that. Don’t— Sunshine, I’m close—”

You bit his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Then come,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Come with me.”

And he did— with a low, rough growl, buried deep inside you, hips stuttering as he came, overwhelmed by your slick heat, the way your body gripped him like you were made just for him. His breath hitched, forehead pressing to your shoulder, lost in the blinding surge of release. Your walls fluttered around him, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’d never let go— and for a second, he didn’t want you to. Couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

You stayed like that for a moment, breathing heavily, sweat coating your skin.

He finally leaned back, his smug grin returning. “Guess I don’t need full mobility to fuck you stupid.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed off, grabbing gauze and cleansing wipes like it was just another shift.

“Next time,” you said, tossing his boxers at him, “keep your pants on until after the final buzzer.”

He discarded the condom and grabbed a towel from the drawer like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t new. You’d just finished putting on your bra when said buzzer echoed through the floors.

Shit!

You pulled your shirt back over your head in a rush, heart pounding for more reasons than you could name. Bucky was already half-dressed again, finally pulling on his compression tee like he hadn’t just had you on top of him moments before.

He caught your eye and grinned. “Gotta say… not the worst post-game treatment I’ve ever had.”

You shot him a glare. “You breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll stitch your mouth shut.”

“That would be a damn shame, Sunshine. You'd be missing out on a real treat.”

You scowled and he raised both hands, still smug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Suddenly the sound of footsteps down the hallway echoed in your ears. You grabbed a fresh pack of tape and moved to your desk.

Bucky stepped toward the door, hand on the knob, then paused and glanced back.

“So… is this a one-time thing, or…?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. What had you been expecting?

“No strings. No feelings. Just…” you gestured vaguely between you. “When it works. When no one else is around.”

He tilted his head like he was locking the terms into place. “That an official medical agreement?”

“Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

And then he was gone, just as the first of the team came down the corridor, his usual easy swagger in place, like he hadn’t just rearranged every molecule in your body.

You exhaled, sat down, and pretended your pulse wasn’t still racing.

Friends with benefits.

You could do that… right?

[sashaisready]

me everyday

the vibe i bring to the function

[sashaisready]

Let’s hope it was a misunderstanding!

Feel The Burn: Chapter 11

Lance Tucker x Reader | Destroyer!Chris x Reader

Series Masterlist

Your casual situationship with notorious flirt Lance Tucker comes to a shocking head at a party, fortunately the mysterious stranger you meet that same night is more than happy to help take your mind off it.

Wordcount: Approx 3.3k

Sorry! I know I've been AWOL, been busy with work and *gestures* life. Fully back on the Chris train here, might provide some answers...maybe more questions. As always, thank you for any comments/reblogs - your engagement is so appreciated. Going straight to the jump as it's just smut from the get go lmao:

Chris kisses you hungrily as he presses you into the mattress, the scruff of his beard deliciously juxtaposed with the softness of your own skin. The now-familiar sensation scratches and pleasantly tickles your cheeks, your chin. He moans into your mouth as he practically devours you, you scramble to match his pace as you kiss him back but still can’t quite keep up with his feverishness. Suddenly he’s stripped down to his boxers and your own clothes are removed so skilfully, so subtly, that you barely notice you’re undressed until your bare back meets his sheets.

Rapidly, it’s as if a switch has been flipped, his mouth is all over you – your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach. You feel a flicker of self-consciousness as his lips brush against your belly and so you instinctively move your hands over the softer flesh, but he groans and pushes them away – his eyes boring into yours like he’s daring you to keep any of yourself from him.

It had all happened so quickly, as it so often does with Chris. His easy charm just sweeps you away, you’re swimming and then you’re lost at sea.

…But you’re happy to surrender to his waves.

He’d taken you on that beautiful moonlight picnic, spoiled you rotten with a range of finger sandwiches and snacks as you’d sipped expensive wine and talked late into the evening. It was perfect, serene and intimate. The world had melted away. You wouldn’t have even thought of a nighttime picnic. That was Chris all over, thoughtful in ways that many people just didn’t even consider.

Conversation led to holding hands, which led to kissing, which led to him taking you in his arms and laying you down on the blanket. Full body shivers as his hands swept over your thighs, your bottom, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck. His breathing heavy, like thunder in your ears.

Your trance broken by the sudden memory of where you were. Your eyes darting anxiously around the empty park. You hadn’t spied a single soul since you’d arrived, but that didn’t mean nobody would see you. Anyone could walk by at any time…could be out enjoying an evening stroll, or taking their dog for a walk, and they’d catch you both red-handed. Your body splayed across the picnic blanket; Chris draped across you. You’d felt a faint glimmer of excitement at the prospect of getting caught, but you were too anxious to live like that. The stress of it gave you nausea. You’d so love to be the cool, care-free girl that Chris seems to believe you are, but the version of you who lives like that only existed in your fantasies. It’s one thing to step outside your comfort zone, but you knew your limitations.

Chris must’ve sensed your unease, the way your once boneless form had quickly tensed and hardened against him. He was in tune with your body as much as your mind. He abruptly stopped, pulling you upright and brushing down your skirt.

“Let’s take this elsewhere,” he breathed into your ear.

You’d just nodded, and then a whirlwind of packing up, getting on the back of his bike…the wind in your hair as you sped through the streets. The warmth of his back flush against you, the leather smell of his jacket in your nose. You had squeezed him tightly and closed your eyes as you embraced the moment, the freedom of just existing, of whizzing through the night air. Your mind serene and quiet, despite the busy cacophony of the city around you.

Back to his home, his simple but stylish apartment. Minimalist but not sterile, everything just so – a place for everything, and everything in its place. Tasteful wood floors and exposed brick, sleek white paint. You could feel him everywhere: in the art adorning the walls to the classic car magazines heaped on the coffee table.

And here you were now, stripped and pinned to his bed, almost dizzy with anticipation. You’d waited so long for this, so long to have him entirely. Your head fuzzed as pleasure overwhelmed you. The mishap from before…that was a mistake, a blip. You understood that now, Lance didn’t know what he was talking about. He couldn’t possibly understand a real relationship, where you accept that imperfection is inevitable and forgive each other for making mistakes…

You were jerked from your thoughts by Chris’ mouth, the sudden pressure on your neck shaking you free from your own head and pulling you back into the room. He sucked on the skin with vehemence, his head nuzzling into yours. Then a loud ‘pop’ as he withdrew, and methodically diving back in. ‘Pop’ again, and again.

It suddenly dawned on you what he was doing…

…he was marking you up.

You peered down at yourself as he continued his quest. His love bites trailed from your neck down to your chest and stomach, faint now but likely to bloom brighter by morning. He continued exploring every inch of you thoroughly, planting his flag across your body. Your skin was his canvas, you were becoming his art.

“You like that?” he suddenly asked huskily as he stopped to look at you, his gaze intense. “Seeing me all over you like this?” he ran one of his fingers over a fresh mark, admiring his handiwork. “So you can remember this later when you look at yourself in the shower? Think of me while you’re soaping yourself up? When you’re at work tomorrow…the customers having no idea that I’m all under your clothes like this?”

His commanding tone sent a flush of heat through you. You had never really responded to possessive gestures like this, normally thinking of them as silly masculine posturing, but there was something about the longing in his eyes…the way he carried you so forcefully in the park earlier. You thought about finding those marks after you’d gone…his intent, and the effort it had taken him…it sparked something in you.

Something that made you want to be his…

You’re not stupid, you know this isn’t just about claiming you – it’s sending a clear message to others, too. A message to any other men who might be sniffing around…or carrying you out of ravines…

He looks at you expectantly, but you’re so hazy with lust and excitement that you don’t have the words in that moment, so simply respond with a kiss - which he ravenously returns.

He manoeuvres you again and slides himself down your body, parting your legs with reverence as he plants soft kisses along the delicate skin of your inner thighs. You feel a momentary surge of panic as you remember what happened the last time you were in this position with him, but then his mouth moves lower and not a single thought remains in your head as his tongue brushes against your clit.

You’re practically wailing as he devours you, his tongue and fingers working in tandem as if he could bury himself entirely within you. It feels just as good the second time as it did the first. You fist the sheets and buck your hips as he teases a range of pressures and speeds. It’s not long before your climax hits you, quicker this time than the time before. He must be learning what you respond to, carefully tracking and monitoring your reactions, learning from every heavy breath, every whimper. Your body tenses as you slip over the edge and then all at once you go limp, your head slumping into the sheets as you surrender to sensation.

He kisses your mound gently one more time before he moves back up to the bed over your wilted and spent form, carefully moving your hair from your eyes and smiling at you. It feels pointed, as if he’s telling you ‘I’m still here, I’m still with you, it’s not like it was before’.

You dreamily smile back up at him, your eyes hooded, reaching out and cupping his cheek as your thumb strokes his skin. He looks so handsome in the dimmed light of the room, so perfect. You were right about what happened, it was just a one-off. An anomaly, not a pattern. You were worrying over nothing. Relief floods you and everything suddenly feels lighter.

He made you feel good, so you should do the same for him.

You sit up, reaching forward to palm him through his boxers, feeling the hardness through the thin material of his underwear. Oh, he’s big. Of course he is. He carries himself like a man with nothing to prove, his confidence evident just in the way he walks.

He watches you carefully as you take him out, unable to mask his smirk as you gaze somewhat in awe and fully take him in your hand, marvelling at his thickness. Your lust had dwindled slightly after the knock-out impact of your orgasm but it’s now back with a vengeance. You tug his underwear down his thighs and off his legs and strip him bare, taking a moment to admire him in his full glory. You bite your lip with desire, your eyes trailing his broad shoulders down to his sturdy thighs and beyond.

You move yourself to take him in your mouth, but he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “Princess,” he says gruffly, “as much as I’d love for you to do that…and I promise I’ll never make a habit of interrupting you doing that in future…I just need to feel you, all of you, right now…”

His pupils are blown with lust, his mouth slightly parted as his hand squeezes your arm. You can see he’s practically vibrating, holding back, just waiting for the starter pistol to go off so he can begin.

You just nod in response, dazed.

And then he’s on you, and you’re on your back. And there’s that fast kissing again that you can’t keep up with. But it all feels good, so good. So right.

He parts your legs, his eyes flicker to yours to check you’re still onboard. You nod again and he slowly guides himself to gently enter you. You let out a loud gasp as the tip breaches, exquisitely dragging against your walls as he pushes himself inside. Each inch feels better than the last, stretching you perfectly until he fully sheaths himself. You babble incoherently, subconsciously rocking your hips.

“Doing so good, princess,” he huffs into your ear. “God…I knew you’d be perfect, you’re so perfect”.

He begins to thrust, slowly at first but working up into a steady rhythm. You’re so full of him that you feel dizzy. The stretch of it almost stings, but in the best possible way. You groan in time to his movements, your eyes closed as you savour every motion. He kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, your lips.

“You have no idea how much you mean to me,” he whispers, “how much better you make everything”.

You’re touched by his words; they light up in your brain like a pinball machine. You could almost cry at his transparency, his openness. Never before had a man been so upfront with you about how he feels. You so badly want to return his ministrations, but you’re too lost in your own body to form words. Your mouth opens and closes, nothing comes out. You frantically clutch at his arms, his back, trying to get as physically close to him as you can with no light escaping between you, hoping your gestures speak for you. He kisses you deeply, he seems to hear you.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, your fingernails burrowing into his shoulder as he kisses your neck. He talks you through it between stolen kisses, telling you how good you are, how perfect, how beautiful. Your clenches and bucking triggers his own finish not long after, he gasps almost silently into your hair as his release fills you. You silently enjoy the warmth of him inside you, relishing the sensation.

You both lie like that for a while, impossible to say how long exactly. Time loses all meaning. You hold each other and embrace the closeness, the quiet intimacy. It doesn’t matter that you’re both a bit sweaty, a bit sticky. This is everything.

He runs a thumb over your chin as he looks into your eyes, “that was…amazing,” he hums.

“Yeah…it was,” you beam back.

“I knew it would be…” he chuckles.

“Yeah…me too”.

“Look, I know we haven’t exactly discussed it…but…” he runs his finger over your chest, almost bashfully. “I’m serious about this, about us. Not to sound like some high school kid but…I want to make it official. You and me, a real couple. Exclusive. Not just dating”.

You grin ear to ear and nod enthusiastically. “Me too, Chris. I want that too…”

He mirrors your wide smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

He chuckles again and seals your agreement with a kiss. You’re suddenly giddy, you feel like you’ve ridden a rollercoaster, your smile almost aching. You reach out and take his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

Your boyfriend’s hand.

Your boyfriend.

🏍️

You awake a few hours later, groggy and confused.

It takes a few moments to remember where you are, why you aren’t in your own bed. But then you remember Chris, his apartment, the events of the evening and the declaration, and it all comes rushing back. You smile again, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had been smiling in your sleep.

After making things ‘official’, you and Chris had cuddled for a little longer, then you’d showered together and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. It had been perfect.

You reach for him but he’s not there, his side of the bed completely empty. The sheets are cool, as if he’s been gone a while.

You frown, where has he got to? Maybe he just nipped to the bathroom…but you can see the light in his en-suite is switched off. Huh. Well, he could be using the main bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

You hear a faint clinking noise from elsewhere in the apartment, and then another. The muffled chime rings out in the darkness.

Curious, you slip out of bed to follow the sound. Chris gave you one of his oversized shirts to sleep in, so you pad out into the hallway with it draped over you.

The lights are off in the hall, but you can see a dull halo of light around the door that you think Chris pointed out as the kitchen earlier. You hear the clink again, louder now, and so move closer to the doorway.

You wrap your fingers around the doorknob and open it, “Hey Chris, where’d you go-”

You stop, stunned. Chris sits at the kitchen table in just his boxers, his face pulled into an expression of surprise at seeing you. In his hand is a half empty beer bottle, strewn across the table are four other empty bottles.

Your face screws up with confusion, “are you…drinking?”

You noticed a clock in the corner of the room, the time reads 3.37am. You look back at him, unable to make sense of what you are seeing.

“Princess…” he says quietly, slowly placing the bottle down onto the table as if it were a loaded weapon. “I couldn’t sleep…I was just having a quick beer”.

“At this time of night…?” you snap.

He sighs. “I’m sorry…look, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I…I struggle with my sleep sometimes. It’s a real problem for me”. He looks at you with such vulnerability that it almost hurts to look back at him. You have a strong urge to rush over to and scoop him up, but equally you’re alarmed by everything unfolding.

“I know it’s not healthy,” he continues, “but sometimes a beer or a glass of whisky helps. I don’t do it every night, but it’s the only thing that works. I’ve been to the doctor…tried herbal stuff…everything. Nothing else comes close…”

You point accusingly at the bottles. Your heart is pounding in your chest. “That doesn’t look like a beer, Chris…”

He blinks, looking at the bottles as if he only just noticed them. He shakes his head and holds up a defensive hand. “Oh, baby, no. These are just empties I haven’t taken out from the last week. I swear…I was just collecting them to put in the recycling.”

You look at him, then at the bottles, then back at him. Alarm bells are going off in your head, your mouth pulls into a frown.

He gets to his feet, as if sensing your concern. He approaches you cautiously, as if you’re an animal he might spook.

“Princess, I get what it looks like. And I’m sorry, we had such a good night – I didn’t want to ruin it. I woke up a couple of hours ago and I’ve just been struggling to go back to sleep. I thought if I had one beer, I could get back into bed with you and drift back off…”

You look into his eyes; they look back at you – almost pleading. He seems so earnest, so authentic. Was he telling the truth? It was just one beer to help with his sleep? He hadn’t just been sitting out here drinking for God knows how long? The clinking you heard could’ve been him collecting them all up, that made sense…but still, this time of night? Although you knew how debilitating insomnia could be…

…it also might explain what happened that night, and him passing out on you.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your sleep problems?” you ask, more accusatorily than planned.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry,” he sighs as he plops down back into a chair. “I guess I’m…kinda embarrassed? It makes me sound like kinda, a mess. I didn’t want you to think I was this weird freak of a man who needs a beer to go to bed. Especially as you’re so perfect…”

You scoff loudly. “Perfect? Hardly…”

He smiles, “well, you are to me…”

“Chris…c’mon, we are in a relationship now. We need to be able to talk about this stuff like adults…”

He nods, patting his thigh. You follow his lead and sit in his lap; his arms wrap around you. His touch, as always, is comforting. Grounding. You already feel a little better, clinging to the relief like a glass of water in the desert. He looks down at you and you suddenly notice just how tired he looks.

“You’re right, you’re so right. We were just getting to know one another, and I didn’t wanna ruin it in the beginning. But as stuff got more serious…I shouldn’t have hidden it from you, I’m sorry.”

You sigh, something still doesn’t feel quite right – but you can’t deny it all sounds plausible.

“Alright, it’s okay…but look, first thing tomorrow – promise me you’ll make another appointment with the doctor?” You poke at one of the empty bottles in front of you. “Having the occasional beer isn’t the worst thing in the world, but this isn’t a sustainable habit, or a healthy one”.

He nods, sighing with relief as he kisses you. “Thank-you, princess, I promise I will. I should’ve known you would understand. Not sure what I’d do without you…”

You smile and press your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out…together. But don’t hide anything like that from me again. Deal?”

He smiles back and kisses you. You can taste the yeast from the beer on his tongue.

“Deal. Now, let’s go back to bed…”

He dumps the last of the beer in the sink, moving the other empties onto the counter to take out in the morning. He takes your hand and leads you back to his bedroom.

Thank God you sorted that out, nipped it in the bud early. You could start afresh with your wonderful new boyfriend. No secrets, all transparency and clear communication. All the things the other men in your life hadn’t been able to give you.

…so why were you still feeling anxious?

🏍️

[sashaisready]

Don't you love it when a wifey strolls into your life (literally?) Oh that trailer about to be clean.

Nothing Going

Summary: you are so very bored that bad decisions make good ideas.

Character: Lee Bodecker

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, age gap, NSFW. This is a dark drabble like most of my stuff so take this as your warning to stop reading.

Part of the Trailer Park AU

Please leave a comment and reblog. Or send an anon ask! Always happy to hear from y'all. ♥️❤️

Laura's busy. With Michael. And Amira is busy with Colin. And Brandy with Wes. Everyone has something going on but you.

You don't understand why everyone else has someone. Everyone but you. It was easy not to think about it when your friends were around. Now they never are.

You tug back the curtain and look out at the park. The kids are all out chasing each other or kicking around balls. The adults, not like you, the real ones with wives and husbands and children, chatter over barbecues or occupy themselves with trimming the weeds around their lots. There's no one there for you.

How about Hasim? Mm. No. He's into Mal. Ugh. Anyone else, you don't want. Not that you have the pick of the litter.

You flick the curtain back behind your shoulder and stand fully in the window. You watch the neighbourhood. Everything is happening around you as you stand still.

The smell of lemon nestles in your nose and tempts your tongue. The cookies took less than an hour to bake. Not even enough to keep your mind off the painfully obvious.

How is that even your parents are too busy for you? If they're not working, they're off at some neighbours drinking Coors. They're doing what you should be doing.

One of younger kids runs out a sudden woop sounds. The siren cracks through your self-pityibg trance. You glance over at the red and blue lights.

The sheriff stops his car and waits for the kid to clear the road. He rolls down his window and says something. Likely about staying safe.

He steers by, slowly. The kids watch and a few wave at the sheriff. Everyone knows him even though he isn't very friendly.

Hm. Your ma says he's divorced. Twice. Your dad says he's a good man, he must be. He's a cop.

You spin and fall into the sofa. Your leg bounces. It's a bad thought. You shouldn't...

He's old. Older. Not too old. Well, maybe your dad's age. Ugh. What are you thinking?

Well. You're bored. You bend forward and rest your elbows only our knees. You hold your chin in your hands and blow a raspberry.

Could you? No. He wouldn't even be into it. You're too young. And he's the sheriff. He's got more important things.

Ugh. The heat is deadly when there's nothing to distract you. Especially when your baking only added to the haze. You don't even want the cookies.

You get up and walk across the trailer. You go to your room. It's not much but you know some people who don't even have walls of their own.

You look down at your self. Ew. Well. A cute outfit might distract you.

You go through your select. Red shorts and a baby tee with a red heart on the front. That's better.

You go out and stop at the door. You're not going to really do this. Yeah, you are. Well, try, do. You'll see.

You'll probably be laughed back home. You step out as the heat in your cheeks turns to fire in the sunlight. Is it really worth the humiliation? Well, no one will know unless you tell them. The sheriff doesn't talk to anyone.

You just want to be too busy for your friends. Then it won't matter. Then you won't be the loser.

You go to the kitchen and pack up half the batch of cookies. The little dollops of lemon jelly in the shortcake almost look like hearts too. You scoff and snap a lid on the container. Once you manage to find the right one.

You go outside. The kids don't notice you, nearly toppling you as they race by. Their parents smoke and snicker in their fading lawn chairs. The smell of a barbecue gnaws at your appetite.

You cross the roadway and cut up beside the row of trailers, dipping through and empty lot to get to the other side. The park isn't very big but it can feel like it.

You're sweating as you come up to the bumper of the sheriff's squad car. You glance at his trailer. The curtains are drawn, the door firmly shut. You peek around at the neighbours. They don't care about you.

You go up the steps and knock on the door. Your fist reverberates and your nerves swirl. What the heck are you doing? Not think, that's for sure.

Too late to turn back. The door cracks open, just an inch.

"I'm off duty," the sheriff snarls.

"Yes, sir. I... I brought you some cookies." You raise the container in your hands and smile.

The door snaps shut. You wince and stare at it. Well, you didn't expect much different.

You spin slowly on your heels and take a step down. As you get to the bottom, the creak of hinges stops you. You look over your shoulder as the sheriff stands in the frame and leans, arms crossed.

His uniform shirt is unbuttoned, below a ribbed undershirt with patches of sweat. His forearms bulge as he glares at you. You gulp.

"Why?" He asks.

"Um...I made them and no one else is gonna eat them." You eke out. "And I figured... It'd be good to show some appreciation. Since you keep this place safe."

He clucks and tilts his head. He exhales through his nostrils and let's his arms drop straight. He pushes away from the door frame and beckons you to him.

You turn and nearly skip up the steps. You're not too far from him. You hold out the container.

"Lemon drop cookies," you announce proudly.

"You made em." He drawls. You nod.

"Sure did, Sheriff Bodecker." You chime.

He takes the container and lifts the corner of the lid. He looks inside then sniffs. His brows lift and the line between them eases.

"Smell good." He says.

"I hope they are. Hope you like them," you push your hands behind you and twist nervously. His eyes flick over to you. Down to your chest.

"You ain't got other neighbours?" He sniffs.

"I do but they aren't very nice." You shrug.

He clicks his tongue. "What's your name?"

You answer him brightly. "I live just on the other side of that one," you point. "With the weather vane. Me and my parents." You look back to him. "Not much to do, ya know?"

His blue eyes focus on you. He's got a bit extra around his middle and his his cheeks but he's not ugly. There's some strands of silver peeping through his rich brown locks. Your eyes stray to his hands. They're big and thick. You heard things about men with large hands.

"Sweet of ya to bring em by." He backs up but stops himself from turning away. "You want a Pepsi?"

"Pepsi? Sure." You bounce excitedly. "It sure is hot."

"Sure is," he agrees. "You wait out here then. I'll get that soda."

"Yes, sir, sheriff," you beam.

[sashaisready]

just wanna blow a raspberry into a slightly pudgy man belly yknow?

[sashaisready]

Yes. Yes! Yes. Love that big lug

You Sure You Wanna See It?

Title: You Sure You Wanna See It?

Pairing: Lee Bodecker  x Inexperienced!Female Reader

Summary:  You’re just the sweet little thing at the county clerk’s office, polite, proper, still living under your daddy’s roof. But ever since your car broke down, Lee’s been driving you home… and the slow burn of summer heat and stolen glances has been turning into something you don’t quite have words for.

Word Count:  4.2k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Grinding / clothed sex / outercourse, virgin/experienced, Age gap, Soft corruption vibes, dirty talk,  Possessive but sweet Lee..

A/N: Just more Lee content for me girls @buckybarnesfic and @hisredheadedgoddess28

You’re just the sweet little thing working front desk at the county clerk’s office. Kind. Polite. A little naive. Lee’s been giving you rides home from work for the last month, ever since your car broke down.

The sun was almost gone when Lee pulled onto the old backroad taking you the scenic way home. It was quiet out here, just the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional whisper of wind rustling through the trees. The air smelled like warm dirt and wildflowers, and your milkshake was starting to melt in your lap, but you didn’t care. Not when you were sitting beside him, close enough to hear the leather creak under his thighs as he steered with one hand.

He looked good tonight. Hair a little damp from a shower, sleeves rolled to the elbows, badge glinting faintly in the last of the light. You weren’t really sure when the crush had started, maybe it was the first time he drove you home after work, or the way he called you 'darlin’ girl' without sounding like he was teasing. Maybe it was just the way he made you feel... safe.

But now, sitting in that passenger seat with sweat clinging under your dress, the summer heat making everything feel just a little too sticky, your thoughts drifted lower. You turned slightly in your seat, thighs sliding over the vinyl, skirt riding up the back of your legs. Your shirt stuck a little to your back, the sheen of humidity making everything feel more exposed.

You looked at him, really looked. Not like a coworker or a helpful ride, but like a man. A real man. Not like those boys you’d kissed clumsily in the backseat of a sedan at the lookout after your last summer home from secretary school. Not like the nervous boys who never quite knew what to do with their hands.

No. Lee was different. Steady. Capable. Tired in a way that made you ache for him.

His bottom lip jutted just slightly, pouty when he focused on the road, and your eyes drifted lower. Down to where his legs sat wide, the fabric of his uniform pants drawn tight over thick thighs. Your gaze lingered there as you lifted your milkshake and slowly sucked the sweet, melting vanilla through the straw.

Something about Lee made your belly tighten when you were lying in bed alone at night. Something about the way he filled up a room, quiet, but always there. Solid. Strong.

Your thighs pressed together.

"Sheriff..."

He glanced at you, one brow raised, eyes flicking briefly over to gauge your tone.

"Told you, sweet girl. After hours, it’s just Lee to you."

But you weren’t really listening. The words barely registered as your heart beat hard against your ribs. The question had already bloomed in your chest, persistent, hot, too big to hold down any longer. You fidgeted, thighs shifting beneath your skirt, the slick heat between them distracting.

"Can I see it?"

The silence in the cab stretched long and strange. Lee didn’t look at you right away, but you saw the change. His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. His breath hitched in his throat. You were sure he’d noticed where your gaze had lingered, his thighs, the bulge in his pants, the shape of him when he adjusted his belt. His jaw flexed and relaxed again. He blinked, slow and deliberate.

"Can you what now?"

You swallowed hard, nervous and excited all at once. "Your... you know. Your dick."

He made a choked sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. Then he leaned back and let out a disbelieving huff, running hands down his face as if to shake the words out of his ears.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You tryin’ to give me a goddamn heart attack, girl? You don’t just spring somethin’ like that on a man behind the wheel."

You looked down quickly, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck. "I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t tryin’ to ..I’m just... I’m curious. I’ve never seen one. Not really. Not up close."

Your voice was softer then. Quieter. More honest. 

"You’re not like the boys I know."

The best you’d seen were grainy diagrams in a textbook, or clinical health class pamphlets. Nothing raw. Nothing warm. Nothing that made your thighs press together like this.

Lee was silent, but you could feel the energy shift inside the car. Like the heat had gotten thicker.

You looked down, hands fiddling in your lap.

"You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s okay," you said, voice so soft it barely reached the space between you.

But you could already feel the weight of his attention settling over your skin like a promise. It wrapped around your shoulders, heavy and molten, like heat lightning on the edge of a storm. Your breath caught in your throat. The hum of the car, the static warble of the radio, the soft slurp of melting ice in your cup, it all faded into the background as you felt him shift beside you.

That’s when he pulled the car over.

The gravel crunched under the tires as the cruiser rolled to a slow, deliberate stop on the side of the road. The headlights lit up a patch of tall grass and a leaning mailbox that had long since lost its name. The engine stayed running, a low growl beneath you both, and the radio murmured faint country ballads beneath it all, nothing clear, just the ache of slide guitars and broken hearts. Crickets filled the silence beyond the glass, their song pulsing with the slow rhythm of your racing heart.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there for a long moment, one hand still on the wheel, the other resting loose on his thigh. His jaw shifted, like he was biting down on something he couldn’t let loose. Then, slowly, Lee turned toward you.

His eyes were darker now; shadowed, molten, unreadable. His mouth had lost its usual curve. What replaced it was something serious. Something aching. His gaze swept your face, pausing at your lips before flicking back to your eyes. You could feel the weight of it, feel the heat where it landed.

"You sure, sweetheart?"

The way he said it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even flirtation anymore. It was something else, that rough-edged concern curled around a hunger so tightly reined in it made your breath stutter. Like he needed you to mean it. Like he was giving you a chance to run.

You nodded. Voice a whisper. "I trust you."

The words settled between you like a loaded gun on the seat. Heavy. Final. And somehow, impossibly soft. A switch flipped, heat shifting from a low simmer to something crackling and wild beneath the surface. It wasn't just anticipation now; it was inevitability, humming in the air between you like the thick pull of gravity.

The atmosphere changed- thickened-like a thunderstorm rolling in without warning. You could see it in the way his jaw went slack, the way his chest rose a little harder on the inhale, like he’d been punched through the ribs by something sweet and terrible. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your lap, then back again, something raw and unspoken lighting behind them.

That changed something in his face. Like something snapped loose in his chest. Like the man inside him had been holding a breath for far too long and now, finally, he could exhale. And when he did, it came out in a slow, measured sigh

"...aw -hell," he muttered, voice low and already ruined with the weight of what was coming. His eyes dropped for just a second, then came back to yours with something raw behind them. "You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me, sittin’ over there with those big eyes, askin’ to see my cock like it’s somethin’ sweet. Like you don’t even know what you’re askin’."

He sucked in a breath, dragged a hand through his hair, then let out a quiet, almost broken, "Alright. But once I show you, darlin’, there ain’t no takin’ it back."

Sitting back, Lee reached for his belt and unbuckled it with the kind of steady care that made your breath catch. The metal click of it undoing echoed in the charged silence. He glanced up, locking eyes with you for a beat, making sure-really making sure-you weren’t about to bolt. That you still wanted this. Wanted him.

When you didn’t say a word, only watched with wide eyes and parted lips, he nodded once to himself. Zipped down. Pushed the fabric aside. His movements were slow, deliberate, every inch of him calm even as the tension in the air crackled like a live wire.

When he pushed his boxers down and pulled himself free, you couldn’t breathe.

You stared, entranced, eyes wide, pulse pounding somewhere behind your ribs.

He was already hard. Thick. With nothing real to compare it to, all your brain could latch onto was how wide he was. Heavy-looking. Your eyes traced the veins along the shaft, the flushed skin stretched tight over the thickness. The head was an angry, almost flushed pink, swollen and glistening slightly with precum that caught the faint blue glow of the dash like dew on a leaf.

Your breath hitched. There was something raw about it, unapologetic. He was showing you some vulnerable part of himself and yet holding nothing back. You shifted slightly in your seat, thighs clenching, your stomach fluttering with nerves and heat.

You couldn’t believe how much you felt just from seeing him. Your mouth went dry and your core ached, your body responding in ways you weren’t prepared for. It wasn’t just arousal. It was fascination. You wanted to understand it, to explore it, to know him. The way the head twitched when he shifted, how thick the base looked in his fist, how flushed the skin had become from nothing but anticipation. Every small detail etched itself into your memory.

He looked... overwhelming. Masculine in a way that made your whole body hum.

You licked your lips without realizing it, eyes wide and transfixed, and whispered, "oh..." you breathed, barely realizing the word had left your mouth.

Lee let out a low, warm chuckle. "That a good reaction or a scared one, sweetheart?"

You shook your head quickly, cheeks burning. "No-good. It’s... it’s just... a lot."

His lips quirked, smug and soft all at once. "Yeah, baby. S’posed to be."

Your knees pressed together involuntarily, the ache between your legs pulsing now, unmistakable. You'd seen diagrams, maybe blurry porn in passing, but this? This was real. The weight of it. The size. The intimacy of him showing you like this. It made you dizzy.

He watched every shift of your expression, every twitch of your thighs, every subtle gasp. "C’mon, sugar. You can look all you want. I ain’t shy. Ain’t been in a long time."

Lee watched you watching him, his eyes dark and hungry. One hand wrapped around the base and stroked, slow, languid, shameless, from root to tip. He didn’t rush, didn’t hide it. He wanted you to look. Wanted you to see exactly what he was offering.

He exhaled through his nose, voice low and rough, almost reverent. "You got me makin’ such a mess just from lookin’ at it," he said. "Your thighs’re squeezin’ together so tight, baby. You like watchin’? That what you needed?"

The heat climbed higher in your chest. It felt like it might burst out of you, all tight and twisting and unfamiliar in the best way. Your thighs squeezed together so hard it made your hips shift, desperate for any kind of relief. You nodded before you even realized you had. Your lips parted, breath shallow, and your whole body leaned forward without you telling it to.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop tracking the way his thumb smoothed over the head, gathering the little drop that had been beading there-slick and glistening-before stroking it back down the thick, flushed length. It looked too big for your hand, for your body, and yet you wanted it. Wanted to know what it would feel like. What he would sound like.

Lee’s voice was lower than before, almost coaxing. "Go on," he said. "You can touch it. Be gentle. I’ll show you."

Your fingers lifted, hesitant, trembling slightly as they hovered before making contact. Then finally, you touched him. Brushed the side of his shaft with the backs of your knuckles. He twitched immediately under your touch, a soft grunt catching in his throat, and you gasped aloud at how hot he felt. How impossibly hard.

He was velvet over steel, thick and pulsing in your palm. You didn’t realize your other hand had joined in until your fingers curled around him slowly, reverently. You ran your thumb along the underside, testing the texture, watching the way the muscles in his stomach twitched.

Lee hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking up just a little. His hand went to your thigh like he needed to ground himself, thumb dragging along your skin in slow, unconscious circles.

You grew bolder, letting your fingers explore. One hand slid to the base, your palm cupping him as you wrapped your other around the top. You moved carefully stroking him with a fascination you didn’t bother to hide. His breath grew heavier, chest rising and falling under his shirt, the fabric pulling just slightly with every inhale.

"That’s it," he muttered, voice dark and rasping. "You’re doin’ so good, baby... so fuckin’ good."

You looked up at him, flushed, lips parted. "It’s... soft, but so hard," you whispered, eyes wide with wonder.

He groaned, low and wrecked. "Fuck, darlin’. Keep talkin’ like that and I ain’t gonna last."

Your hands kept moving, slick now from the precum leaking from the tip. You circled your thumb around it and felt him twitch.

"Shit. That’s good. That’s real good. Just like that, sweetheart. You got such a sweet little grip. Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me."

Lee tugged gently on your wrist, guiding you closer with a slow pull that made your breath catch. His free hand skimmed your thigh, anchoring you as you leaned in, the console digging lightly into your hip. You barely realized your milkshake had tilted, nearly forgotten in the cupholder.

His mouth brushed yours before you could overthink it, soft at first, testing. Then deeper. Needier. The kiss was warm and slow, his lips plush and commanding, one hand sliding around the back of your neck to keep you close. Your thighs squeezed together as you kissed him back, the heat between your legs now insistent, pulsing.

You shifted, your body responding to the gravity of his. Your knees pressed into the seat, your balance shifting as your core ached with the kind of hunger you’d never truly understood until now.

Still, for a breathless second, you hesitated. You'd never done anything like this. Not even close. The good girl in you whimpered, guilt and nerves flaring hot. But the way Lee touched you, steady, grounding, wanting, burned right through the shame. Beneath it all, there was a thrill humming through your veins: wild, dangerous, and yours.

Your body moved on instinct. You climbed over the console, skirt riding up your thighs as you straddled his lap.

"Jesus-" he swore, grabbing your hips as you settled over him, bare skin against his jeans. The contact was instant, hot and slick. Lee froze beneath you for a beat, breath punched out of his chest.

He’d felt it. The soft heat of your pussy, bare and wet, pressed directly against him, his cock nestled right between your folds. No barrier. No fabric. Just skin against skin.

"No panties? Fuck, baby," he groaned, voice strained. His grip on your hips tightened as you rocked slightly, your slick dragging over the thick length of him, your clit brushing along the head with every movement. He let out a breath that was almost a growl, head tipping back against the headrest. "You’re so goddamn wet already..."

You didn’t look at him-couldn’t. You were too flushed, too far gone, voice small against his throat. "I-I took ’em off after lunch. They were damp. The heat in the office... it made ’em cling. Made me itchy."

Lee swore under his breath, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. "Christ, sugar... walkin’ around all day with that sweet little pussy bare under that skirt... and I didn’t even know."

His cock twitched beneath you, pressed snug between your folds, made slick with every pass. His hands flexed at your hips, grounding himself. You could feel him, every throb, every twitch, sliding along you in the most intimate, maddening way.

You started to move slowly, rocking your hips with careful, tentative rolls. The thick ridge of him glided against your aching clit with each pass, and the drag of it; firm and hot and impossibly good, made your breath fall apart in long, needy moans and soft, stuttering sighs. "Oh God," you whispered, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut as you rolled your hips again.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders for balance, needing the anchor of him beneath your hands. He was solid, warm, the only thing holding you together as your body moved on instinct. Each shift left a wetter smear across his cock, your slick spilling freely now, mixing with the precum beading from his tip. Your thighs clenched tighter around him, chasing the friction-desperate to feel that thick pressure slide against you again and again.

"Lee... it feels s’good," you gasped, voice trembling.

His hands were steady but firm on your hips, guiding you into those slow, maddening circles. "Yeah, baby. That’s it. Just like that," he groaned, breath hitching every time your clit caught the swollen ridge of his cock. "You’re makin’ such a fuckin’ mess on me. Look at you-so goddamn needy."

You whimpered, rolling your hips again, and the angle made you jerk, clit catching just right. A sharp, breathy cry escaped you. "Please... please don’t stop."

Lee’s chest rose under you, his voice strained now. "I ain’t stoppin’, baby. You keep movin’ just like that-you’re so close, I can feel it. Fuck, you feel so good..."

Your mess mixed with his precum, sticky and slick between you, making every pass lewd and wet and perfect. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, not with that thick length riding right against the spot you needed. Not with his hands guiding you, not with his voice in your ear, murmuring low and dirty praise that sent sparks racing down your spine.

Lee’s breath grew heavier, his jaw tight, chest rising beneath you as he watched you rut against him. "Look at you," he rasped.  "That’s it, sweet girl. Get yourself off on it. Show me how bad you want it.."

You hid your face against his neck, whining softly, hips stuttering as you tried to rise, tried to angle yourself for more. For him.

Your tight walls clenched around nothing, aching to be filled, to be stretched around his thick cock. Your whole body screamed for it, heat rolling through you in waves, your need impossible to hide.

"Need you... please, Lee," you whimpered, voice breaking as you rocked harder, desperate. "Please, just-let me-"

You whimpered, hips still rolling, chasing friction, trying to lift yourself higher, trying to angle your hips so he might just slide in. Your tight walls clenched around nothing, fluttering, desperate, your slick making everything hot and slippery. Your body screamed for it, for the stretch of him, for the fullness.

But his hands only held you tighter, steadying your hips.

His jaw clenched against your temple. "Not yet, darlin’. I know, I know you want it-but not like this. Not your first time in a fuckin’ patrol car. I ain’t gonna do that to you."

Still, he didn’t push you away. Just held you through it. Let you grind and gasp and chase it. But that thick length never pushed into you.

He groaned, forehead resting against yours. “Wanna make you come just like this. Get your pretty little pussy used to the feel of me.”

You gasped as he rocked you just right, slowly against his cock.

"Next time, I’ll lay you down proper. Gonna kiss you while I slide in nice and slow."

A moan slipped from your lips. Your chest pressed fully to his now, sweat-slick skin dragging against his button-down with every stuttering breath you took. His broad chest rose and fell against yours, his breathing ragged and heavy, his nose nudging along your cheek as he grounded you there, holding you steady through every roll of your hips.

"You think this feels good, darlin’? Wait ‘til I’m inside you."

God, the heat was unbearable. It curled low and tight in your belly, spreading molten and hot through your limbs, making your thighs tremble. Your toes curled in your shoes as the tension built, a slow, blistering coil

You shuddered. He was right there, right there, and still it wasn’t enough. 

"Please-Lee-"

He growled softly. "You’re gonna take all of me when it’s time, aren’t you? Gonna let me stretch you open so sweet..." 

Every pass of your soaked folds over his cock was pure, tormenting bliss. You ached-ached-to have him inside you. You imagined it, imagined the stretch, the burn, the fullness, and your walls fluttered at the thought, clenching down on nothing with desperate precision.

The pleasure surged higher, thick and hot and blinding. Your hips jerked once, then again, body trembling with the effort to hold on just a second longer. But it was useless. You were already gone.

Your breath hitched and broke.

A soft, choked cry spilled from your lips as your body tensed around the heat building inside you. The muscles in your thighs seized, your stomach clenched tight, and your whole body bowed forward with a sob of sensation. White-hot pressure snapped loose in your core, flooding you with wave after wave of shuddering release. You came hard, grinding down against the thick length of him, coating him in slick as your climax rolled through you, impossible to hide.

Lee caught you, held you steady. One arm braced tight around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck as he murmured against your cheek, “That’s my girl… that’s it… ride it out for me…”

Your breath came in gasps-stuttered and wet-your forehead pressed to his temple, the heat of him grounding you as the aftershocks rippled through your limbs. Every twitch of your hips drew another spark of overstimulated pleasure, until you could do nothing but cling to him, moaning softly, helpless and undone in his lap.

Lee held you through it, his hands gentle now, stroking your back, fingertips trailing up your damp spine. His breath was rough in your ear, hot against your skin as he pressed soft, dizzying kisses along your temple, down to your cheek.

You felt his cock still hard beneath you, still nestled against your soaked folds, pulsing. The mess of your climax was slick between you, and he was leaking against your skin, every breath he took catching low in his chest.

He didn’t pull away. Just let you rest there, trembling, while his arms kept you close. You felt his restraint in every tightened muscle, the tension still rolling off him.

“Lee,” you whispered, dizzy, dazed.

He kissed your jaw again, then your temple. His voice came rough, still thick with want. “Next time, baby. I’ll take you right. Lay you out, get my mouth on you first. Gonna make it count.”

You nodded against him, thighs still trembling.

“But right now,” he murmured, stroking his hand down your spine once more, “I gotta get you home. Your daddy’s probably waitin’, and me and... well, we got some talkin’ to do if I’m gonna start seein’ you proper.”

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, chest still heaving.

He just smiled slow, crooked, eyes soft and serious all at once. "Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll handle it. Won’t be sneakin’ around with you. You deserve better than that."

You didn’t know what to say. Just nodded slowly, cheeks warm, thighs still slick, heart still stumbling somewhere behind your ribs. You reached up to fix your hair in the mirror, already knowing your skirt was too wrinkled, your skin too flushed. But Lee didn’t look away. Didn’t make you feel small. Just watched you like you were his.

He reached across you, turning the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life. His hand lingered on the gear shift, knuckles brushing your knee.

“C’mon now, sugar,” he drawled, shifting into drive. “Let’s get you home before I change my mind and make you mine right here.”

Lord help you, the thought didn’t scare you one bit.

[sashaisready]

What do you think of SS with AW and the rumours that they’re PR?

Well anon it’s not really something I’m interested in. Sebastian is a grown ass man (not the smol bean some of his fandom seem to think he is) and can live his personal life however he chooses. I don’t personally think it’s PR as they’ve been simmering away for a few years now and it’s not like they’re constantly on the red carpet together making the most of the spotlight in the way you’d expect a PR couple to. But like I say, it’s his business regardless and he deserves to enjoy a private life.

[sashaisready]

Sebastian Stan | Destroyer (2018)

[sashaisready]

loved this. The yearning! The miscommunication! The protecting their own hearts and unintentionally hurting the other! Perfection

The Trouble With Feelings

Pairing: Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Female Reader

Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning.

Summary: Bucky wakes up with a hangover and a flood of regrets. Avoidance, assumptions, and one gala set the stage for everything to finally reach the surface.

Word Count: About 14.9k.

note: This story is a follow-up to The Trouble With Saturdays

Bucky woke up with a headache that could split the Earth in half. Dry mouth, sour tongue, the reek of vomit from the crumpled shirt near his bed hitting his nose like a humiliation banner. He didn’t remember puking. He didn’t remember much, at first.

Groaning, he peeled one eye open and the room spun slowly.

Asgardian ale. That much was certain. A boardgame with little soldiers. Bob deploying his in all directions. Snacks, someone put hot sauce on popcorn. He'd eaten it. Willingly?

Then-

Her.

Not all at once, just flashes. The black dress. Her arm brushing against his as she asked something to Bob. Her voice, patient. Low.

Bucky, you’re high. And drunk.

God.

A thud in his chest. The balcony. Wind against his face. Her hands in his arms. Her frown, delicate with worry, not judgment. Not mockery.

He’d pushed. Not roughly, but insistently. Close. Closer.

Dancing.

He had asked her for something-

No. He’d asked her out.

Fuck.

Then her voice again, fragmented in his brain like broken glass.

“Not tonight.”

“You’re gonna hate them for what they did.”

“I think you’re going to remember, and wish you hadn’t.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

He rubbed a hand down his face slowly. His stomach twisted. It could’ve been the hangover. It could’ve been the shame.

He’d pestered her -like some needy, petulant little punk- and she’d indulged him. Not because he deserved it, but because that’s just who she was. Kind. The kind of person who made sure there was extra food for whoever came in late. Who patched up both bruises and egos. Who sat beside them in silence when words were too much.

Apparently, now she handled drunks too.

She’d placed her hands on his shoulders, let him sway them slowly to a tune only he could hear. 

“’Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he’d murmured, like his old self.  She’d smiled. He remembered that. Not with politeness. It was real.

And still.

Maybe it was just kindness. Maybe she figured it was the easiest way to get through to morning without a scene.

He hated that he couldn’t tell.

He splashed cold water on his face until his cheeks burned, until the headache dulled to a manageable throb. It helped, but it was not enough. His reflection in the mirror was a mess, the toothpaste tasted like chemicals and regret. He scrubbed hard, until the bitter aftertaste died under the mint.

He didn’t understand how he’d gotten there. He’d said no. He remembered that part. Had told the guys he wasn’t in the mood for their Saturday bullshit, for beer and cards and whatever else they were getting up to. He’d said it twice, even. But then… there he was. Sitting with them. Drinking something, laughing. That Asgardian stuff, probably. Someone must've brought it in again.

And then her.

She hadn’t been dressed for them. She had plans of her own. That dress hadn’t been for their circle of wrecked weirdos. It was for the outside. Somewhere she was supposed to be. With someone. Maybe Yelena, maybe not.

And he… he’d wandered in while she looked for her earring, slow and cocky with whatever-the-fuck was in his system. No idea how he got so drunk. No idea why he’d even stayed.

But he had. And when she saw him, disoriented, with blown wide pupils, she didn’t roll her eyes or brush past him. She took his arm and steered him outside.

He shoved a clean hoodie over his head, already sweating, and shuffled barefoot toward the kitchen. There was still a sour taste in the back of his throat, and his stomach turned with every step. But worse was the way his memory replayed that slow, swaying dance. His hands on her waist, the pressure of hers on his shoulders. That soft laugh when he hummed some old tune and called her sugar like he still had any charm left to wear.

She’d let him hold her. Let him pretend. Let him have it, just for a minute.

But that didn’t mean it was real. Didn’t mean she wanted it.

She was kind, that was all. She hadn’t said yes. She hadn’t said no. She’d said another time, and maybe that was just her way of making sure he didn’t unravel right in front of her.

Fuck, he hoped she wasn’t already in the kitchen. He didn’t know if he could look her in the eye yet.

----

The kitchen lights felt too bright. He squinted as he stepped inside, dragging his feet against the tiles. His mouth still tasted wrong.

Alexei and Walker were already there. Both of them looked far too upright for the shitshow he vaguely remembered from last night. Walker had a mug in hand and a smugness that hit like a brick to the face. Alexei was halfway through a carton of eggs, eating them with a spoon like pudding.

They both turned when they saw him, and not subtly.

“You look like shit,” John offered, like it was a greeting.

Bucky didn’t answer. He shuffled toward the coffee machine like it was a life raft.

“Is just a manly hangover,” Alexei added, waving his spoon in the air. “You’ll survive.”

Bucky grunted, not even dignifying that with a full sound. He grabbed the tin of grounds too hard, made it clatter against the counter. His hands were clumsy. No, shaky. He hated that. His fingers never shook.

They were watching him again. He could feel it in the silence between words, in the way Alexei slurped his eggs slower.

Walker broke the silence while still chewing his toast. “Man, you were gone last night.”

“Must’ve been the ale,” Alexei said lightly. “Is strong stuff, da?”

That pissed him off more than it should.

Because they looked fine. No bloodshot eyes, no tremor in their hands, no sour sweat on their skin. And yeah, they were supersoldiers, but so was he. His metabolism should’ve burned through that shit hours ago.

So why did it feel like his brain had been run through a cement mixer?

He pressed the brew button and leaned both hands on the counter. The silence in the room was heavier now. They knew something. That much was obvious.

He didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to.

His jaw tensed. He stared at the drip of the coffee, drop after drop after drop. His throat was dry and his patience was thinner than paper.

He didn’t speak.

But when he turned, eyes dark under the hoodie’s shadow, they both suddenly found their drinks very interesting.

He was about to say something -anything, demand an answer or just growl about the goddamn coffee machine taking an eternity- when the door creaked open behind him.

And she walked in.

Looking like… he didn’t want to say like shit, but damn close. Her eyes swept the kitchen like she wasn’t sure who she was hoping not to see, and then- there. The moment her gaze landed on him, he saw it: the flicker of recognition, the slight widening, the tension behind her stare.

But she masked it. Fast. Too fast.

“Morning,” she said, to the room, not to him.

She brushed past and grabbed a mug from the rack -a terrible one, with the team’s gaudy thunderbolt logo and a cracked rim- and stepped up beside him at the coffee machine. Their arms didn’t touch. But he could feel her, inches away. She smelled like cigarettes. Sweet perfume. Cheap cologne. And something else, club air maybe. Sweat, vodka, the sticky scent of too many bodies packed together.

She wasn’t looking at him. He hadn’t looked away since the second she came in.

Alexei broke the tension, oblivious as ever.

“Ah! There you are! I assume Yelena is still asleep. Had fun last night?”

She cleared her throat. “Yeah.”

“So… did you two engage with partying Americans?”

“Man, you can’t ask that about your daughter. That’s disgusting,” Walker interjected, frowning.

“I just want to check if-” Alexei kept going.

“She’s not a fucking teen, and if she finds out you’re asking, she’s gonna bury you alive,” John added.

“I taught her to bury people alive,” Alexei shrugged.

The bickering was a blessing.

She didn’t have to answer.

Because the real answer would’ve been… no.

No, she didn’t have fun.

Sure, she danced, with Yelena mostly. She drank more than she should’ve. Smiled for some photos, flirted a little, but-

Every song felt too loud.

Every drink too sweet or too bitter.

Every guy who tried to slide up beside her wasn’t him.

And that was a problem.

Because she couldn’t stop thinking about that balcony. That dance. The warmth of his body, the cadence of his steps. The way he held her like something valuable and breakable. The way he saw her -just for a minute- as someone he wanted.

And now here he was. In an old hoodie. Tired eyes, tight jaw, silent. Still looking at her like he was waiting for her to say something.

She blew on her coffee and took a sip, stalling. He might remember. But he might not. So-

“You look like you had a lot last night,” she offered in a light tone. No pressure in it. Just… keeping it casual. “Want me to help with the headache you probably have?”

He nodded once, slowly, before he could think twice about it.

She stepped in closer, set her mug aside, and brought both hands up to press them gently against his temples. Her thumbs brushed the sides of his face, the pads of her fingers tracing the shape like she’d done it a hundred times.

Behind her, John leaned in toward Alexei and muttered with a grin, “Maybe they could swing a little while they’re at it.”

Alexei shushed him -not exactly quietly- but her focused expression stay unchanged, she didn’t hear.

Bucky did.

His lips pressed into a flat, tight line.

Of course she didn’t hear. Focused as she was, moving her thumbs in slow circles at his temples, coaxing the pain from behind his eyes like it wasn’t even a big deal. Like this didn’t feel intimate in a way his brain didn’t know how to deal with right now.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, and he did. Mostly to block out the view of Walker’s stupid smirk. The rest because… it was easy. With her, it was always too damn easy.

A warm tingle bloomed where her fingers touched, and for a second, he almost forgot how nauseous he felt, how heavy his limbs were, how the sour taste of regret still coated his tongue.

Having her closer, he whiffed other scents he hadn’t caught earlier. He wondered if her scent had clung to whoever had dared get close to her at the club.

He hated the idea.

“You’re tense,” she murmured.

He cracked one eye open, but not to look at her, just to make sure Walker wasn’t still watching. He was. But at least now he was preoccupied with swiping toast from Alexei’s plate and getting swatted in the process.

“I’m always tense,” Bucky muttered.

“You don’t say,” she replied dryly, but there was a smile in it. A small one.

He watched her for a beat. “Did you have fun?”

She blinked. Kept her hands steady. “Yeah,” she lied.

He swallowed, stiffly. “That’s good,” he offered, “You’re always here.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was all he could manage. A lie, maybe, but one meant to sound generous. It only made the silence between them thicker.

She stepped back after a minute. The others had mostly quieted behind them, grumbling into mugs and too much food. He should have left it there.

But he didn’t.

“You didn’t have to be that kind to me,” he muttered. Still didn’t meet her eyes.

She shrugged and tried to smile. “You weren’t a burden.”

His jaw tensed. The words didn’t soothe him.

Because in his head, the whole night played back through fog and static: him, drunk. Grinning like a damn fool. Swaggering like he hadn’t in decades, like some 1940s lounge lizard with cheap charm and a good haircut. And worse, pressing himself against her in a slow dance she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t wanted, couldn’t have enjoyed.

God, what the hell had he said to her?

He swallowed hard. “Still. I was out of line. I didn’t mean to-” He stopped short, couldn’t even say it.

His face went red. He backed away a step, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

And before she could answer -before he could see her expression- he turned and left the kitchen.

She stood there, blinking with the warm mug in her hand.

John and Alexei had the decency to shut the hell up.

She took another sip. Quietly. Careful not to let the disappointment show on her face. Not yet. Not here. Not with them watching.

He remembered. That was clear now.

And the way he ran from it made her heart shatter.

----

After the kitchen, he vanished.

Not literally, she’d catch glimpses. A duffel slung over his shoulder in the hallway. His silhouette at the far end of the gym. The sound of his voice through someone else’s comms.

But not with her.

Not like before.

He found himself missions to do -extra ones- and the shooting lessons dried up without a word.

She heard he’d checked into med bay twice after rough rides. He didn’t come to her.

And it was fine. It was fine.

Only… it wasn’t.

Because before, no matter how tired or scraped up he came back, he always stopped by.

Maybe they talked. Maybe they didn’t. But there’d be a chocolate bar shared between them that he’d insist on taking, because he worried that she could deplete herself after fixing him. Said she couldn’t keep draining herself to patch them up if she was running on fumes.

So… what now?

She had the plague?

Because she hadn’t asked for that dance. She hadn’t coaxed it out of him. She didn’t choose to be on the receiving end of whatever shit his mind was conjuring.

He’d been the one who pressed in close to her and called her sugar with that cocky grin that had no business looking so good on him.

She just led him outside to clear his head. Let him hold her after a lot of deflecting. And… let herself believe, for a moment, that it wasn’t just the ale or the drugs. Did he think she liked it too much? Had she let it show? Had she smiled too much, held him too long, said yes too easily to one slow dance, and didn’t protest as much as she remembered?

God. Maybe she had.

And now, instead of facing her, he was making it perfectly, insultingly clear: as he said in the kitchen, he didn’t mean it.

And now, she was just supposed to… take the hint.

----

The tower’s communal kitchen smelled like heaven and heartburn.

Alexei kicked open the door triumphantly with both arms full, nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process. The plastic bags crinkled as he dumped his haul on the central table like he’d just returned from war. The logos were all Cyrillic. The smell -grease, paprika, something with garlic- was unmistakably that of fried chicken and snacks.

“I bring gifts!” he declared. “The good kind. Babushka-style. The clerk at the corner stall? Russian. Told her who I was, and she cried. Cried, can you believe? Gave me extra thighs.”

Yelena peeked in from the hall. “Did she cry because she recognized you or because you didn’t shut up?”

Alexei gasped like he’d been slapped. “She called me a legend.”

“I accept pity chicken,” John muttered through a bite. “This stuff is insane.”

Everyone gathered quickly, half out of hunger, half because it felt good to sit at the same table and pretend they were more than what they were. A weird little patchwork family of trauma survivors and government rejects. The Tower was loud and unorthodox, but it fed them. Literally and otherwise.

She took a seat with her back to the window, scanning the spread -crispy wings, buttery rolls, sticky fried potato medallions- reaching for a drumstick like nothing was wrong. Just like always.

Bucky slid into the seat across from her.

She didn’t look at him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Because she used to. She used to glance up mid-bite and nudge the plate toward him. Used to smile.

He watched her hand pick through the rolls, avoiding the ones she knew had dill inside because she didn’t like it. Watched her keep her eyes trained on Alexei and Bob like she was hyper interested in Bob’s explanation of wing-to-thigh ratio.

Bucky bit into a piece of chicken and chewed. Slowly.

She still didn’t look at him.

And he hated it.

Not because he needed her to fawn over him. But because he was acting like a coward, and he knew it. Because after everything, after all the therapy, all the years rebuilding his brain from scrambled eggs and static, the Winter Soldier still didn’t know what to do with this type of situation.

She used to patch him up with warm fingers and a gentle scolding because he didn’t take very good care of his body. He couldn’t even offer her a proper apology. He’d just… vanished. Like a kid hiding under a bed after breaking something important.

He’d danced with her on a balcony while dosed and drunk, said things he hadn’t had the guts to say sober, then bolted like a coward.

And now, she wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

John waved a fried leg at Alexei. “Hey, how the hell did you carry all this up here?”

“I have arms. You’re not the only one with super strength.”

“You skipped leg day for two decades.”

“I skip nothing. My legs are made of titanium will.”

“I thought your knee clicked?”

“It doesn’t! tell him, Mister Soldier.” He turned to Bucky, “I’m strong as a bear!”

Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, and John chuckled under his breath.

She smiled again. Still not at Bucky.

----

He’d looked at her the whole damn lunch. Like she was the only thing in the room worth watching. And she had done everything in her power to pretend she didn’t notice. Laughed at the right times, passed the chicken, and smiled at Bob’s stupid thigh math rant.

But she’d felt it. Every second of it.

By the time her plate was clean, she slipped away with barely a word, straight to her quarters, and shut the door behind her like she could shut out the whole tower.

It wasn’t just heartbreak -she could handle that, after all, she knew Bucky didn’t see her that way-. What killed her was the absence. The way things had changed between them, the way he disappeared afterward that night, like she was something to be embarrassed about. A lapse in judgment.

She missed after-missions chocolate, his dry jokes when she missed her aim while practicing her shooting. Mis the way he used to treat her with a softness no one else ever got.

And she was tired of letting this stupid limbo steal what they had before.

So, fine.

If he wasn’t brave enough to fix it, she would.

She pulled on her sneakers, shoved her sleeves up, and marched straight to the training room.

If he wasn’t on a mission, that’s where he’d be, working out at an hour no one else wanted to be.

As she predicted, when she opened the door, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists on reinforced vinyl filled the space.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t pause. But she knew he’d heard her. Knew he’d recognized her footsteps.

So she didn’t bother pretending and walked directly to the edge of the mat where he worked. The chain creaked overhead with every hit. His hoodie was gone, white tee stuck to his back with sweat, his dark hair clinging damply to his skin. She could see the tension in his shoulders, in the form of his stance.

She stopped two feet behind him. Close enough to smell the salt on his skin and the chalk dust on his hands.

“I don’t want things to stay like this,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to… want anything. But this? Avoiding me? It sucks.”

His hands dropped from the stance, turning toward her, ready to speak, until she lifted a hand to stop him.

“I miss us,” she added. “I miss talking. Or not talking. Just… knowing I’m being iced out because I didn’t run away fast enough that night? It’s awful.”

She took a breath. Forced the words out. Forced the lie. “Don’t worry. I’m not infatuated with you. That night didn’t awaken or feed some ridiculous crush. You were drugged. Drunk. Someone had to make sure you didn’t choke on your own tongue, and I did.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“So let’s not be weird about something you did while wrecked. We’ve all had our moments. I already know you don’t like me that way, so now that things are clear, maybe you can stop treating me like I’m contagious.”

It hit harder than he expected.

I’m not infatuated with you.

She’d said it in a clean, cool, and decisive tone, like she’d rehearsed it. Like she wanted to make sure there was no room for doubt or misinterpretation.

Even if he’d told himself a hundred times that he was reading too much into things, that it was just kindness, that no one like her could ever really want someone like him, there had still been a thread of hope. Thin. Stupid. Hopeful.

The way she laughed at one of his rare jokes, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, or when her hands remained longer than they should when patching him up. The way she swayed with him on the balcony, leaning against him like it meant something.

He thought -well, hoped- that maybe there’d been something real between them.

Apparently not.

Thank God she didn’t let him speak. He would’ve embarrassed himself, because he was about to say something messy and half-honest, and made everything worse.

When she finished, he nodded once. Like he agreed. Like his throat wasn’t closed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I don-t- I don’t know how to handle these kinds of things. I panicked. Didn’t want to-” he swallowed, eyes on the scuffed mat- “break your heart. But I didn’t want to encourage anything either-”

“Got it,” she cut in. “Can we just… pretend it didn’t happen?”

He hesitated. Just a beat.

Then nodded again. “Yeah. We can… do that.”

----

After that talk in the training room, things, technically, went back to normal.

He started showing up again. Quietly. Casually. Like he hadn’t ghosted her for days. Like she hadn’t called him out for acting like she’d contracted something from one half-slow dance.

It began with a knock on her door one morning.

“Still down to polish your shooting?”

And just like that, the lessons resumed.

He stopped dodging her in the halls. Stopped pretending she wasn’t there at meals. They fell back into routine from there, coffee in the morning, her hair still damp from a quick shower, he already half caffeinated. He never mentioned that he’d been up hours earlier. That he waited for the sound of her footsteps before starting a second pot.

Sometimes, at ridiculous hours -3 a.m., 4- he’d knock on her door. Always quiet. Always short.

“It’s acting up,” he’d say, meaning the phantom burn in his shoulder or the ache on his back where the prosthesis pressed on his nerves.

She never hesitated. Never sighed or complained or asked why he waited until that ungodly hour to knock. She’d just step aside and let him in, her voice low and sleepy as she told him to sit, relaxing her hands in the dark to press the hurt away.

He lingered again. Long enough to sip the tea she made after patching him up.

They didn’t talk about those moments.

Like the morning he passed her a chocolate bar as thanks, not looking at her as he did. Or when her fingers brushed his jaw a beat too long before she realized the cut was already closed.

They joked sometimes. Bickered, too, like teammates did. But beneath the returned camaraderie, beneath the jokes during target practice and the shared glances across the kitchen table, something was living in there, waiting for the wrong -or right- moment to slip loose.

----

The meeting room smelled like burnt coffee and boredom.

Bob looked like he’d only recently rolled out of bed, Yelena was balancing a pen on her lip, and Bucky had perfected the art of glaring at nothing in particular. John was slouched, with his arms crossed, boots propped on the edge of the table like it was casual Friday in hell.

They were halfway through a dry logistics debrief when the press liaison from PR -RRPP, if you went by the internal Tower files- entered with that nervous energy that usually preceded bad news disguised as an opportunity.

She tapped on her tablet and smiled too widely. “We’ve been invited to the annual Unity for Tomorrow Gala. It’s a charity event raising money for rare pediatric syndromes. Very visible. Very positive. Very necessary.”

A groan rippled through the table.

Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “Tell me it’s at least an open bar.”

“It is,” the liaison chirped, clearly clinging to that as her sole bargaining chip. “And televised.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked.

“No,” he muttered, crossing his arms so tightly he could’ve popped the seams of his sleeves. “You want likability numbers? Stop making us pose for shit.”

“Oh, come on, Mister Soldier,” Alexei boomed from his seat, already beaming like the spotlight was his natural habitat. “This is good. Prestige! Public warmth! And the children, of course.”

“Right. The children,” John echoed flatly, already looking at the calendar on his phone like he might magically have a conflict of schedules.

Bucky leaned back in his chair. “I did my time smiling for cameras and shaking hands. I’m not in the seat anymore for a reason.”

“Exactly,” the liaison jumped in. “But public sentiment has been... declining. Slightly. Four civilian-ground missions, four major insurance claims. Some... damage.”

“There was a runaway drone with a bomb,” John muttered.

“There was a hot dog stand you threw the drone into,” Yelena corrected. “And a vintage car show. Don’t forget that.”

John waved a hand dismissively. “I tripped.”

“You blew out half a fountain,” Bucky threw him a judging glare.

“I said I tripped.”

“And that’s why this gala matters,” the liaison pushed on. “Good cause. Clean optics. Soft lighting. Humanizing. Ava’s excused, she’s three states over, but the rest of you? Required.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, and it wasn’t in English. He didn’t repeat it.

Bob rubbed his face, clearly wishing he’d stayed in the kitchen. He hadn’t done much since the Void incident besides filling out Tower paperwork and developing a fondness for infomercials. “Great,” he sighed. “So we’re the dancing monkeys now.”

Yelena exhaled slowly through her nose like she was preparing for a root canal. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want shrimp.”

John grinned. “You think they’re gonna have shrimp?”

“I need there to be shrimp.”

Everyone turned to look at her -the newest member of the team-. She didn’t speak right away.

They’d all done this before. Bucky, the campaign circuit. Yelena and Alexei, posing as diplomats or pseudo-royalty on missions. Even John had logged hours at high-profile charity events during his time as the golden boy of American exceptionalism. Bob… well, Bob wore a tux once or twice while doing catering service for a friend’s gastronomic entrepreneurship.

But her?

She had nothing in the closet that high-class. The idea of walking into a ballroom lit for PR photos, lined with champagne flutes while strangers judged the cut of her dress and the tone of her smile made her stomach twist.

Still, she knew the press team was handling the wardrobe. That was something. No need to buy a thousand-dollar dress she’d never wear again. And maybe -maybe- she could find a quiet corner, hide her heels under the hem of some tablecloth, drinking while everyone else smiled for cameras.

That sounded… survivable.

Still, she forced a tight smile. “Sure. Gala night. Sounds like a dream.”

Pathetic, really.

Alexei clapped his hands. “Wonderful! I shall wear my red tie. It brings out my legend!”

Yelena leaned toward her. “Don’t worry. Stick close to me. I’ll help you socialize with the snobs.”

“Thanks.”

“Unless they have shrimp. Then you’re on your own.”

She sighed. Gala night it was.

----

Somehow -because Alexei always managed to get his way- the Tower’s PR team agreed to let him use his recently repaired limo to take the whole team to the gala.

“It shows humility,” the PR liaison had said. “Relatable, even.”

Right.

As expected, their outfits had been taken care of ahead of time. The women were presented with three dress options each, while the men got exactly one suit. No notes. No negotiation.

In the guest wing, Yelena was adjusting a backless sapphire gown in front of the mirror when she turned to glance toward the bed. “So,” she drawled, “what’s Tinkerbell the Healer wearing tonight?”

From the other side of the room, she groaned and threw a brown slip of fabric across the bed. “I know which one I’m not wearing, if that counts for anything.”

Yelena smirked. “Lemme guess. Second-skin nightmare?”

“Exactly. I look like the before photo in one of those ‘lose 22 pounds in a month’ scam ads.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Yelena replied, tilting her head, “I wouldn’t wear it either. It’s like it was designed to highlight every part of the body a woman already hates.”

She snorted. “And the others? They fit okay, but the necklines are… aggressive. Like, museum-display levels of showcase.”

“So?” Yelena lifted a brow. “Isn’t that the point? To highlight the yummy attributes?”

She turned slowly to stare at her.

“I’m just saying,” the blonde added matter-of-factly, “if I had your tits, I’d be showing them off at every socially acceptable opportunity.”

“Oh, very comforting. Thank you for that.”

“You asked.”

“Alright, help me out, tell me which of these two is the least slutty.”

“There’s no such thing as a slutty dress for a gala. That’s just your perception. But, sure, be my guest.”

After trying both on, she stood in front of the mirror while Yelena circled her like a fashion hawk.

“My god,” Yelena chuckled. “The dresses aren’t slutty. You just have slutty breasts.”

“Oh, perfect. That’s exactly the confidence boost I needed.”

“I mean it in a good way,” she grinned. “Those necklines wouldn’t look like that on me.”

“Maybe I can pin it a little on the inside,” she muttered, inspecting the plunge of fabric. “Bring the neckline up a bit.”

“Or,” Yelena said with a wicked grin, “you could ask Bucky to be your guard dog.”

“What?” she blinked. “Why would I- no.”

“To stand there and glower at anyone with a lactation kink. Rich people, politicians, they’re the worst.”

“I’m not asking Bucky to do that.”

“Why not? I think he’d be thrilled to break a few fingers for you.”

She snorted, but her face was heating up. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

She hesitated.

Yelena tilted her head, studying her. “Because I saw your little slow dance before we went out that night.”

Her voice dropped a notch. “Yeah. Then he told me he didn’t want to encourage anything that wasn’t there.”

Yelena made a face. “Ugh. That’s such a man's way of handling things.”

“Exactly. So no, Bucky couldn’t care less about being my guard dog. He made it pretty clear.”

“Mm-hmm,” Yelena hummed, clearly unconvinced. “We’ll see.”

----

The team waited in the Tower’s underground parking lot, near the elevator bank under flickering overhead lights. Everyone looked to have different degrees of discomfort in their tailored suits and polished shoes.

Bob looked like someone had forced him into his suit at gunpoint. “Why are we even meeting in the garage? Is this supposed to feel glamorous?”

“I’m already sweating in this thing,” John replied. “If there’s no AC in Alexei’s clown car, I’m bailing.”

Bucky stood a little apart, with his hands in his pockets, leaning against a pillar like he wanted to blend into it. He was already regretting showing up.

The low ding of the elevator drew their attention, and John turned just as the doors slid open.

“Well, damn,” he said with a low whistle.

Both Bucky and Bob turned at that. Bob grinned outright. “Okay, okay, are we in a Bond movie now or what?”

Yelena stepped out first, draped in deep sapphire silk, catching the fluorescent light. She swished her hair with a smirk. Behind her, she emerged a step slower, adjusting her grip on a tiny clutch bag. Pinning the neckline had failed.

Bucky’s breath caught for a beat. Then-

“You look… good,” he said in a low voice, nearly lost in the scrape of Bob’s shoe.

Yelena scoffed. “Only good? I swear, you guys are underqualified for this kind of glamour. “We’re gonna milk a bunch of pockets tonight,” she added, lifting her chin.

John wrinkled his nose. “Okay, I don’t know how that sounded in your head, but out loud? Real different vibe.”

“You are such a pig,” Yelena snorted, swatting his arm with her clutch.

“Not my fault you phrased it like we’re hosting an adult livestream.”

As the banter escalated between them, Bucky’s eyes drifted again.

She wasn’t looking at him -not directly- but she wasn’t not looking either. He noticed the way her hand smoothed the fabric at her hip, absent-mindedly, maybe she was nervous. He shouldn’t stare. He did anyway.

She wasn’t supposed to notice him watching. He wasn’t supposed to want her to. But there it was, again. That soft, traitorous flick of her gaze that almost -almost- landed on his before skipping away like it never happened.

Bob, standing beside Bucky, caught the whole exchange. His eyes moved from one to the other, giving the faintest shake of his head, like watching a pair of teenagers.

Another moment passed before the low, growling sound of the engine echoed through the parking lot.

Then the limo appeared.

Alexei’s monstrosity gleamed in red under the lights. The paint job had clearly been touched up with more love than taste.

The window rolled down an inch.

“Get in, comrades!” Alexei hollered. “We ride with style and moral superiority!”

“Is there AC in that thing?” John asked.

“Is there honor in capitalism? No! Get in anyway!”

“Is there a minibar?” Yelena asked.

“No. But there is vodka and tiny pickles under my seat. Maybe some chips.”

John groaned. Bucky closed his eyes, cursing quietly under his breath.

----

He climbed in last, holding the door for her as she ducked inside and then followed, shutting it firmly behind him.

The inside of Alexei’s gaudy red limo smelled like cologne, vodka, and the leftover ghost of cigar smoke. The seats were soft leather, the kind that stuck slightly to bare skin. And unfortunately, there was a lot of bare skin.

Most of the ride was quiet, minus Alexei, who was thrilled to have a captive audience and launched straight into every wild tale of inebriated passengers he'd chauffeured back in the day.

Bucky wasn’t listening. Not really.

He was too busy scowling at the window. Or rather, scowling at the reflection in it.

At her.

He didn’t even know what the dress was made of -something soft-looking, but it was cut in a way that was perfect for her. And the neckline-

Fuck.

He wanted to throw his suit jacket at her to prevent anyone from looking.

He shifted, subtly, trying to sit farther back into the seat, but it brought his thigh flush to hers. Just enough to feel the warmth through the fabric. Just enough to make his pulse stutter.

She, on the other hand, was trying to be cool like she’d promised herself. Cool, like it didn’t affect her how his hair was slicked back, how the cut of his collar revealed just a little too much of his neck, or how the edge of his jawline was sharpened by the neatly trimmed scruff. That cologne he’d put on last minute -the expensive one he used once on a mission- wasn’t helping either.

She turned to him, easy and casual. Tried to make things like they were before the balcony.

“How are you dealing with the suit?” she asked.

He looked at her then and blinked.

“Fine, I guess,” he muttered. “Used to be normal attire. Back in the day.”

“Right,” she said, nodding. “Maybe that’s why it doesn’t look forced. It suits you. Really well.”

Her smile was kind. Innocent.

His heart stuttered like a goddamn idiot.

A friendly compliment, sure. But his ears burned anyway. He scrambled for something to return, anything to level the scale.

He opened his mouth and offered: “You look good, too. Very… uh. Free.”

He winced internally the second it left his mouth. Free? Really? He’d looked again, damn it. The neckline. And of course, she noticed.

She stared at him for a second before letting out a groan and tugging the fabric of her dress up. “Yeah. I know. It’s… a lot. Or not enough, depending on who you ask.”

Her fingers moved to adjust the neckline again, but it still didn’t sit the way she wanted. “I tried pinning it inside, but the damn fabric’s cut too wide-”

“No, I mean-” he started, then cleared his throat and tried again, softer this time. “You look elegant.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not,” he said, maybe too fast. “I just... wasn’t expecting...” his voice faded.

Now she was definitely self-conscious. Great.

He swallowed hard and looked away, resisting the urge to slam his forehead against the window.

What would that other version of him -the one that called her sugar and spun her on a balcony- would have said right now?

Probably something charming. Something bold. Something like, You look so beautiful, it makes me forget my own name.

Instead, Bucky sat there, silently, wishing the gala didn’t involve anyone else but her.

----

The ballroom was all gold and soft lighting, chandeliers glittering like a thousand judging eyes overhead. The waiters moved between tables with trays of champagne and canapés, the noise of conversation just loud enough to drown the string quartet in the corner.

Scattered across the floor, the team blended into the social chaos, some better than others.

Alexei was in his element, booming laughter as he charmed a cluster of wealthy donors with stories of selfless courage and the time he wrestled a genetically enhanced yak. He ate up the attention like breathing oxygen, even letting a local news anchor cling to his elbow for a photo op.

John gravitated near the bar, drink in hand, nodding along as a defense contractor talked too loud about privatized security models.

Bob stood near the snack table, utterly unbothered. He hid beside a fountain of something fruity, murmuring idle praises to the catering staff, casually working his way through shrimp skewers and stuffed figs while avoiding eye contact with anyone holding a wine glass worth more than a week’s rent.

Bucky camouflaged himself into the crowd like smoke. He stayed near the walls, weaving through clusters of suits and ballgowns, a full glass of champagne barely touched in his hand. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then only with short, polite nods. But his eyes were always moving, scanning, cataloguing. Watching her.

Across the room, she stood with Yelena, the two of them unsurprisingly talking to a group of old men feigning interest in the cause of the event while checking on them with poor concealed interest.

----

The woman found him before he could blend into a corner. Of course she did. She always had a nose for opportunity, and Bucky Barnes walking through a charity gala in a perfectly tailored suit was apparently still that.

He saw her making a beeline across the floor, sleek dress, high heels clicking on marble, champagne flute held like a prop she didn’t even sip from.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she greeted, voice syrup-sweet. “Too bad isn’t Congressman anymore?”

Bucky offered a stiff smile. “Well...”

“Pity.” Her hand slid into his and lingered longer than necessary. “I was hoping to see a return on my little investment.”

He didn’t pull away. That would’ve made a scene. And she had donated, fuck, more than most. Back when he was trying to convince himself that redemption could come in the form of legislation and cameras.

“Didn’t mean to waste your money,” he said gruffly.

She laughed. “You didn’t. You just didn’t spend it how I imagined.” Her fingers grazed his forearm. “But you’re still doing your good deeds, aren’t you?”

He nodded once. Kept his expression neutral. “Something like that.”

She leaned in conspiratorially, perfume heady and overdone. “Besides, I didn’t only invest in the cause. I liked the face on the posters.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he let her talk. It was easier.

Her laughter was bright, echoing just enough to draw a few glances. And he chuckled, too. Not because she was funny -he barely heard the joke- but because it was easier than showing the guilt chewing the inside of his chest.

He shouldn’t’ve left the way he did back then. Should’ve written statements, closed loops, done… something.

So he took the blame and the glances, and let her flirt.

----

From across the ballroom, beneath the warm sweep of chandelier light and the low tunes of a jazz trio, she caught a glimpse of Bucky, half-turned toward a tall woman in emerald silk, her smile a blinding white.

His stance was unguarded, shoulders dropped, arms not crossed. Relaxed in a way he rarely allowed himself to be in crowded spaces.

The woman -mid-forties maybe, long legs and expensive earrings- laughed at something he said and rested a hand on his bicep like it belonged there. He didn’t move away.

She tilted her head, watching.

It wasn’t the touch that got her. Not really. It was the way he responded. That faint, boyish smile she’d only seen once or twice. The kind of chuckle that didn’t come with a wince. They weren’t strangers. That much was obvious.

Then she leaned in closer, lips near his ear, murmuring something. Bucky grinned, quick and sheepish, like he’d been caught off guard.

Of course.

Well. That made sense. Why wouldn’t a woman like that be into Bucky? And why wouldn’t he welcome that kind of attention, gorgeous body, fitting dress, and clearly a past between them?

She turned away before she could watch more.

Yelena was deep in conversation with a state senator and a biotech heir, so she made her escape to the bar.

John was already there, half leaning against the counter, twirling a cherry in his drink like he was debating whether to eat it or throw it at someone.

He looked over when she dropped onto the stool beside him.

“Ditching the social circus?” he said, lifting his luridly garnished drink. “Can I interest you in a sugar-rimmed monstrosity?”

She eyed the drink. Then at him. Then, at the drink again.

“Why do you even bother drinking? You can’t get drunk with that,” she deadpanned.

John clutched his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. That’s low. Maybe I like the taste. Why do you care?”

She shrugged, signaling the bartender with two fingers. “I don’t. I’m just done smiling at men who want to know if my powers can be weaponized or monetized.”

John snorted into his drink.

She didn’t answer. Just tossed back her first shot and gestured for another.

Across the room, Bucky was still engaged in conversation, but something in his focus had started to drift. His posture stayed relaxed, but his gaze kept flicking sideways. Past the CEO. Toward the bar.

More specifically, toward her.

Perched on a barstool next to Walker.

She looked... withdrawn. Edgy. She said something, and John barked a laugh, tossing a cherry stem over his shoulder.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the donor purred, getting his attention again, “I’m here because I’ve got something for you.”

He glanced at her warily. “Yeah?”

She stepped in closer, too close. Close enough for her perfume to crowd his nose and make the collar of his shirt feel too tight.

“I wouldn’t have come to you if it weren’t worth your time,” she said, lightly brushing a hand over his forearm like it was casual. “I came across something. A leak. Internal Meditex files. R&D stuff that doesn’t match what they publish. Trial data. Failed ones. Buried.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened at that. “How’d you get it?”

“You know I have ears,” she said smoothly. “And more importantly, access. You can have it. Tonight.”

“Why not send it?” he asked, though his pulse had kicked up.

“Because anonymous tips vanish into inboxes.” Her voice dropped a register. “And because I wanted to see if the man I backed still gives a damn about the things he said he would.”

His mouth twitched. “I do.”

“Then come with me. I’ve got the flash drive in my clutch. Private lounge. No one will see. No one will hear. Unless you’d rather I slip it into your pocket in front of the cameras?”

Her eyebrow lifted, pointed. Daring.

He hesitated. Just a breath. This felt wrong, but the stakes… If she was telling the truth, he needed to see that data. Meditex had crossed his radar more than once. There’d been whispers. Rumors he couldn’t pin down.

Bucky nodded once. “Fine. Lead the way.”

She smiled like she’d already won something, trailing her fingers down his sleeve as she turned. “Try to keep up, Sergeant.”

----

The second shot burned less than the first. Probably a bad sign.

She winced, pushed the empty glass forward on the bar, and watched the bartender nod like he already knew she wasn’t done yet.

“Slow down,” John drawled beside her. He was still working on his sugar-rimmed monstrosity. “You’re supposed to sip,” he offered. “Like a lady.”

She snorted. “Please. I’ve been called many things tonight, but none of them rhyme with ladylike.”

John glanced at her neckline, purely for effect.

She stiffened a little, reaching up on reflex to adjust the top of the dress, but his grin was already in place. Teasing, not cruel.

“I’m joking, Jesus,” he said quickly, chuckling. “You look fine. Seriously, you’ve been tugging at that thing all night.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “Your chest isn’t trying to declare independence.”

“You wear the dress. Don’t let the dress wear you,” he said with a shrug.

She blinked at that. “Wow.”

“I have layers,” he said proudly, gesturing to himself.

She chuckled and stood up, “I’m gonna go pee.”

He grimaced. “Why do you all overshare? God.”

“Maybe I’m tipsy and don’t give a fuck,” she shrugged, patting his shoulder as she stood. He made a dramatic show of wiping it off with a napkin.

“You better come back. If I’m stuck talking to another golf enthusiast alone again, I swear to God-”

She flipped him off over her shoulder and disappeared into the crowd. The bathroom signs were absolutely nowhere, because of course they weren’t. Fancy places never had clear signage, as if bathrooms were some sort of secret only VIPs deserved to access.

She walked past a cluster of tall marble columns, turned left, then another left, and cursed under her breath when she hit a little room heading to more corridors. One of the hallways stretched ahead, lined with antique mirrors and gold-trimmed doors, but no helpful placard saying ladies, this way.

“Jesus. This fucking maze.”

She turned to the other, following the low sound of music deeper into the corridor, not realizing yet how close she was to something she wasn’t supposed to see.

----

She turned another corner, still grumbling under her breath, when her heels slowed on the polished marble. The corridor ahead was dimmer, lit only by antique sconces and the faint spill of light from a cracked door near the end. She was about to glance away when she saw the silhouette of a woman stepping out, tall, poised, dress shimmering dark green like serpent skin.

And then she saw him.

Bucky. Leaning casually against the wall outside the room.

The woman stepped closer.

Not close like talking close. Closer.

One hand braced her clutch while the other -those manicured fingers tipped in crimson- lifted, slowly and deliberately, trailing up his chest.

She froze. Mid-step. One foot still slightly raised off the floor.

What the hell.

He didn’t move. Didn’t step away. Just stood there, while her fingers traveled higher.

The woman said something, low and intimate, her voice too soft to hear. Then she tipped her head back and laughed, rich and unbothered, her hand still resting flat over his chest.

And then it happened in one fluid motion.

She leaned in, and her mouth found his. Then it got worse.

Because when her chest met his, the straps of her gown slid -already unclasped-. The fabric dropped swiftly, pooling at her waist, revealing skin, so much skin.

She stepped back instinctively, her heel catching the edge of a runner rug. A faint scuff of sound echoed in the hallway, and turned around.

She didn’t see him flinch.

Didn’t see him step back.

Didn’t wait to see anything else.

She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get the hell out of that hallway, away from the sight of Bucky and his beautiful, laughing companion slipping out of her dress for him.

----

She had led him down the hall, hips swaying just a little too much.

Bucky kept a polite step behind. He was only doing this because she claimed it was urgent. Sensitive information on a pharmaceutical research project that might tie back to one of Hydra’s old shell companies. Something worth following up.

They reached a tall door. Mahogany, brass knob, expensive like everything else in this damn place. She pushed it open, revealing a private lounge, low lights, leather chairs, velvet drapes, crystal decanter on a side table.

He didn’t step inside. Just folded his hands behind his back.

“I’ll wait here.”

She gave a soft, almost disappointed sound. “Suit yourself.” Then, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she stepped in, leaving the door half open behind her. The silence stretched. Then the rustling of fabric, the clink of something metallic, a clasp?

Then she reappeared.

“I figured I might as well give it to you now,” she said breezily, stepping close.

Bucky nodded once. “Alright.”

He didn’t move when her hand reached for him. He expected her to slip something discreet into his pocket, a flash drive, maybe a folded note.

What he got was her palm, gliding up the front of his jacket.

Not fast. Testing.

He frowned. Didn’t move because he thought she was aiming for his inner pocket.

Then her fingers just… stayed. Flat on his chest.

He looked down, confused, just in time for her to smile and close the last inch between them.

Then-  She kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t desperate either. It was planned, coaxing, full of intention. Her free hand slid down his side. Her body leaned fully against his, and then he felt it.

The rustle of fabric slipping low. His eyes dropped, and her gown had fallen to her waist.

Bucky recoiled instantly.

“Hey- no,” he said sharply, stumbling back a step. “I’m not-” His voice cut off, rough with shock. “Ma’am, that’s not what I’m here for.”

The woman blinked, still smiling like it was all part of a game. “Relax, Sergeant. Consider it... a way to get back some of my investment.”

He shook his head, rising one hand to put space between them. “This was a mistake.”

And then he turned, walking away so fast his shoes echoed loudly across the hallway. He was ashamed and pissed at himself. How the fuck had he fallen into that basic scheme?

----

She didn’t remember how she got there. One turn led to another, and then somehow, she was in an empty coatroom near the restrooms. The kind of place that hadn’t seen use in years. She slipped inside like a thief, closing the door behind her with a muffled click.

Faint music still drifted from the ballroom, muted by thick walls and heavy velvet. But in here, it was just her and rows of empty hangers. Her heels clicked softly on the floor before she stopped and pressed her back to the a wall.

She stared across the room. At nothing. Just the far wall. An ugly smear of peeling paint. The crooked hook of an old coat hanger. Something -anything- to focus on. Something that wasn’t the image burned into her brain.

She’d known. Fuck, she’d known. He’d said it himself, without hint of malice. Just honesty, as always. He wasn’t interested.

They’d agreed to move on. Be normal. Be okay. But there was hearing it… and then there was seeing it.

A stuttered breath escaped her lips. Then another.

And then, a sound she hadn’t meant to make, a wet, quiet sob that broke loose from her throat.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

Too late.

The tears came fast, faster than she expected. Not a trickle. A flood. Like she was finally shedding everything she hadn’t let go of after that night on the balcony. After the talk. After pretending it didn’t hurt.

It was stupid. So stupid.

She wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t some naïve intern with a crush. She was a grown-ass woman. A teammate.

And Bucky, he’d never misled her. Not once.

He’d slipped once, that night, yes. Drunk and too wrecked to know what he was doing. But after that? He’d been polite. Honest. Kind.

Pathetic. She couldn’t even blame him; all this pain was hers.

She just had to stop.

Had to stop feeling like this.

Stop wanting what wasn’t hers to want.

----

He reentered the ballroom with his jaw clenched until it hurt and a shallow breath.

Everything looked the same. Velvet shadows, too much perfume, laughter, clinking off crystal flutes. No one had seen. No one knew. He could pretend. He just had to get his footing.

But then-

“Bucky!” Alexei’s booming voice cut through the music like a war horn.

Shit.

He tried to sidestep it, melt into the crowd, but it was too late, Alexei already had a hand clamped around his shoulder, guiding him toward a semicircle of suits and gowns that reeked of cologne and generational wealth.

“Ah, here he is!” Alexei declared. “The Winter Soldier himself! We were just talking about Romania. Yes, yes, the cargo truck, remember? Tell them how you held onto the axle with one hand while I reversed at eighty kilometers!”

Bucky forced a smile, his lips barely moving.

“It wasn’t that fast,” he muttered.

“Oh, but they don’t know that!” Alexei laughed, sloshing a drink over the rim of his glass. “Come, tell it! You make the face, the brooding one- yes! that one.”

The group chuckled. Someone touched his arm. Another leaned in too close, asking if he was really out of politics.

His heart started to pound.

The laughter around him thinned, warped. The voices blurred, too loud, too wrong.

The lights above them were suddenly too hot.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, and it came out hoarse. “I need to…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t look back.

He just moved.

He didn’t know where he was going until the bar rose up in front of him like a dock in the storm.

Unsurprisingly, John was still there, a little more disheveled than when they came. His tie was crooked, the jacket unbuttoned, hair mussed in a way that said he’d run a frustrated hand through it one too many times.

He looked over when Bucky dropped onto the stool beside him and raised a brow. “You look like shit.”

Bucky didn’t grace him with an answer. He just lifted two fingers to signal the bartender.

----

After she calmed down, she took her time in the restroom, splashing cold water on her face and dabbing it dry with a linen towel. The counters were stocked with a small tray of toiletries, fancy ones. She used a bit of concealer, fixed her eyeliner, and patted her cheeks for color. In the mirror, she looked passable. Not like someone who’d just cried in a coatroom.

She let out a shaky breath.

Time to go back. Not to stay, not for long. Just to find Yelena and tell her she was leaving. Her social battery was long gone, and so was her mood. She wanted pajamas, a quiet room, and the illusion that nothing had happened.

She found Yelena roaming near one of the buffet stations, poking around at what looked like a shrimp cocktail situation. The blonde took a forkful, tasted it with a thoughtful hum, and was about to go in for a second bite when she noticed her.

Her gaze sharpened in an instant. She set her plate down on the nearest table and stepped closer.

“What happened?”

Fuck.

She really thought she’d fixed her face well enough.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’m just tired.”

Yelena gave her a flat look. “You know I’m trained to read people, right?”

“I should’ve made a bet with you,” she muttered, brushing past her. “I’d be pocketing money right now.”

Yelena frowned. “What does that mean?”

She hesitated, then sighed. Her voice dropped low.

“Bucky,” she said, avoiding Yelena’s gaze. “He… he couldn’t care less about being my ‘guard dog,’ like you said earlier.”

“Why would you say that?” Yelena asked slowly.

“I saw him.” Her throat felt like it was going to close. “He was kissing that woman he’d been talking to earlier. The one in green.”

Yelena blinked. “What?”

“She was all over him.  Laughing, and then… I don’t know, I think they were going into a room or something. Her dress… she was undressing. In the hallway.”

Yelena’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “Pretty sure they fucked,” she muttered, biting the inside of her cheek.

For a moment, Yelena said nothing. She looked like she’d short-circuited. Then she caught herself.

“And here I was thinking he was just an old grump,” she said. “Are you- are you okay?”

“I will be,” she said, trying to smile and failing. “Just need to get out of this dress, off these fucking heels, and lie down for a decade.”

Yelena reached for her elbow, but she stepped back gently.

“So I’m going,” she added.

“I’ll go with you,” Yelena offered, already going to reach for her coat.

She huffed a tired laugh. “No, you won’t. You’re gonna eat your shrimps and hit the bar. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Yelena looked unconvinced. “How are you getting home?”

“A cab. I’ve got a vetted number saved. I’ll be fine.”

Yelena hesitated, then nodded. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will,” she promised, then leaned in and gave her a quick squeeze of the hand before turning away.

----

Yelena spotted them from across the ballroom, two familiar silhouettes slouched at the bar like disgruntled groomsmen at the wrong wedding. Both disheveled, but for different reasons.

She strolled over, shrimp cocktail in one hand, and propped her elbow on the counter beside Bucky with a dry smile.

“So, Mr. Soldier,” she drawled, helping herself to the gin bottle behind the bar like she owned the place, “seems like you're the only one -besides my father- actually enjoying himself tonight.”

Bucky frowned, knitting his brows. “And what gives you the impression I’m not miserable?”

“Please,” she scoffed, pouring the gin straight into an empty tumbler. “Don’t play dumb. Didn’t know you still had it in you, lucky bastard.”

He blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

She gave him a slow, knowing look and grabbed a shrimp from her plate. “She saw you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who saw what?”

Yelena arched one brow -really?- and popped the shrimp in her mouth like punctuation. “Took a wrong turn. Found herself facing you and that fancy CEO lady practically fucking in a hallway.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway to his glass. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stutter, but the lines of his shoulders tensed.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said carefully, voice low. “Where is she?”

“She left,” Yelena said, setting the empty plate down. “Said she was tired.”

When Bucky didn’t respond -no curse, no glare, no sudden storming off- Yelena sighed, resting both elbows on the bar.

“You know,” she muttered, “I thought you were into her. She kept denying it, and I pressed anyway. Teased her. Now I feel like shit, because turns out she was right, and I basically helped set her up for emotional disaster.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Yelena scoffed, thumping the bar lightly with her glass. “Oh my god, you’re so dense.”

Walker, beside them, made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

“She likes you, Bucky. Not like you like a buddy, or a mission partner, or some sad charity case. Likes you, likes you. And then she saw your little Casanova moment, and it crushed her. She cried.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched once, hard. Then he stood without a word and stormed off.

Walker let out a low whistle, tipping back the rest of his drink. “Damn,” he muttered, licking the sugar off the rim. “Should’ve brought popcorn.”

Yelena ignored him, following Bucky’s retreating figure with her eyes.

“About fucking time.” She muttered under her breath.

----

By the time the cab let her off outside the Tower, she felt hollow.

The lobby was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that made her heels echo like gunshots on the polished floor. The security system blinked green, and the elevator ride felt longer than usual. She leaned against the mirror-paneled wall, watching her own reflection. Smudged lip gloss. Tired eyes. One earring missing.

Fitting.

When the doors slid open to her floor, she walked straight into her quarters and didn’t bother turning on the light. Moved through the dark on autopilot, shedding her clothes in soft, careless drops. The dress fell to the floor in a heap. Her jewelry clinked into the bathroom sink. The makeup wipe felt like sandpaper after the fancy towelettes in the gala restroom, but at least this one stripped the night off her face.

She dug into the bottom drawer like a raccoon looking for treasure and found her favorite pajama set: an ancient cotton thing that once had turquoise little flowers, now faded to blue-gray, with little lint balls on the most worn places.

Perfect.

There was a beat when she stood there, hair half-pinned, dressed in worn cotton and silence, and the bed called her. But no. She refused to lie down like a dejected teenager and cry herself to sleep. She wanted sugar. She wanted Jane Austen. She wanted to feel anything else.

The kitchen was dark except for the low glow of the fridge. She cut a fat slice of the leftover Black Forest cake Yelena had hidden behind Alexei’s smelly pickles and some suspicious deli meat. Sorry, Lena.

And then, barefoot and emotionally wrecked, she walked into the common room. She sank into the corner cushion, pulled the blanket over her knees, and turned on the TV.

Pressed“Continue Watching” at Pride and Prejudice, right where she left it. Mr. Darcy, in his wet shirt, awkwardly greeting Elizabeth after they converged unexpectedly on his property. She loved the scene. Not because Colin Firth, plus a wet shirt -well, maybe- but because he tried to scrape together his social skills to talk to her, failing miserably. He kept it all inside. All that repression. All that longing. She found it endearing. Maybe because she had a thing for that kind of man.

Another bite. The cherries were tart, or maybe that was just her mood. She sank deeper into the couch. Let the dialogues float over her like lullabies she knew by heart.

The guys wouldn’t be back for another two hours, at least. She had time.

Time to wallow in sugar and fiction.

Time to indulge in the self-pity she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.

Time to let it all out, and tomorrow, look Bucky in the eye and act like she hadn’t seen what she saw.

----

By the time he made it to the lobby, she was gone.

He stood at the entrance, scanning the street like she might still be there, like the cab hadn’t already taken her away five minutes ago. He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered something low and obscene under his breath.

He moved outside and stood beneath the awning, teeth clenched as he waited. A few passing cars. One distant cab already occupied. Another with its light off.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. No ride. No plan.

A gust of wind rushed up the avenue. The first raindrop hit his shoulder like a warning shot.

Then the sky cracked.

A thunder rolled hard and slow across the skyline as the downpour started without gentler preamble, just a curtain of cold, punishing rain that fell against pavement and instantly soaked his suit, which got stuck to his body like wet paper. His hair, so carefully slicked back hours ago, hung heavily and stuck on his forehead and cheeks.

He stood there for a moment, water dripping from his lashes, from his jaw. One slow breath. Then he stepped back under the awning, his shoes squelching with every move. No cab would pick him up like this, looking like a drowned rat.

He shook out his shoulders, turned his face toward the street, and started walking.

After a block, he scowled. Why the hell was he walking?

“Fuck it,” he growled and broke into a run, his feet slapping puddles, water spraying off his shoulders and arms with every movement.

Ex-Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

Sprinting through New York in a drowned designer suit.

How sophisticated.

Every soaked step only pissed him off more.

If he’d been normal, if he’d just had the damn guts to talk to her like an adult, maybe she wouldn’t have had to see that shitty hallway moment and misread everything.

But no. He had mumbled something stupid, fled the kitchen without finishing as in a soap opera, and then, he hid like a fucking boy, ashamed and afraid to take account of his actions.

He strained his legs to go faster, the way he used to run through dark alleyways on missions he couldn’t remember.

Maybe that was all he knew how to do. Run. Miss the moment. Regret the aftermath.

----

The cake was gone.

She wasn’t sure when she’d finished it, but now the plate sat abandoned on the coffee table, and the fork dangled from her hand like she’d forgotten it was there.

She was resting sideways on the couch now, the blanket bunched around her legs, head leaning against a cushion. The glow of the TV flickered across her face. Half the time, she was completely immersed in the story. The other half, her mind snapped back, harshly and unwillingly, to the hallway.

The dress.

The kiss.

It kept looping, like a shitty bootleg on repeat. Frame by frame. Her stomach turned every time.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe seeing it -raw and undeniable- was the only thing that would finally make her stop. Stop pining. Stop building castles out of scraps of attention, silence, and polite smiles.

She wasn’t that woman. The kind of people who slipped away from the galas with a flirt. The kind who got pressed against walls and kissed under dim lights.

She was her teammate. A friend. A fucking responsibility, maybe, for the way it always seemed he was keeping an eye on her on the field.

Behind the reinforced windows, thunder rolled again.

----

By the time Bucky made it to the Tower, he looked like something dredged from the Hudson.

He discarded his suit jacket in the elevator, it hung useless and heavy anyway, saturated and sagging. Now it dripped forgotten somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth floor. His shirt stuck to his body, nearly transparent in places, the rainwater still streaming from his hair in slow drips that traced down his neck and jaw.

His shoes squelched with every step, and a wet trail was marking his path like breadcrumbs down the pristine hallway.

He didn’t bother to dry off. Didn’t bother to stop.

Her quarters came first.

He hesitated just a second before knocking -three soft raps- then a fourth, harder.

No answer.

He frowned and leaned in slightly, and what he heard -or didn’t hear- made his stomach drop.

No heartbeat. No soft breath. No faint rustle of movement inside. She wasn’t in there.

A spike of concern twisted his stomach. Had she not made it back? Was she still out there, alone?

He pushed that thought away, turning on his heel.

He gave the common room a shot.

And then he saw her.

Lying in the far corner of the couch, engulfed by a blanket, Pride and Prejudice playing on the big screen. She hadn’t moved when he entered, maybe hadn’t heard him over the dialogue.

He stood there for a breath. Two.

Silent.

Dripping.

Then-  “Hey.”

Her head snapped toward the sound of his voice.

Shit.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. Was it that late already? How long had she been cradling cake and sorrow like a moody teenager in the middle of a Jane Austen spiral? 

She was supposed to be in her room by the time they got back, not still on the couch in her lint-covered pajamas, looking as dejected as she felt.

She cleared her throat, trying to mask the flush of embarrassment. “Hey.”

Then she actually looked at him.

He was soaked to the bone, his shirt clinging to every inch of his body, heavy and soaked through, dark hair hanging limp on his face, water sliding down his neck, soaking into the collar. And his face… he looked wrecked, haunted. And he was alone.

He looked like he’d seen something. Or lost something.

The blanket pooled around her hips as she sat upright, not even caring to hide the faded pajamas slipping off one shoulder.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, voice softer now. “Where are the others?”

She tilted her head slightly, trying to read him

He stood there like a ghost, soaked, motionless, his fists closed loosely at his sides. His breath had evened out from the run, but something about him still looked off.

His gaze flicked from her face to the TV and back. Then-

"Yelena told me what you saw. What you think you saw."

Her chest thudded.

"It wasn’t..." He hesitated, like the truth still tasted dangerous. "It wasn’t what you think."

She didn't answer. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she didn’t know how. What would be the right reply to that?

He seemed to take her silence as permission to keep going.

"She said she had intel about a company Hydra used once. I thought it mattered. Thought it’d mean something. So I followed her. And then-"

He broke off with a sharp exhale through his nose.

"She kissed me. And I didn’t react fast enough.”

His voice dropped to a rasp.

"And then her dress… fuck, it was already undone.” He was yapping. Fuck.

He slid a hand down his face, water flicking off his fingertips.

She fidgeted with the blanket on her legs. Damn Lena, how much she had snitched? She could feel the embarrassment reaching levels she never thought possible to achieve.

“Ok, this is mortifying. God.” She gave a quick, awkward laugh. “It’s alright, Bucky, you didn’t have to come all the way here to console me or whatever-”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, rain-wrecked and silent, staring at her.

“I’m fine, really. A little embarrassed, maybe. Okay, a lot embarrassed.” She gave a half-laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I saw something, got my feelings hurt. It happens. It’s childish. I should’ve just stayed there instead of-” she motioned vaguely to the blanket, the TV, the old pajamas. She winced. Too much information.

But Bucky didn’t smirk. Didn’t soften the moment with a joke.

“I didn’t come to console you.”

His voice was low, but resolute.

“I came because you matter to me.” He stepped closer, slowly, like he was testing for landmines. “I didn’t want her. I don’t want-”

He stopped himself and inhaled hard, rubbing the back of his neck, like the words physically hurt.

“All I’ve been thinking is you. The balcony and how I handled things.”

She blinked, grimacing mentally at the prospect of speaking of it again.

“Oh, Buck, you did what you could. I knew you were wasted, and already knew that you weren’t into me. Yes, you were shitty for hiding later, but I get that it couldn’t be easy for you to deal with the situation of having a teammate misinterpreting all-.”

“No, that’s not-“ he cut her in and sighed, sitting on the coffee table with a wet plop, elbows on his knees, the soaked shirt pressing against his shoulders and arms looking almost like a second skin. He didn’t even seem to notice, or care. “That’s not it, sweetheart.” his gaze went to the floor and then back to her eyes. “I panicked because I acted like a drunken kid, and I was ashamed of what I did. I tried to talk to you in the kitchen, but I’m shitty at it, and when you told me you weren’t infatuated with me… I believed you. I already thought you didn’t feel that way. I mean, look at me.”

He gave a short, humorless breath. Not quite a laugh.

“I’m a mess. And you’re... you.”

His shoulders slumped, soaked hair dripping down his cheeks, and he stared at the floor again.

“So I played along and then distanced myself like a dejected idiot, trying to get over it.”

She stared at him, blinking slowly.

The ending credits rolled on the screen behind him, that familiar orchestral tune playing in the background.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, furrowing her brows. “I’m not quite catching the mood here. You came all the way to apologize about that night?”

Her tone was tentative. Like she was holding herself back from hoping.

Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. Frustrated. At her confusion. At himself. He clenched his jaw like it took him effort not to curse aloud.

He rose from the coffee table and stepped closer. Then-

He reached out and cradled her cheek in his hand, his palm was cool and damp against her skin. He bent, just enough to lean over the couch, not touching anywhere else, not yet. Just braced his metal arm above her, leaning on the back of the couch.

He moved slowly, giving her time. Time to move, to back away, to say no. To stop him.

She didn’t.

And so, he kissed her.

No soft preamble, no flashy bravado either.

Just his lips pressed against hers with a subtle desperation, the one of someone who’d spent too long convincing himself he didn’t deserve to want this.

It wasn’t perfect. His nose bumped into hers, and the water from his hair dampened her face. He tasted like rain and whiskey. But it was him. Unmistakably real.

Because he wasn’t good with certain kinds of words. Not anymore. Not after everything.

So he didn’t say it.

He showed her.

There was no fumbling. No second-guessing. Just warmth and ache. His fingers traced the edge of her throat, as if touching something precious he hadn’t dared to hope for.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for a second, his breathing uneven.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing his nose along her cheekbone, his hand still cupping her face. “I’m a soaked fucking mess.”

She laughed, something between a sniffle and a snort, as her hands slid up his damp shirt.

“Have you seen what I’m wearing?” she asked, tipping her face up to look at him. “I look like I just got dumped in the third act of a cheap romance drama.”

He looked at her properly then, hair mussed from the cushions, the old pajama, her swollen lips.

“You look perfect,” he said, honestly.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, tugging gently on the hem of his shirt. “Well, come here, tragic hero.”

“I’ll ruin the couch,” he murmured, looking at the puddle he’d already left on the floor.

“You think Valentina can’t afford a new one?” she quirked a brow.

He hesitated, then knelt beside the couch, shrugging out of the ruined dress shirt. It hit the floor with a soft splat. He climbed onto the cushions, carefully, tentatively, until she wrapped the blanket around both of them and pulled him close.

They fit awkwardly at first. His soaked pants making it hard to bend his legs, her knee bumping his shin, the scratchy blanket tugging at damp fabric- but it didn’t matter. His arms came around her slowly, reverently, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. But she hid her face into the crook of his neck, and he let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped inside him for hours.

“I was such an idiot,” he murmured against her hair. “Letting you think I didn’t care.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “You kinda were. You said you'd ask me again in the morning… and then your first words in the kitchen were that you didn’t mean it.”

“No-” he started, then sighed. His voice dropped, rough and a little sheepish. “I was trying to apologize. And then maybe ask you again. But you interrupted me. Said you weren’t infatuated with me. And I thought... what’s the point of making it more awkward?”

She leaned back slightly, just enough to see his face. “So if I hadn’t opened my mouth, you would’ve asked me out?”

He looked down at her, and his lips drew the ghost of a smile. “I said maybe. I wasn’t exactly in my best mindset at the time.”

“We are so pathetic,” she muttered before her brain could catch up.

Her eyes widened a second later. “Oh my god- I’m sorry.” She backpedaled, horrified. “I didn’t mean that. I meant me. Us. This-” She motioned vaguely between them, the blanket, the soaked clothes, the emotional whiplash. “God, that came out so wrong.”

Bucky blinked once, then huffed a quiet laugh. His nose brushed against her temple as he dipped his head.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low, “we kind of are.”

She groaned and buried her face in his chest. “Don’t be nice about it, you made me feel worse.”

“I’m not,” he said, his voice muffled against her hair. “We’ve been dancing around this for... I don’t even know how long.”

“And now we’re soaked on a couch that probably costs more than all our furniture put together,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

He chuckled and pulled the blanket tighter around them. “Pathetic might be generous.”

“At least we’re not cold,” she muttered. “God, you feel like a furnace.”

Tentatively, she slid an arm across his stomach. He tensed slightly, she felt the muscles twitch under her hand through the fabric of his damp undershirt.. Still, he didn’t pull away. A beat of silence passed before he relaxed under the contact. His cheeks colored, faintly but visibly, even in the low light.

He cleared his throat. “The perks of being a super soldier,” he said, voice a little rougher than before.

She smiled.

“So... supersoldier,” she began, voice quiet. “Are you going to ask?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes with a hint of teasing behind the soft look, her fingers toying with the hem of the blanket absently. “What you told me you would. That night. Right before the kitchen disaster.”

He paused. A second passed. Then another, to the memory clicking into place. His eyes flicked down in embarrassment.

“I’m afraid my drunk self forgot I can’t dance,” he said, making awkward finger quotes. “‘Modern music,’ or whatever it is they play at clubs now.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I prefer your style.”

He tilted his head, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It feels... more intimate, I guess.”

There was a pause -just a breath- then his hand, resting on her hip beneath the blanket, gave the smallest squeeze. His voice dropped.

“Wanna dance with me?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

He looked at her, that rare, boyish smile breaking across his face, real and a little crooked. The kind of smile that made her stomach flip.

“Why not, sugar?” he said, in a playful and low tone. “You owe me the dance. And you just even asked for it.”

She was still caught between laughing and swooning when he paused, glanced down at himself, and grimaced slightly.

“But uh- give me two minutes,” he added, shifting awkwardly. “These pants are... not dance material.”

She snorted. “You don’t say.”

He stood, peeling himself off the couch with a wet squelch and scooping up his soggy shirt. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I live here,” she deadpanned, pulling the blanket tighter. “But take your time. I will not accept the invitation of any lounge lizard while you are away.”

He paused mid-step. The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes met hers, a knowing spark behind the damp lashes as his brow quirked.

“Good to know,” he said. And then he turned, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

----

When he came back, the transformation was... honestly kind of adorable.

The ruined suit was gone. In its place, a pair of dark, well-worn sweatpants hung low on his hips, paired with a soft charcoal-colored t-shirt that fit him just right. His hair was towel-dried and combed back, still a little damp at the tips.

He looked warm, dry, and comfortable, like someone you could fall asleep next to on purpose.

He hesitated at the edge of the common room, sweeping his eyes over her on the couch. Then he walked in, casually in theory, but his hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his ears were definitely pink.

He looked away for a second, then cleared his throat. “Thought I’d, uh, come collect that dance. You still up for... cutting some rugs?”

She stared at him for a beat, blinking, then smiled and pushed the blanket aside, rising to her feet.

He seemed to remember something and lifted his hand. “Wait a sec.”

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the more modern phone his campaign team had bullied him into when he ran for Congress. No more clamshells, they’d said. He still hated the touchscreen.

He fumbled with it briefly, muttered something that sounded like “damn thing,” and then, finally, Tommy Dorsey’s Stardust started to float softly through the room.

He looked up at her, nervous and earnest all at once. Then extended his hand. “C’mon, sugar. Before I lose my nerve.”

When she took his hand, something changed.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He just stepped in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body through her clothes. His vibranium hand found her waist easily, fingers splaying deliberately against the soft cotton of her pajamas, while the other one guided hers up between them, as if he’d done it in his sleep. Maybe he had. Maybe his body remembered even when he didn’t want to.

And then he moved. It was subtle at first, a slow step, the gentle pressure at her lower back directing her body like a tide pulling her in. She followed, barely aware of it, her legs brushing his, all of her tuning to the way he shifted and pivoted.

“You really were a menace at those dances, weren’t you,” she whispered against his t-shirt.

His grip got slightly firmer against her, and his voice was low against her temple. “Still am.”

After that, each movement had more confidence than the previous one. When she exhaled, her breath grazed his throat, and he responded with a near imperceptible tilt of his chin, just enough to bring their mouths closer. Still dancing. Still moving.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He guided her in slow arcs around the floor, the music playing around them in warm, nostalgic waves. She could feel the muscles beneath his clothes, the shape of his body firmly against hers. When he pulled her in closer still, her hands instinctively slid around the back of his neck, threading into his wet hair.

“You’re showing off,” she murmured.

“Trying to make up for being a coward,” he answered plainly.

She looked up.

Their faces were inches apart. His eyes dropped to her lips -just once- then held her gaze like he was asking permission.

And then he kissed her.

His hand came up to cup her cheek, tilting her toward him as his mouth pressed over hers, warm and sure. She felt her knees go weak.

A soft, involuntary sound slipped from her throat before she could catch it, and she felt the answer in the way he inhaled. Like he’d heard it and liked it.

When he finally pulled back, his lips remained just above hers.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, heart hammering against her chest. “Yeah. Just… need a minute to remember how to stand.”

"I can help you with that, dollface," he said, smiling. And God, that smile. The kind that made her stomach flutter and her heart trip over itself. She’d do anything to see it every day.

He pressed her closer with a firm, playful grip around her waist, and she let out a laugh, resting her hands against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky,” she said, grinning as she tilted her head, teasing. “I think you’re getting pretty bold without a chaperone around here.”

He feigned a scandalized gasp. “Never, ma’am. I’ll court you proper.”

She arched a brow. “Will you, now?”

His smile faded into something softer, more serious, as he nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He exhaled, the hand on her back shifting slightly. “If that’s okay with you.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining with mischief and something warmer. “Gee, let me think. Should I let a handsome gentleman take me out on dates, or should I look for a satyr instead? Seems like a tough decision.”

He huffed a laugh, low and warm. “So you know what a satyr is.”

She grinned up smugly at him. “Of course I do. But I think I’ll pick the handsome gentleman. He’s growing on me.”

“Like a fungus?” he quirked a brow.

“Hmm, a brooding, grumpy fungus.”

He snorted, ducking his head with a crooked smile, his nose brushing the top of her cheek. “I’ll take it.” Then, more serious, “I meant it,” he said, quieter now. “I want to do this right. Take you out. Make it real.”

She blinked, heart stuttering in her chest, then smiled.

“Okay,” she said softly, without teasing this time. “Yeah. I want that too.”

“I’ve wanted it for a while, actually-”

Bucky’s head tilted slightly, his brows knitting. He lifted one hand in the air, listening. A frown ghosted across his face, deepening into a scowl.

“They’re here.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, immediately understanding the situation.

“I can hear the elevator’s engine,” he muttered, voice low.

She glanced toward the hallway. Right. Enhanced hearing. Of course.

“Maybe we should go to sleep,” he suggested gently. “I... don’t wanna deal with them right now. I want to end this night thinking of you.” He hugged her again, tighter this time, and took a breath against her hair.

“Yeah,” she sighed, melting into his hold. “Considering Yelena told you why I left… they probably all know by now. Ugh.” She pulled back just enough to grimace. “We’re about to get roasted with middle schoolers' level of maturity.”

They reluctantly took a step apart.

But then she paused and turned to him.

“Ask me out.”

He blinked. “What?”

“On a date. Ask me out,” she repeated, quickly, as the elevator’s sound reached her ears.

His brain scrambled, trying to pick a modern option. “Uh- I-”

The sound grew closer.

“I’ll choose then,” she said, grabbing his hand as they moved promptly toward the stairs. “Coffee and cake at The Cozy Cup. How’s that sound?”

He exhaled, smiling, cheeks a little pink. “Like a proper date.” He squeezed her hand once, just before the elevator doors rattled open in the distance.

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212

Dividers by: @/enchanthings

[sashaisready]

Something is going on that’s for sure!

Feel The Burn: Chapter 14

Lance Tucker x Reader | Destroyer!Chris x Reader

Series Masterlist

Your casual situationship with notorious flirt Lance Tucker comes to a shocking head at a party, fortunately the mysterious stranger you meet that same night is more than happy to help take your mind off it.

Wordcount: Approx 2.2k

So sorry this took a while, life - y'know! But we're back and woooo it's all go. I don't think we've got many chapters left. As always, thank you for any comments/reblogs - your engagement is so appreciated.

“You think I can make it?” Chris asks you hopefully.

You pause before taking a leisurely sip of your drink, your eyes squinting as you scrutinise his chosen target. “Hmm…” you hide your smirk behind the glass, “I dunno…you’re not great at this…”

His jaw falls open in mock outrage, “wow. Even my own girlfriend doesn’t believe in me! Well…let’s see”.

He looks softer tonight, dressed in a grey zip-up sweater rather than his usual denim and leather. Tattoo covered; beard trimmed. Not that it matters to you, you like him in all forms. But you wonder if he made the effort especially just to impress your friends, the thought of which makes your heart ache. He looks back at you, his cerulean eyes sparkling despite the dimmed lights.

You grin and gesture for him to go ahead, and he shoots you a roguish wink in return. He picks up the ping pong ball and with a flick of the wrist it lands smoothly into the solo cup, splashing into the beer. A cheer rings out from the group around the table.

Kat applauds, “good shot!”

“Noiiice!” echoes Matt.

“Thanks guys…I’m glad someone is impressed,” he returns to the seat next to you and looks over at you pointedly. “Had to beat the naysayers…”

“Just trying to give you some motivation,” you shrug, “nothing like pure spite to spur someone on”.

“That’s true enough,” he laughs and takes your hand in his. You smile at the ease of this intimate gesture, it’s so effortless that it’s as if he’s been doing it for years.

He and Matt chat casually about sports, and you inwardly marvel at how easily Chris has slotted himself into the group, like a puzzle piece that should’ve always been there. He’s drinking with them, laughing along and cracking jokes. You can’t help but feel a sense of awe, and envy, that socialising and the mere act of ‘belonging’ seems to just be second nature to some. It’s always been much more of a challenge for you. But you’re not surprised, Chris is empathetic and curious, he makes people feel seen and heard. You also feel grateful to Matt that he’s making Chris feel welcome, given that he’s good friends with you-know-who…

As the game continues, Kat catches your attention and makes a show of gawking at you and Chris’ entwined fingers, smiling knowingly as her eyes meet yours again. ‘I like him’ she mouths.

‘Me too’ you mime back.

Your body slackens slightly with relief, you weren’t even aware of its tension before you feel yourself relax. It was important to you that your friends liked Chris, and vice versa – especially now things were getting more serious with him. Of course, you knew it would be fine on both sides, you liked Chris, your friends would too. Chris liked you, he’d like your friends too. But it was still validating to have that confirmed. You could see he was making an effort with them, even if that appeared effortless for him.

Chris gets up and taps the rim of your glass with one finger, “refill?”

You smile and nod, extending your glass as you thank him. He smiles at you as he takes it and heads to the kitchen with Matt in tow. You find that several different conversations have started around where you’re sitting but you don’t really have the ability to jump into any. You know you’re being silly; these people are your friends – they care about you and would think nothing of you joining in or interrupting, but the speed and rhythm of their chatter means there’s no clear ‘in’. You feel like you’re in your car waiting to merge into a busy road, but the traffic is so fast that you can’t find a suitable gap to drive into. The opposite of Chris, who would find a way to jump right in.

You smile as you quietly sit on the periphery and nudge yourself closer to Kat’s group, hoping to pinch a loose thread that you can latch yourself onto. With no point of focus, you quickly find your mind drifting.

Oh no. You’re being left alone with your thoughts.

Not good.

Every time this happens your mind ends up going back to you-know-who after you-know-what happened at your place last week.

And that was normal, right? To think about something weird that had happened in your life recently, something that had knocked the wind out of you because you wouldn’t have ever seen it coming in a million different lifetimes? Because you had so fundamentally misunderstood a dynamic that you’d previously assumed you had nailed down?

Sure, totally normal. But weirdly it still made you feel anxious every time it popped into your head.

You were happy with your decision. You’d chosen Chris, and there were no regrets in that. Lance had his chance, he’d missed it – he purposefully pushed you away when he got scared, launching a grenade in his moment of fear. And you can’t always fix the damage after an explosion.

Chris, on the other hand, had never shied away from how he felt about you. He’d been open on day one, his interest in you was loud and proud, practically written across his chest. It was never a game with him. He liked you; he made that clear, and if you didn’t reciprocate – fine, no harm, no foul. Rejection didn’t bother him or dent his ego because he never took it personally. If a woman wasn’t into him then she probably just had a different type, and he knew he was a bit rough around the edges for those who wanted a cleaner cut type of man. He couldn’t help that, so why dwell on it?

Lance was similar to Chris in some ways; he was certainly not afraid to speak his mind – didn’t really care if his loud or at times abrasive demeanour rubbed people up the wrong way. If anything, he thrives upon it. He knows who he is and if someone doesn’t like it, that’s a ‘them,’ problem. You’d learnt that quickly about him. That was another reason his ‘I was scared’ speech didn’t ring entirely true, when had Lance ever been scared to express himself? When had he ever shied away from honesty because he was worried about how it might land? It just didn’t make sense. You thought back to your time with him – was he telling the truth about his feelings? Were those glimpses of tenderness really snatched moments of affection that he allowed himself to reveal? Or was he just acting out because you’d moved on, and he simply wanted what he couldn’t have?

He was right about one thing, you had never said anything either. Never confessed your feelings to him. But that was different, wasn’t it? He hadn’t exactly given you an ‘in’ to do so, insisting on the casual terms. And unlike him, you felt things hard. The prospect of rejection, of being knocked back after appearing vulnerable, made you feel physically ill. You couldn’t stomach the idea that he may have said no, or worse, mocked you for it.

Still, you knew you had gone too far with how you spoke to him that night. Calling him broken, empty, unable to feel. It was nasty, mean. It wasn’t you. And it wasn’t true, of course he could feel. He wasn’t broken.

You had a right to be angry, but it didn’t give you a free pass to eviscerate him like that. You had considered reaching out and apologising, but that felt like opening a can of worms. At least this was a clean break for you both. Besides, he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you now.

You find your glass sliding back into your hands as Chris leans over you, his lips gently brushing your temple as he passes you the now refilled drink. Your focus jerks back into the room as you smile and lean into him, your anxieties about the Lance incident retreating into that room in your brain where you try and keep the door securely locked.

“Great service – thank you,” you beam.

He returns your smile, and you concentrate on the warmth of his body on yours, the scent of his cologne, the softness of his sweater, the physical presence of him – grounding you as always.

🏍️

The night is a success. Chris blends himself so seamlessly into the group that any observer would think he’s known them all for years. You feel proud that your friends approve, grateful to Chris that he made the effort to win them over. As the evening winds down, the numbers dwindle as each of the attendees begin to make their way home. You say your goodbyes to the remnants of the party and thank Kat and Matt for their hospitality before strolling outside with Chris, your arms interlaced. Your glance at your phone, already blowing up with messages in the group chat about how cool they all think Chris is.

“Thanks for this,” you tell him softly as you head out to his car, “it means a lot that you want to get to know my friends”.

He shrugs, “of course I want to get to know them. They’re important to you, so they’re important to me. Besides…they all seem nice.”

“Yeah…they are,” you say fondly. “Good guys, all of them”.

“Hey…you remember this is where we met right?” he nods to the driveway where you took refuge after the blow up with Lance, the memory of Chris appearing from the side of the house still vivid and crisp in your mind.

“How could I forget? My knight in shining armour…”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Shining armour? Hm. More like rusted…corroded…”

You scoff and slap his arm, “don’t talk about yourself like that,” you scold. “It’s so shiny that it’s blinding. That’s what you’re always telling me, right? Accept the praise? Better practice what you preach…” you prod him in the side.

He chuckles, nodding in agreement, “yeah you’re right…my bad. I just mean, I’m not always a good guy, you know? So that kinda compliment throws me sometimes”. His voice is lower, quieter. The initial playful tone suddenly muted. A glimpse of vulnerability taps at his surface.

“What do you mean? Of course you’re a good guy,” you ask softly, masking the concern in your voice.

“I just mean I don’t always make good choices. That’s all”.

“Well, we all get it wrong sometimes. All make mistakes. Doesn’t mean you should beat yourself up about it. What are we talking about here, Chris?”

He stops, turns and looks at you. Really looks at you. His baby blue eyes, normally vibrant with exuberance and mirth, suddenly look darker, heavier. You’re unable to stop the furrow of your brow, the slight flutter of alarm in your chest.

“I just love how you see me,” is all he says.

“What do you mean? I just see you for who you are”, you reply.

He just nods, his mouth curls slightly at the side in a quirk of amusement but it feels hollow. “Yeah…yeah. I hope so,” he says enigmatically.

You don’t respond, unsure of the wider meaning of this conversation. It’s not like Chris to be cryptic. There’s something unsaid that won’t fully reveal itself. You’ve both reached his car now, stopping beside it. What does he mean? Where has this all come from?

You still can’t find the words, so you simply lean in and kiss him softly, hoping that it speaks for you. He reciprocates, taking your face in his hands as he kisses you back. It’s sweet, tender. Chris. You can taste the bourbon on his tongue.

“I know so,” you tell him as you pull away.

He smiles and uses his hands to mime a camera taking a photograph of you, his finger pressing on an invisible shutter button. “Just one for my memories,” he smiles as he opens your car door.

You hesitate, suddenly aware again of where you are. “You sure you’re good to drive? Pretty sure we were going drink for drink back there…”

He waves a hand dismissively, “oh, nah, don’t worry - I had a whisky at the start of the night but otherwise I was on those alcohol-free beers. They’re pretty good, taste just like the real thing.”

You nod, trying to retrieve the memory of what he was drinking throughout the evening. You saw him with beers, sure. They could’ve been the non-alcoholic ones. But you’re also pretty sure he had a glass like yours…

…but who can say. You’ve had a few drinks, not exactly a reliable narrator this evening. Besides, you trust Chris. He wouldn’t lie to you.

“Well, okay. If you’re sure. But I don’t mind getting an Uber, I can drive you back here in the morning to pick your car up.”

“No need, princess. Your chauffeur is in tip top shape, and your carriage awaits…”

His smile reaches his eyes again and the twinkle in them is back. The previous glimmer of something haunted no longer visible.

“Lead on, Macduff,” you laugh and slip into the passenger seat.

He moves around the car and gets into his own seat, winking at you as he starts the engine.

The slight ache in your stomach is probably just from too many drinks.

🏍️

[sashaisready]

Hehe he definitely worms his way in! Thank you for reblogging ❤️

Lee as your boyfriend

I know he’s not everyone’s cup of tea but I have a real soft spot for Lee Bodecker (Sheriff Daddy) so here’s a little fluffy drabble about dating the big lug. This is Soft!Lee and he’s much cuddlier than canon Lee…

(Some light smutty references - 18+)

~ He’s a traditional man at heart so on your first date he came with flowers and insisted on picking you up, protesting when you told him you could just meet him there. You were happy to go straight to the venue but he was having none of it, shutting down such suggestions borderline aggressively - outraged at the notion of you travelling by yourself when he’s the one who asked you out, so he’s going to pick you up. You soon acquiesced, there was simply no room for argument. 

~ Later, he drove you home at the end of the night with no expectations but a chaste kiss and a big smile. Not that you should be fooled into thinking he’s a puritan or anything like that…

~ Once you see more of each other and get to know one another better - it’s like a switch has been flicked. He’s all over you - fingers dangerously low on your back, his nose nuzzling your jawline at the movies, his arm tight around your waist as he approaches you from behind…(‘Can’t help myself around you darlin’). He holds you possessively when you’re out in public, a clear indicator to any wandering eyes. His touch is such a constant presence that you find yourself longing for it when he’s not around.

~ He’s brash and straight talking on the job (‘I gotta be, buttercup’) - asserting his authority with no fear of raised voices and ruffled feathers if needs must. But for you, and for you alone, he’s soft. Gentle. A sucker for the pleading in your eyes and the way you look up at him longingly. He’d give you the moon if you asked him sweetly enough. The locals joke that you must be made of strong stuff to date the hardass Sheriff, and you smile knowingly, but the truth belongs only to the both of you.

~ You bicker sometimes. Doesn’t every couple? Nothing big, just the usual squabbles. Chores. Money. Sometimes his brashness gets the better of him. But he hates leaving fights half finished, a flash of panic in his eyes when he thinks you might walk away with this dark cloud still hanging over you both. (‘My mama didn’t leave me much, but she taught me never go to bed mad’). He doesn’t mind if you yell at him, or need some time to walk it off, but he sure as Hell won’t let you sleep without at least one of you saying sorry first. 

~ In bed he’s insatiable. It caught you off guard the first time. Despite the extra heft on his frame his stamina is unmatched. You feel like you’ve run a marathon each time he’s finally through with you. Every inch of your skin thoroughly kissed, every freckle explored and caressed, every sound or gasp wickedly pulled from your lips. He leaves no stone unturned, the intensity of his care for you only matched by his sheer desire for you. He likes it from behind. He likes it laying down. He likes you on top as he lazily rolls his hips and looks up at you through hooded eyes. His gaze burns into you as if he can’t believe you’re here. You’ve never felt so attractive in all your life.

~ He makes self deprecating jokes about his weight and insists he’s giving up candy, playfully prodding his tummy as you lay side by side in bed. You scowl and chastise his criticisms. He’s perfect as he is. He wouldn’t hold you half as well if he were just skin and bones, you tell him. You kiss the softness of his belly and grip the sturdiness of his thighs and make it clear that you love all of him - no matter how much candy he eats. He almost blushes, surprised by your forthright speech, nodding in submission - ‘Well I know better than to tell a lady she’s wrong’ he plays it off, chuckling, too embarrassed to let vulnerability peer out. But underneath his heart tugs and thumps, almost dizzy with the knowledge that you unashamedly desire every part of him. 

~ One evening you walk through town, happily full from a late dinner and lightly buzzed on a couple of glasses of wine, you catch him smiling at you and you smile right back - doing everything you can to try and remember this moment. Keep it in your back pocket for when times are tough, a snapshot of when you felt perfectly happy and at ease with your life and desperately in love with the man you shared it with. Something to retrieve again and again when you need it, a soothing balm never too far away.

~ Little do you know he’s got a diamond ring in his jacket, burning a hole in the fabric as he tries to pick the right moment to ask you the biggest question of his life. He wanted to wait for a special time - but how can he pick just one when all of it is? If only you knew he picked it out just a mere few days after your first date…