Omg Where Do I Even Begin😭 I Just Finished Binge Reading This Story And All I Gotta Say Is That This

𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐻𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠 ; peter sutherland | one-shot |

summary: the hours after peter's night shift are definitely better than the hours during.

pairing: shygf!fem!reader x teasingbf!peter sutherland.

trope: established relationship.

genre: fluff + romance.

warnings‼️: suggestive (kissing, making out, touchy feely while kissing, etc.) but still sfw.

word count: 1,149.

random disclaimerrr: been on this train since 2023 😝 HE GOT EVEN FINER HELP 😭😛 he got me jumpin’ like boom shaka-laka boom shaka-laka ohhh 😛 happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

You’re in that baby pink silk set he likes. It’s nothing fancy; just a spaghetti strapped cami top with a lacy outline and a pair of matching shorts.

He likes it because of how you look in it.

The baby pink brings out your skin, makes it appear glowy. Your eyes pop out and contrast with the shiny material nicely.

All claims of pure flattery but it’s all for you.

Color theory is real and Peter is living proof of that.

You lean against the doorframe with your arms crossed, watching your boyfriend wearing that outfit you like.

A tight-fitted navy blue long-sleeved shirt paired with the softest grey sweatpants ever.

His hair is dried up from the shower he took earlier and you can still smell the hotel citrus mixed with hints of his Polo cologne.

You think about how good he looks; a clean shave giving him the softest, smoothest face. He's currently manspreading on a chair, looking over some documents placed in his lap.

His biceps entice you to look, to stare and admire.

His strength has always captivated you. The attraction is deeply rooted in the way he makes you feel safe.

The tattoos decorating his arms fuel your fascination.

His sleeves are pulled up a bit, revealing a taste of his forearms and its veins. Peter rakes a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck, deep in thought.

The muscly arms make another appearance and you can't take it anymore.

You walk over and hike yourself up on the table, right beside his pile of papers.

“I was wondering when you were gonna stop staring at me creepily and say what’s on your mind.” He comments without looking up from the file.

You look down and play with the hem of your top, growing shy at his observation. A small smile lines your lips and you don't dare meet his gaze when he sighs and sets the file down beside you.

He stares at you for a moment before continuing. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I'm good on pennies, actually. But, thank you.” You murmur.

Peter slides his chair in front of you and you don't miss the way his legs are still far apart, like he's expecting you to step down and sit down any moment now.

He’s leaned back all nice and comfortable, watching your every move.

He notices your eyebrows twitch up a bit when he fills your line of sight. He doesn’t miss the way you’re still fiddling with the hem of your top, trying to occupy your mind. Peter sees the way your wandering eyes light up when he’s giving you attention.

He decides not to tease you anymore and leans forward. His hands are on your knees, pushing them apart so he can stand in between them.

Your spine straightens itself and you slowly breathe in when he brings his face closer.

You’re acutely aware of his hands being on either side of you, caging you in.

You blink up at him and meet those chocolate eyes.

“Don’t go all shy on me now.” He’s soft with his teasing.

You smack your teeth and can’t help the grin that graces your lips. Your head tilts back a bit but he’s persistent; he tracks its movements.

Peter bumps his nose into yours, provoking you to meet him all the way.

You want to kiss him but you’re too shy to make the first move.

If only you were a telepath.

“You gonna kiss me or what?” He’s bold with his demands.

You pretend to mull over the thought, shrugging slightly and humming in uncertainty.

“Uh huh.” He says, obviously not buying it.

Testing the waters, Peter leans in just a bit to keep you guessing.

You have your gaze set on his plush lips and you think about how soft they look. Inviting, too.

You lean in thoughtlessly and he can’t find it in himself to deny you.

He finally kisses you and you sigh in relief.

You blindly wrap your legs around him and pull him in, your fingers run through his hair and he groans at the contact.

The vibrations make your lips tingle a bit and you meekly chuckle, breaking this kiss.

“I can’t stand you.” Peter breathlessly admits.

You both know he’s all bark and no bite but you’re curious.

“Why not?” You ask.

“You’re so…” He looks back and forth at your eyes and is captivated by your honey flavored lips.

“Distracting.” He settles on this but you are, and you know it.

“You’re wearing that set that you know I like,” He rubs the soft material against his thumb.

“And the chapstick.”

“What about it?”

It’s a Burts Bees moisturizing lip balm but with a new flavor: honey. You knew he’d like it but you didn’t expect this reaction from him.

“It’s nice.” He whispers before pressing a chaste kiss to your soft, sweet lips.

He grips your waist and lifts you up, you resume your previous position and wrap yourself around him; cocooning your body into his.

He steps backwards and plops down on the bed, worshipping you.

His touch is electric, fingers dip under your shirt and sprout goosebumps in their wake. His knuckles gently caress your hips before squeezing them with affection.

Your heart flutters at his actions and you’re putty in his hands. Your eyes close involuntarily and you sigh and gasp as the last bits of consciousness whither away at his touch.

His forehead presses against yours and you feel his silent notions of care and adoration for you. Peter kisses down your jaw and can’t control the sparks of devotion that lick into your skin.

You’re overwhelmed with emotion by his affection, by his kisses. By him.

It’s as if a heavy weight is set on your chest and can’t be lifted unless you speak.

You take charge of the moment by tilting your head back and angle his face away from your neck.

His pupils dilated to the max combined with his rosy cheeks makes for a pretty sight.

“What’s wrong?” He whispers.

Peter adjusts you in his lap and the way he handles you with such care and strength has you craving for more.

“Nothing, I just…”

You leave the ghost of a trail on the apples of his cheeks and his warm hand comes up to envelop it. He kisses the side of your palm and it makes you giddy inside.

“I just really like you. A lot.”

He blinks as a warm smile spreads over his face. He stares up at you for a second before gently pushing you down onto the bed.

Your excitement shows in your squeals and giggles as he leaves kisses all over your face and holds you close to him.

The hours after his night shift are the best hours of his life, he thinks.

ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ

bucky barnes x fem! shield agent!reader

first time writing for bucky <333

safe house, during a storm. after a long mission, you’re stuck sharing a room with bucky. you’ve always assumed he keeps his distance because of his past. but when the storm knocks out the power and you curl up on the couch, cold and shivering, he finally opens up — and his hands, calloused and careful, don’t stop at comfort.

masterlist | 3k words | soft!dom Bucky, praise kink, reader receives oral (f), unprotected PIV(she on da pill), morning sex, deep emotional intimacy, touch starvation themes,, reader is referred to as “sweetheart” and “baby”, slow and loving sex, post-orgasm cuddling, mentions of past loneliness, body worship, Bucky is obsessed and down bad, vulnerable!Bucky, safehouse setting, canon-typical trauma referenced, no use of y/n

The rain hasn’t let up in hours.

It batters against the tin roof like it’s trying to get in — thunder rumbling over the hills like a warning. You’re curled on the couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie, one knee pulled tight to your chest, a book in your lap you’ve read the same page of five times. The fire’s dwindled to glowing coals.

And Bucky’s sitting across the room like a statue.

He hasn’t said much since you both got in hours ago —wet, bruised, exhausted from the mission. Just stripped off his tac gear and sat down on the edge of the bed, mechanical hand flexing like it couldn’t settle. He’s been like that ever since you joined his team —polite, helpful, quietly protective. But always… distant.

Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Another crash of thunder shakes the cabin. You flinch without meaning to, hand clutching the blanket tighter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Come here,” he says, voice low but solid.

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue, I can tell. C’mere.”

You hesitate. He looks so serious, dark hair still damp from the rain, black T-shirt hugging the hard lines of his chest. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are warm — warmer than you’ve ever seen them.

You cross the room slowly. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, lifting the blanket beside him in invitation. Something tight coils in your chest. You’ve slept in the same room before — hotel rooms, bunkers, quinjet corners — but never like this.

You sit beside him. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders, pulls you in.

And suddenly you’re tucked under Bucky Barnes’ arm, your head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, the sound of his steady breathing in your ear.

Your body relaxes before your mind can catch up. He’s warm. Unbelievably warm. And strong. You feel it in every inch of him —the way his arm curls protectively around your back, the subtle press of muscle as you lean into him.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… long week.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “Understatement of the century.”

For a moment, it’s just the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then he speaks again — so quietly it barely registers.

“I hate seeing you scared.”

You look up. His jaw is tight, his gaze focused on the firelight.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

You swallow. There’s something aching in his tone —something raw.

“You don’t talk this much,” you say softly.

“I know.” He turns his head, meets your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are ocean-deep, stormy like the night outside, but warm — so warm.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

You nod.

“I think about touching you all the time.”

Your heart stops.

He keeps going, voice steady but trembling at the edges.

“Not just sex. Not even that, really. I think about… brushing your hair out of your face. Holding your hand. Pulling you onto my lap just because I can. I think about waking up next to you.”

He swallows hard.

“But I don’t. Because I don’t want to scare you. And because I don’t know if you’d want that. Want me.”

The rain seems to hush for a moment, like the world is listening.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed like he’s afraid to believe it’s real.

“I’ve been waiting for you to touch me,” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

His eyes snap open —like you just lit a fuse.

“Don’t move,” he says hoarsely.

You stay still.

His hand —warm, broad, careful —comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, then your lip. His other hand, the metal one, rests on your thigh with featherlight pressure, like he’s scared you’ll flinch.

You don’t.

You lean in.

And he kisses you.

It’s gentle at first —lips soft and reverent against yours, like he’s still scared he’ll wake up. But then you press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, and he deepens it —groaning into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, hunger bleeding into every movement.

You shift into his lap, straddling him instinctively, and Bucky grabs your hips like he’s grounding himself —like if he lets go, he’ll wake up alone again.

His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and the look he gives you is hungry —like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in years.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

You rock against him gently, and his jaw goes tight.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, hands in his hair. “Anywhere. However you want.”

He huffs a breath like he’s trying to keep from losing it.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

His metal hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider over him. His other hand slides under your hoodie and up your back, warm and solid, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

When he sees you —bare, flushed, breathing hard —he curses under his breath and cups your chest with both hands, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they stiffen. You gasp, grinding against the hard line of him beneath his sweatpants.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You do —breathless, already aching —lying back on the bed as he kneels between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your flannel pants.

“Every inch of you.”

He drags them down, slow and deliberate, along with your panties —eyes never leaving yours as he exposes you. When you’re naked and spread out under him, he runs his hands up your thighs, parting them wider with firm, reverent pressure.

Then his mouth is on you again.

Warm, slow, worshipful.

He kisses your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, teasing you until you’re trembling, trying to press yourself against his mouth. But he pins your hips with his metal arm and groans, low and broken, like the taste of you has him spiraling.

He laps at you slowly, teasing your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking softly. You moan—high and sharp —and tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circles, flicks, licks deeper until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathes, voice muffled against your cunt. “So perfect, so good…”

You try to respond, but your hips buck when he slips one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He adds a second finger, fucking you slowly with a perfect rhythm as he sucks your clit again. The pressure builds like a wave — deep and hot and inevitable.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

You fall apart on his mouth, writhing, gasping, your hands pulling hard at his hair. He doesn’t stop — licking you through it, holding you firm until your body finally slumps back against the mattress.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes glazed with want.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You reach for him, dazed. “Need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast — sweatpants gone, briefs gone — and your eyes go wide at the size of him, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his bag—

“No,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in. “Please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, and groans like he’s barely holding it together.

Then he pushes in —slow, stretching you inch by inch, until he bottoms out and you’re both gasping.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ perfect.”

He stills, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw. “You okay, baby?”

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does —slow and deep at first, then faster, rougher —it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you. His hands grip your hips, his mouth never leaves your skin, and every thrust drives you higher.

He murmurs praise like a prayer—

“So good for me.”

“You feel like heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

When he feels you tighten around him again, he fucks you through your second orgasm — hard and deep — before groaning into your neck and coming inside you with a shudder that rocks his whole body.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet.

Just stays there, buried deep, breathing against your collarbone.

“I’ve never—” he murmurs. “Never had this. Not like this.”

You stroke his back, warm and damp with sweat.

“You have it now.”

He kisses you then —soft and slow, like a promise.

And this time, it’s not about hunger.

It’s about home.

The fire’s burned down to embers.

Outside, the rain has stopped. All that’s left is the gentle patter of water dripping from the eaves and the faint glow of early morning light peeking through the curtains.

You’re warm —so warm —tucked beneath the threadbare sheets, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

His body is solid heat against your back, chest rising and falling steady with sleep. One hand is splayed across your belly, the other curled under your neck, holding you close like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly, and his breath catches. The hand on your stomach tightens, thumb brushing your skin like a reflex.

“Did I wake you?” you whisper, voice soft.

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily, lips brushing your shoulder. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move. S’too good.”

You smile, turning in his arms to face him. He’s a mess of tousled hair and morning stubble, blue eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi.” He leans in, noses at your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

“You never have to ask.”

The kiss is slow —tender and lazy, mouths fitting together like they’ve always known how. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting all your life to be held like this.

When you shift again, your bare thighs brush his —and you feel it.

He’s hard. Already. Pressed warm and thick against your stomach.

You pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You reach down, wrap your hand gently around him. His hips twitch.

“I want you again,” you whisper. “Just like this.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Slow n soft.”

His jaw clenches, just a little. Then he exhales and kisses you again —sweeter this time, deeper, like a slow ache.

Like gratitude.

The sheets fall away as he shifts over you, pushing your legs apart with his hips. He slides his metal hand beneath your thigh, lifting it gently as he rolls his body over yours.

He’s big —broad and warm and so careful —and you feel yourself open for him all over again.

“I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel so good and safe.”

He groans softly, like that this alone is enough to undo him. Then he reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance, and sinks in slow.

The stretch makes you sigh —familiar now, but no less intense. He presses deeper until your bodies are flush, his cock buried inside you, and stays there for a moment, unmoving.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I could stay like this forever,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

“Then stay.”

He moves slowly, rolling his hips in deep, rhythmic strokes —not chasing release, just feeling you. Making love like he has nowhere else to be, like your body is the only place he’s ever felt peace.

The way he looks at you —like you hung the stars —has your whole chest aching.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. “Touch me more.”

And he does. Big hands exploring your body all over again —your waist, your breasts, your thighs. He never stops moving inside you, never pulls all the way out. Every thrust is slow and deep and intimate, like he wants to leave a piece of himself inside you.

When you start to tremble beneath him, he cups your face with both hands.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You come with a soft cry, clinging to him as your body shudders. He follows moments later, gasping your name, cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself one last time and spills deep.

You stay tangled together afterward — skin flushed, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Good thing we’re stuck here another day.”

He chuckles, pulling you tight against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice is soft. Sweet. Like he wants to be tempted. Like he already is.

divider by @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra

He Feels Everything

Summary: You thought sneaking off to fuck yourself with his metal hand would be enough. You didn’t know he could feel it. Now he’s in your bed—and he’s not leaving.

Avengers!Bucky x Avengers,afab!reader

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), smut, masturbation, voyeurism (kinda), ovulation kink, overstimulation, squirting, breeding kink, use of metal arm, consent is clear even not worded, fluff if you squint, mutual pining

a/n: Hi! this is my second story, once again inspired by one of my steamy dreams. I'm still figuring out how to write, and English isn’t my first language, so please go easy on me. Hope you still enjoy reading it! Thank you so much for being here!! ♡♡♡

➜ Part 2 💜

—

“‘Kay, see you—”

Bucky’s words hung in the air as he turned, only to be met with silence. Again. You were already gone, slipping away from the sparring room like smoke—just like always. He let out a quiet chuckle, but deep down, it tugged at something tender. He wished you’d stay. Just once. He wanted to talk to you when it wasn’t about missions or training or saving the damn world.

—

You were already halfway down the hallway, heat pooling low in your belly, heartbeat pounding like a war drum. Every single time Bucky touched you—even the most casual brush of skin during training—it sent you spiraling. The dark, sticky kind of desire. It didn’t matter how bubbly or bright you seemed around the compound, laughter spilling from your lips like sunlight. No one knew you were constantly battling a wild, insatiable craving inside you. And Bucky Barnes? He was your worst temptation.

Being assigned as his partner was torture on the daily. But tonight? Ovulating. And Bucky had the fucking audacity to wear a tight black shirt and grey sweatpants. Every inch of him was sinful—muscles rippling beneath cotton, his hair messy, lips slightly parted, glistening with sweat.

You didn’t even make it to the shower. Shirt and sports bra peeled off in a frenzy, you collapsed onto your bed, hand sliding between your legs like you were racing against time. Your panties were already soaked, clinging to your skin like a plea.

“Oh, Bucky…” you whimpered, fingers flicking at your nipples, hips rolling like they had a mind of their own.

His face flashed behind your eyelids—those intense eyes, the way his chest heaved when he pinned you down during training. Every non-sexual move felt indecent in your head. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, imagining them as cold, unforgiving vibranium.

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you groaned, your voice soaked in filth and need, pumping your fingers until the orgasm hit like a truck. But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Your cunt was still pulsing, still dripping. Your body still screamed his name. You’d never dared go to him before, but tonight something snapped.

You needed him. Or at least… part of him.

You snuck into his room under the guise of "emergency"—and, well, it was an emergency. Your entire existence was on fire. He’d once given you his passcode in case of danger. This qualified.

He was asleep. Or so you thought. His metal arm was off, lying on the bedside table.

And god help you, you took it.

Back in your room, you positioned the cool metal fingers against your slick folds, one at a time, until you were stretched wide. Three fingers deep and your cunt was clamping tight around the steel.

“Look at me,” you moaned, “taking your fingers so good.”

You thrust it harder, your body shuddering, until—suddenly—it vibrated.

Your breath caught.

What the actual—

Your heart stopped. You felt him. Before you even turned around, your body knew.

And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Standing at your door with lust blown wide in his eyes, a tent straining in those same sweatpants you’d mentally undressed a hundred times.

You yanked the metal fingers from your cunt like you were caught stealing heaven, pulling the comforter up in a panic.

But his voice—low and gravel and fucked-out—froze you.

“Don’t stop, doll.” His hand palmed the thick bulge between his thighs. “I can feel everything.”

Your mouth fell open.

He stepped closer. “Even when it’s not attached. Every squeeze. Every wet clench around me.” His voice was a goddamn weapon, slow and deliberate, and your body betrayed you—slicking up again like a prayer.

He sat on the bed beside you, cupping your flushed cheek with his flesh hand. “Come for me, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing yours.

You moaned, repositioning the fingers inside your soaked cunt. Bucky started stroking himself, murmuring your name like a mantra.

You came so hard your vision went white. And then again. And again. Squirting across the sheets, across him.

“Jesus fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned, spilling hot and heavy across your stomach. He collapsed beside you, kissing you with a softness that nearly undid you.

He lifted his metal hand, licking your cum from the fingers like it was dessert, then pulled you close after attaching it back to its place.

“So you do want me,” he said, grinning against your skin.

“I’ve always wanted you,” you breathed. “For years. But… if you knew what I wanted to do to you…”

He tilted his head. “What do you want?”

You bit your lip. “To fuck you senseless. Ride you until you’re begging. Hear you moan my name while I squeeze every drop from your cock. For you to fill me up.”

He groaned and pinned you down, grinding his thick cock against your wet heat.

“If I’d known, we would’ve started this months ago,” he muttered, sinking into you with one deep, devastating thrust.

You cried out, gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. He fucked you like he meant it. Like he’d waited forever for this too.

By your seventh orgasm, you were sobbing—body trembling, completely wrung out. You passed out with his cock still buried inside you.

He smiled, kissed your forehead, and carefully pulled out.

The serum kept his stamina up, but what filled him most wasn’t lust—it was you.

You were his now.

And god help anyone who tried to take you away.

Hi, this is a request for

MARVEL MULTIVERSE - The Game

I am very interested in Greek mythology AU with Sam Wilson. (Female reader.)

I don't know how much you had planned for it but if you don't have anything planned for now this is what could work: (If you already had something planned, ignore this ^^)

Maybe a slight rivals to lovers? As I have something on the side with him cooking about an OC also using wings but as an owl, maybe something around that.

Thank you :D ✒️

WISDOM

⤷ SAM T. WILSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Sam T. Wilson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, action, fantasy

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Multiverse

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.6k

ᯓ★ Summary: you and Sam never really got along, but maybe things between you two will change if you have to go on a quest together

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ Hi guysss!! I'm back! the fever finally healed and I'm back stronger than ever!!

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The sun dips low over the horizon, a burning ember casting its last golden light across the sprawling cliffs of Mount Olympus. The air is thick with the scent of wild thyme and sun-warmed stone, the distant crash of the sea below a steady rhythm that pulses through the ancient land. You perch at the edge of the precipice, your talons scraping against the rock as your feathers ruffle in the evening breeze. You’ve always preferred this hour—when the day begins to yield to the velvet quiet of night. It is yours, as much as the wings on your back or the keen edge of your sight.

The humans below are lighting their lamps, preparing offerings to the gods. Some, no doubt, will be meant for you. They always pray to you for wisdom, for guidance in the dark. An owl’s keen vision, they say, pierces the shadows where secrets hide. It’s a role you fulfill willingly. Not for them, but for the small spark of satisfaction it brings—to know that when they’re lost, they seek you out.

The sudden rush of air behind you draws your attention, your senses flaring in instinctive alarm. A moment later, a figure lands with an easy grace, the wide sweep of wings folding neatly against a broad back. The feathers gleam dark in the fading light, their edges tipped in a soft bronze that catches the sun’s last rays. You sigh before you’ve even turned to face him.

“Sam,” you say, your voice flat, though your pulse has quickened. “What are you doing here?”

He grins, his expression annoyingly smug. He’s always grinning, as if the world exists solely to amuse him. You’ve often wondered how he can carry such irreverence in the face of divinity—as if being chosen as the God of the Sky is a casual affair, not a mantle that demands respect.

“Can’t a guy enjoy the view?” he says, spreading his arms wide to indicate the sweeping vista behind him. “Figured you might appreciate some company out here, Wisdom.”

You bristle at the nickname. “I don’t need company.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says, eyeing your solitary perch. “What is it with you and the whole lone-sentinel act? You’re not the only one with wings around here, you know.”

“Your wings are showy,” you snap, your gaze flicking to the sleek expanse of feathers at his back. “Built for speed and spectacle. They’re nothing like mine.”

“Showy?” He places a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know these wings have saved countless mortals from storms, fires, and the occasional poorly aimed lightning bolt. But sure, let’s call them showy.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to the horizon. He always knows how to needle you, to find the exact tone of teasing that leaves you balancing precariously between irritation and… something else. Something you refuse to name.

“What do you want, Sam?”

“You’re no fun, you know that?” he says, stepping closer. His voice softens, just enough that it brushes against your defenses. “I wanted to see if you’d heard.”

“Heard what?” you ask, though you keep your gaze fixed on the distant horizon. You don’t trust him when he’s like this, his usual bluster replaced with something quieter, something that stirs a strange ache in your chest.

“Zeus has called another council.”

Your feathers twitch, betraying your annoyance. “He always calls councils. Half the time, it’s just to hear himself talk.”

“This one’s different,” Sam says, his tone serious now. “Word is, there’s trouble brewing in the mortal world. Something… unnatural.”

That catches your attention. You turn to face him fully, your sharp gaze locking onto his. “Unnatural how?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to find out,” he says. “But you know how these things go. A lot of posturing, a lot of blaming, and not much else.”

“And you came here to warn me?” you ask, suspicion lacing your words. “Why?”

He shrugs, the movement casual, though there’s a flicker of something in his expression that you can’t quite place. “Maybe I figured you’d want a heads-up. Or maybe I just wanted to see the look on your face when I told you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back, the grin returning to his lips. “Come on, Wisdom. Don’t tell me you’re not even a little curious.”

You hate that he’s right. You’ve always prided yourself on being above his games, on keeping your distance from his reckless charm. But there’s a spark of intrigue now, a question that won’t be ignored. If there’s something unnatural threatening the mortal world, it’s your duty to understand it, to face it. And if that means enduring Sam’s presence… well, you’ve faced worse challenges.

“Fine,” you say, your voice clipped. “But don’t think this means I’m going to tolerate your nonsense.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, though the mischievous gleam in his eyes tells you otherwise.

The two of you take flight together, your wings slicing through the cooling air as the night deepens around you. You’ve flown alongside him before, but it’s never felt quite like this. The tension between you is a thread pulled taut, vibrating with each beat of your wings. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noting the ease with which he moves, the confidence in every motion. It’s infuriating, how effortless he makes it seem.

“Try to keep up, Wisdom,” he calls over the rush of wind, and before you can reply, he dives, a blur of dark feathers and laughter.

You grit your teeth and follow, your wings folding against your sides as you plummet after him. The air tears past you, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sheer exhilaration of the fall. Then you snap your wings open, catching the wind and leveling out beside him. He glances at you, his grin wide and triumphant.

“Not bad,” he says, and you resist the urge to wipe that smug expression off his face.

The two of you streak across the sky, the world below a patchwork of shadows and faint light. You’ve always felt most alive in the air, where the burdens of divinity seem to fall away. And yet, with Sam beside you, there’s an edge to that feeling, a sharpness that leaves you breathless in a way you don’t quite understand.

When you reach the council chamber, the air is thick with tension. The gods are gathered in a semi-circle, their voices a low hum of discontent. Zeus stands at the center, his presence commanding as always, though his expression is grim.

“You’re late,” Athena says as you and Sam enter, her sharp gaze flicking between the two of you.

“Blame him,” you say, jerking a thumb in Sam’s direction.

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Sam says, his tone light, though his posture is respectful. “Wouldn’t want to tarnish her impeccable reputation.”

Athena sighs, clearly unimpressed, and turns her attention back to Zeus. “Shall we begin?”

Zeus nods, his voice booming as he addresses the assembly. “Mortals have been whispering of strange occurrences. Crops failing overnight, rivers running dry in hours, creatures appearing where they should not exist. These are not the workings of the Fates, nor of any god in this room. Something is amiss.”

The murmurs grow louder, and you exchange a glance with Sam. For once, his expression is serious, his brow furrowed as he listens. It’s a rare thing, to see him so focused, and it sends a ripple of unease through you.

Zeus continues, his gaze sweeping the room. “We must discover the source of this disruption. I will require volunteers to investigate.”

Before you can think better of it, you step forward. “I will go.”

Sam steps forward as well, his voice steady. “So will I.”

The room falls silent, and you can feel the weight of their gazes on you. Zeus nods, his expression approving. “Very well. The two of you shall go together. Find the source of this disturbance and put an end to it.”

You glance at Sam, your heart sinking. Of course it had to be him. This mission was going to be difficult enough without his infuriating presence. But there’s no turning back now. The path ahead is set, and you have no choice but to walk it—or fly it—together.

The mortal world feels strange as you and Sam step into its realm. Your wings, bound and hidden beneath heavy cloaks, feel unnatural, almost stifled. Every step on the uneven dirt road reminds you of the limitation you’ve imposed on yourself for this mission. Beside you, Sam walks with an easy stride, as if being forced to ground himself doesn’t bother him at all.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice low enough to blend with the evening breeze.

“Observation requires silence,” you reply curtly, your eyes scanning the horizon. The village where you’re supposed to start your investigation is just ahead, its cluster of thatched-roof houses dimly lit under the fading light of the sun.

Sam chuckles softly. “You can’t just say you don’t want to talk to me?”

“I thought that much was obvious.”

Despite your tone, his grin widens. He always seems amused when you’re short with him, which only irritates you more. But there’s no time for bickering now. The closer you get to the village, the heavier the air feels, thick with unease. You glance at Sam, and his face is serious for once, his jaw tight as he surveys the scene ahead.

The two of you enter the village cautiously, careful to keep your steps measured and your faces neutral. The streets are nearly deserted, and the few people you see hurry past without making eye contact. It’s a stark contrast to the lively villages you’re accustomed to, where mortals chatter and laugh late into the night.

“Something’s definitely wrong here,” Sam mutters, his gaze flicking between the shadows.

You nod. “We’ll find out more in the morning. For now, we need somewhere to stay.”

It doesn’t take long to find the village’s only inn, a small, creaky building with a faded sign swinging above the door. The innkeeper eyes you suspiciously as you step inside, his gaze lingering on your cloaks. You lower your hood slightly, revealing just enough of your face to disarm him.

“Travelers?” he asks, his voice gruff.

“Yes,” you reply. “We need a room for the night.”

His eyes dart to Sam, then back to you, before he nods. “Only one left.”

You sigh internally, already anticipating the argument that’s sure to come. But before you can say anything, Sam slides a coin across the counter and gives the man an easy smile.

“We’ll take it.”

The innkeeper hands over a key and mutters directions to the room. You follow Sam up the narrow stairs, your irritation simmering just below the surface. When you reach the room, you stop in the doorway, taking in the sight of the single, narrow bed pushed against the far wall.

“Perfect,” you say dryly.

Sam shrugs, dropping his pack onto the floor. “Hey, it’s better than sleeping outside.”

You glare at him. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, leaning against the bedpost. “You’ll be sore and miserable tomorrow, and we need to be at our best.”

“Then you take the floor,” you counter.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor either,” he says with a grin. “Guess we’ll have to share.”

Your feathers bristle beneath your cloak, but you keep your expression neutral. You don’t have the energy to argue further, and you know he’s right\u2014you’ll need to be rested for whatever comes next.

“Fine,” you say tightly. “But stay on your side.”

Sam chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Promise.”

You roll your eyes and turn away, slipping off your cloak and carefully tucking it into a corner. Without your wings bound, you feel slightly more at ease, though the thought of sharing a bed with Sam keeps your nerves on edge.

The two of you settle in awkwardly, lying as far apart as the narrow bed allows. You keep your back to him, your body rigid as you stare at the wall. For a while, the room is silent except for the faint creak of the inn and the occasional muffled sound from outside.

“Relax, Wisdom,” Sam says softly after a while. His voice is closer than you expect, and you can feel the warmth of him just behind you.

“I am relaxed,” you reply stiffly.

“Sure you are,” he says, his tone teasing but gentle.

You don’t respond, focusing instead on slowing your breathing. Eventually, your exhaustion begins to catch up with you, and your body starts to soften against the mattress.

When you wake in the middle of the night, the room is dark, the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the cracks in the shutters. It takes you a moment to realize why you feel so warm, so\u2026 comfortable. Then you notice the arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest pressed against your back.

Your first instinct is to pull away, but something stops you. He's holding you loosely, his body relaxed and unguarded in sleep. It's an intimacy you never expected from him, and for a moment, you let yourself simply feel it. The heat of his skin, the softness of his breath against your hair, it's almost enough to make you forget who you are, what you are.

But the moment doesn't last. Your mind catches up with your heart, and you shift carefully, trying to extricate yourself without waking him.

“Y/N?” His voice is groggy, barely more than a whisper.

You freeze, caught. “Go back to sleep,” you mutter.

He hums softly, his arm tightening around you just slightly. “You're warm,” he murmurs, his words slurring with sleep.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you don't trust yourself to speak. Instead, you lie still, willing your breathing to slow. It takes a long time for your racing thoughts to settle, but eventually, sleep finds you again, this time, with Sam's warmth still wrapped around you.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of birds outside the window and the faint glow of dawn creeping into the room. Sam is already awake, leaning on one elbow as he watches you with an unreadable expression.

“Morning,” he says, his voice soft but teasing. “Sleep well?”

You push yourself upright, your cheeks burning as you avoid his gaze. “Don’t read into it,” you say quickly. “It was an accident.”

“Sure it was,” he says, his grin widening.

You groan, shoving the blanket off and standing. “Come on. We have work to do.”

As you gather your things and prepare to face the day, you can feel his eyes on you, his presence a steady weight that you can’t ignore. This quest is going to be far more complicated than you anticipated, and not just because of the danger lurking in the mortal world.

The village stretches before you in the muted light of dawn, its narrow paths and crooked buildings casting long shadows across the dirt roads. Despite its eerie stillness, there’s an energy beneath the surface, a tension that vibrates in the air like a string pulled taut. You and Sam move through the streets side by side, cloaks drawn tightly to obscure your wings. His presence is a steady weight at your side, grounding you even as your senses remain alert for the slightest sign of trouble.

The innkeeper had mentioned strange occurrences—livestock disappearing without a trace, fields blighted overnight, people vanishing into the forest and never returning. There’s no clear pattern, no sense of what might be causing it, only an underlying fear that has driven the villagers to the edge. You suspect the answer lies deeper than what mortal eyes can see, and it’s your responsibility to uncover it.

Sam stops suddenly, his hand brushing your arm to catch your attention. His gaze is fixed on a group of villagers gathered near the well, their faces tight with worry as they speak in hushed tones. You glance at him, and he gives a small nod, a silent agreement to approach together.

The villagers stiffen as you draw near, their eyes darting to your cloaks. You’ve learned how to carry yourself among mortals without drawing too much attention, but their wariness is palpable.

“We’re travelers,” you say, keeping your voice calm and even. “We heard about the troubles in your village and wanted to offer our help.”

A man steps forward, his face lined with age and worry. He studies you carefully, his gaze lingering on Sam before returning to you. “What kind of help could strangers offer? The gods themselves seem to have turned their backs on us.”

“Perhaps the gods haven’t turned away,” Sam says, his tone light but firm. “Perhaps they’ve sent help without you realizing.”

The man narrows his eyes, clearly unconvinced, but another voice cuts in before he can respond.

“They vanished into the forest last night,” a woman says, her voice trembling. “Three of them. My son among them. There was no sound, no struggle—just gone.”

You exchange a glance with Sam. The forest. It’s always the forest. In every tale of danger and despair, it’s the place where shadows deepen, where answers lie hidden beneath layers of mystery and fear.

“Take us to the edge of the forest,” you say. “We’ll look for them.”

The villagers hesitate, their fear a tangible thing that hangs in the air between you. Finally, the older man nods, gesturing for you to follow.

The walk to the forest is tense, the silence broken only by the crunch of dirt beneath your boots and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. When you reach the treeline, the man stops, his face pale as he stares into the shadowy depths.

“This is as far as we go,” he says. “If you’re wise, you’ll turn back too.”

“We’ll manage,” Sam says with a confidence that seems to unnerve the man further.

The villagers retreat, leaving the two of you alone at the forest’s edge. The air here is different, heavier, as if the trees themselves are watching. You feel a shiver run through you, not from fear but from the strange energy that pulses beneath your skin.

“You feel it too,” Sam says, his voice low.

You nod. “It’s not mortal. Something else is here.”

Without another word, you step into the forest, the canopy above swallowing the light and plunging you into a world of shadow and whispers.

The deeper you go, the stronger the presence becomes, a thrumming energy that prickles against your skin. The forest is unnaturally quiet, the usual sounds of birds and insects replaced by an oppressive stillness. You keep your senses sharp, your eyes scanning the underbrush and your ears straining for the faintest sound.

Sam walks close beside you, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a quiet focus. It’s strange to see him like this, all of his attention honed in on the task at hand. You’d always thought of him as reckless, too carefree to take anything seriously, but now you’re beginning to see another side of him.

“Stay close,” he says suddenly, his voice soft but firm.

“I’m not a child, Sam,” you reply, bristling at his tone.

“Didn’t say you were,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t want anything sneaking up on you. You know, since you’re so predictable.”

You glare at him, but the faint amusement in his eyes disarms you. For a moment, the tension between you eases, and you allow yourself a small smile in return.

The moment is short-lived. A sound ripples through the forest, low and guttural, like the growl of a predator. You freeze, your hand instinctively moving to the hidden weapon at your side. Sam steps in front of you, his body tense as he scans the trees.

“Did you hear that?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Stay behind me.”

Before you can argue, something moves in the shadows—a blur of motion too fast to track. You barely have time to react before it lunges at you, a creature of sinew and shadow with glowing eyes that burn like embers.

Sam moves faster than you thought possible, his body a blur as he meets the creature head-on. His blade flashes in the dim light, slicing through the air with precision. The creature snarls, its movements erratic and unnatural, but Sam holds his ground, his strength and skill undeniable.

You shake off your shock and draw your own weapon, moving to flank the creature. Together, you and Sam fight as if you’ve done this a thousand times before, your movements instinctively synchronized. The creature is relentless, but it’s no match for the two of you. With one final strike, it lets out a piercing screech and dissolves into nothingness, leaving behind only the faint scent of sulfur.

You lower your weapon, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. Sam turns to you, his face flushed but triumphant.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though your hands are still trembling. “What was that?”

“Something unnatural,” he says grimly. “Zeus wasn’t kidding about this.”

You glance at him, your irritation forgotten in the wake of the battle. For the first time, you feel a flicker of gratitude for his presence. Whatever lies ahead, you’re glad you don’t have to face it alone.

The rest of the day is a blur of tension and discovery. You and Sam uncover more signs of the creatures’ presence—claw marks on trees, patches of scorched earth, and the faint remnants of an otherworldly energy that clings to the air like smoke.

By the time night falls, you’re both exhausted, your bodies aching from the strain of the day. You find a small clearing and decide to make camp, the fire you build casting flickering shadows across the trees.

As you sit beside the flames, the silence between you feels less heavy now, less strained. There’s an unspoken understanding in the way you pass each other food, in the way Sam adjusts his cloak to shield you from the chill.

“You fought well today,” you say quietly, surprising yourself with the admission.

“So did you,” he replies, his voice warm. “Not bad for someone who’s ‘predictable.’”

You huff a laugh, the sound surprising you both. For a moment, the tension between you fades, replaced by something softer, something that feels almost like trust.

When you finally lie down to rest, the danger of the day lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Sam’s presence is a steady comfort.

The forest feels endless, the thick canopy above blotting out the sun and casting everything in shadow. Days blur together as you and Sam press forward, following the faint trail of devastation left by the creatures. Every step deeper into the woods feels heavier, the oppressive energy seeping into your bones. Whatever force drives these monsters, it’s ancient and powerful, far beyond what you initially expected.

The attacks grow more frequent. It’s as if the creatures sense you’re getting closer to the source, their aggression increasing with every skirmish. The battles leave you winded and bruised, your divine strength tested in ways you hadn’t imagined. Even Sam, with all his confidence and skill, is beginning to show signs of wear. Still, he pushes forward, his determination unwavering.

You try to ignore how often his focus shifts to you—how his eyes flicker to check on you during fights, how his hand brushes yours when the silence stretches too long. It’s disarming, the way he looks at you like you’re more than just his rival, more than just another god forced to endure this quest. You don’t know how to process it, so you bury the thoughts deep and concentrate on the mission.

The final confrontation comes without warning. One moment, you and Sam are navigating a narrow ravine, the air thick with the scent of moss and damp earth. The next, the ground trembles beneath your feet, and the creatures emerge, their forms twisting and shifting like shadows given life. These are not like the ones you’ve faced before. They’re larger, more feral, their movements faster than your eyes can track.

You barely have time to draw your weapon before they’re on you. The battle is chaos, a blur of flashing claws and snarling teeth. You and Sam fight as one, your movements synchronized in a way that feels almost instinctual now. You’ve learned to anticipate each other’s actions, to move in tandem like two halves of a whole.

But even with your combined strength, the creatures are relentless. One swipes at your side, its claws tearing through your cloak and leaving a jagged gash across your ribs. You grit your teeth against the pain and strike back, your blade finding its mark. Beside you, Sam takes a blow to the shoulder, the force of it sending him stumbling before he recovers and drives his sword through the creature’s chest.

The fight feels endless, each second stretching into an eternity. You’re bleeding, your body aching with the strain of battle, but you refuse to falter. Beside you, Sam is equally battered, his movements slowing as exhaustion takes its toll.

Then, finally, the tide turns. With one final, desperate effort, you drive your blade into the heart of the largest creature. Its body convulses, a horrific screech tearing through the air before it collapses and dissolves into ash. The remaining creatures falter, their connection to the source severed. One by one, they fall, their forms dissipating into nothingness.

The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there, chest heaving, your weapon still clutched tightly in your hand. Blood drips from the wound at your side, staining the ground beneath you. Sam is equally battered, his armor dented and his face smeared with dirt and blood.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The realization of what you’ve done, what you’ve survived, crashes over you like a tidal wave. The euphoria is overwhelming, a rush of relief and triumph that leaves you dizzy.

Before you can stop yourself, you close the distance between you and throw your arms around Sam. He catches you instinctively, his arms wrapping around you as you bury your face in his shoulder. His body is warm and solid against yours, grounding you in the chaos of your emotions.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you upright. When you finally pull back, your hands still rest on his shoulders, your breaths mingling in the small space between you.

His eyes meet yours, wide with something that looks like shock. For once, he’s speechless, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. You’re not sure who moves first, whether it’s you or him, but suddenly the space between you disappears.

His lips press against yours, warm and urgent, and the world falls away. The pain, the exhaustion, the forest around you—it all fades into nothingness. There’s only Sam, his hands steady on your waist, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.

You don’t know how long the kiss lasts. It could be seconds or hours, but when you finally pull back, you’re both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer.

“Was that—” he starts, his voice rough, but you cut him off with another kiss, softer this time.

When you pull back again, you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Shut up, Sam.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and for the first time, you feel the weight of your rivalry dissolve completely. Whatever lies ahead, you know you’ll face it together—and for now, that’s enough.

The ascent to Olympus is both triumphant and wearying. After days of trekking through mortal lands and battling shadows, your bodies ache with fatigue, yet victory fuels each step. The air grows lighter as you near the summit, the golden halls of the gods shimmering in the distance, their brilliance blinding after the dim forest.

Sam walks beside you, his cloak billowing in the crisp wind. His wounds, though tended to, still show faint traces of the battles you’ve endured. His steps are sure, though his occasional glances at you betray a quiet worry, as if even now he fears for your well-being. It’s a side of him you never expected to see, one that has burrowed deep into your thoughts and refuses to leave.

When you finally reach the gates of Olympus, the other gods await you. Their eyes are bright with curiosity and perhaps a hint of respect. Even Apollo, lounging against one of the golden pillars, seems to straighten slightly as you and Sam stride forward.

Zeus rises from his throne, his imposing figure framed by the glow of lightning that seems to pulse around him. He regards you both with a mixture of approval and something sterner, his gaze lingering on the faint scars and bruises you carry.

“You have returned,” Zeus says, his voice booming across the courtyard. “And victorious, no less. I confess I had my doubts, but you have proven yourselves worthy.”

“Was there ever a question?” Sam quips, though there’s no malice in his tone. His smile is easy, but you catch the tension in his shoulders as he stands before the King of the Gods.

Zeus’s lips twitch, as if suppressing a smile. “You’ve done more than I asked. The creatures that plagued the mortals are no more, and the balance is restored. For that, I owe you a debt.”

He steps forward, his presence dominating the space. “For your bravery and sacrifice, I will grant each of you one wish. Whatever lies within my power to give, it shall be yours.”

The offer hangs in the air, heavy with promise. The other gods lean in, their curiosity palpable. It’s rare for Zeus to grant such a boon, and you can feel their eyes on you, waiting to see what you will ask for.

You open your mouth, but Sam speaks first, his voice steady and clear. “I know what I want.”

Zeus nods, gesturing for him to continue.

“I wish to marry her,” Sam says, and your heart stops. His eyes meet yours, unwavering, as if daring you to object. “I want to build a life with her, not just as gods but as equals. And I wish for a domain of our own—a place where we can rule together, as others worship and honor us, just as they do the rest of you.”

A stunned silence falls over the courtyard. You can feel the weight of every gaze, every whisper of disbelief and curiosity. Even Zeus looks momentarily taken aback, his brow furrowing as he studies Sam.

“You ask for much,” Zeus says, his tone measured. “To bind yourself to another god is no small request. And a domain of your own… Where would you lay claim?”

Sam stands tall, his confidence unshaken. “The winds,” he says simply. “The skies already belong to you, Zeus, but the winds are untamed, wild and free. Let us rule them together. Let them carry the prayers of mortals to the heavens. Let them be ours.”

Zeus considers this, his gaze flickering to you. “And what of you? Is this your wish as well?”

You can hardly breathe. The weight of Sam’s words presses down on you, your mind reeling. You’ve spent so much of your existence keeping others at arm’s length, refusing to let anyone get too close. But now, standing before the gods, Sam’s proposal laid bare for all to see, you realize the truth.

You want this. You want him.

“Yes,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside you. “It is my wish as well.”

Zeus nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “So be it.”

He raises his hand, and the air around you shifts, crackling with divine energy. The sky above darkens momentarily, the winds whipping around you in a frenzy before they suddenly calm. You feel the power settle into your bones, a new connection to the world around you, as if the very air has become an extension of your being.

“It is done,” Zeus declares. “You are now gods of the winds, your domain as vast and untamed as the skies themselves. As for your union…” He pauses, a faint smile curling his lips. “Let it be known across Olympus and the mortal world alike. You shall be husband and wife, partners in rule and in life.”

The gods erupt into applause, some more enthusiastic than others. Aphrodite claps her hands together, a pleased smile on her face, while Ares merely grunts in approval. Even Athena gives a small nod, her sharp gaze softening as she looks at you and Sam.

Sam turns to you, his eyes shining with something you can’t quite name. He extends his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, you take it. His grip is warm and steady, grounding you in a way that nothing else ever has.

“Guess we’re stuck with each other now,” he says, his grin crooked but genuine.

You laugh, the sound light and free. “Guess so.”

As the gods continue their celebration, you and Sam stand together, the weight of your new roles settling over you. But for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace. Whatever challenges lie ahead, you know you’ll face them together. And for now, that’s enough.

Omggg this was so beautiful 🥹 I love the progression of their relationship!

always a woman, to me (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | inspiration | some canonically inaccurate things pertaining to bucky's family, go with it please!!

content warnings: complex family dynamics; very brief mentions of SA/harassment; brief mentions/allusions to PTSD and trauma; sexual content (p in v; fem and m receiving)

word count: 26k.

blurb: Bucky Barnes has a secret. He has massages nearly every week. It's to help him with his tension and anxiety; to help him sleep. And maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the pretty masseuse.

Bucky Barnes had a secret. 

It had started as an off-handed joke from Sam. It was back in the summer, when Bucky had gone to visit him and his family. They’d been sitting out back, basking in the sunshine, sharing kebabs and grilled burgers and ice tea in the July heat. Sam had walked past him and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it in a brotherly fashion. 

“God damn, you’re tense,” he’d chuckled. Bucky glanced up at him, laughing as he walked back to the house, likely to fetch another beer, Sam joked, “you should get a massage or something. Loosen you up.”

Bucky wasn’t sure why it had sat in his mind for so long. It was like a bad smell in his house: no matter what he did to try and deter, it wouldn’t leave. He knew he was tense. Sleeping on a hardwood floor with nothing but a woolen blanket will do that to you; leave you with knots in your shoulders and an aching back. He walked as if he were carrying rocks on his head, weighing down on his neck, dragging his arms towards the floor. His back was stiff, guard always up. Bucky flinched at the slightest intrusion. He wasn’t quick to physical touch, always the one to initiate something as minor as a handshake or hug with Sam.

The pain had once felt like repent. Punishment, in a way. After all the horrors he’d caused, what right did he have to be comfortable? To be relaxed. But it was also familiar. He’d been tense for so long it was hard to remember a time when he had felt every muscle in his body take a breath. Locked up inside of a shell, screaming to get out, made it so that there was always a part of him that would never fully calm. It was an understatement to say his accommodation during his time as the Winter Soldier was far from five stars. Concrete slabs for a bed; an ice chamber for a tomb; freezing water to shower under; beatings as punishment for a sloppy job, or when one of the guards was feeling bored. After, when he was running from Hydra, hiding from the law, it was not much better. The mattress he’d thrifted was lumpy. Springs stuck out at odd angles, digging into his spine and biting into his arms and legs. Sometimes the floor was favoured. Strangely, it provided him with more ease of rest. But he didn’t rest. He thrashed in deep and disturbed waters, fighting to break the surface of sleep. Awake wasn’t much better. He was on edge, on watch, ready to run or to fight - whichever came first. Usually both. There was always a fight, it seemed. A fight that he never wanted in the first place. 

Bucky had hoped that after Karli, and Sam, and John Walker, the seeming semblance of closure to his past life would help that tension ease. He had thought it would roll off him like pebbles from a sloping cliff - dropping down into the depths of the ocean. But just like all the dark sides of his past and the scars that littered his body, it seemed it would be forever. He had tried to make peace with that too. But Sam’s offhand comment had planted the seed. 

That was how he wound up here, standing in the reception of ‘Serenity Springs’. It was just outside of the city; a wooden lodge with black tiled roofs and enough shrubs to challenge the Amazon rainforest. It was attached to a golf club. He’d seen a gaggle of middle-aged men dressed in khakis and polo shirts, laughing haughty at a joke one had made whilst leaning against golf carts. Bucky had almost turned the car around at the sight: that wasn’t his crowd. But something had driven him to stay. Perhaps it was the eighty dollars he’d already dropped on the booking. 

Glancing around the quiet reception, he surveyed the scene like a reflex. Instead of scanning for threats, Bucky tried to familiarise himself with the foreign environment. Spas weren’t much of a thing in his time, with massages just as unpopular. If he were to sit his former self down and tell him that he would one day wind up in a spa, Bucky couldn’t help but feel it might be one of the harder things to wrap his head around. Somehow torture seemed more on the cards than dressing in a robe and lying down on some cushioned table with oils slicked up and down his back. 

The place seemed non-threatening. Plinky, nondescript music played in the background. A couple of older ladies sat in armchairs facing one another, nursing cups of coffee and talking in hushed tones with pleasant smiles. Their robes were beige and waffled in texture, hanging slightly large on their frail frames. To their right was an enormous fish tank. It bubbled in what Bucky imagined was supposed to be a soothing manner (though it truthfully just made him want to pee); brightly coloured coral was intermixed with reeds and purple and blue stones. Tropical fish swam around in the expanse. Behind him, an extensive collection of products were advertised on glass shelves. He eyed one of the price tags, eyes widening slightly at the seventy dollars attached to what looked to be a rather regular bottle of lotion. As he was about to lose nerve, someone sauntered over to the reception desk. 

“Good morning, sir,” she smiled kindly. 

“Morning,” Bucky replied, clearing his throat. 

“How can I help you today?” Her voice was overly soft like it had been left out in the sun for too long. 

Bucky took a breath, glancing at the array of items displayed along the desk’s surface as he said, “I, uh, got a booking. A massage and stuff like that.”

“Wonderful, let me just check on the system. What’s your name?”

Bucky’s eyes glanced at her, quickly scanning her face. She was waiting patiently, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “James. James Barnes.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured, typing away. A pause, waiting for the screen to load, and then, “ah, yes. The Swedish massage, is it? Neck, shoulders and arms, hm?”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” Bucky nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He felt like he took up too much space. Stood too tall; felt too broad. He took another quick glance around him and wanted to sigh with relief at the sight of another man tucked away in an armchair, also dressed in a robe. 

“Wonderful. So your treatment isn’t until three-forty. You do have access to all the spa amenities whilst you wait, which are just through the glass doors to your left,” the receptionist explained, gesturing with a soft sweep of her hand to the doorway. Bucky gave a nod. “There is a complimentary coffee included in your treatment. We have all the classics: Americano, latte, cappuccino…”

“A latte would be great. Thanks.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring that over to you, if you’d want to take a seat. I’ll also give you this to fill out, just to give to our therapists.” With that, a clipboard was placed before him. Bucky took it and perused the text. He swallowed and nodded again. “Wonderful. I’ll be right there with your coffee.”

Bucky wondered if it was a requirement for every sentence in this place to start with an affirmation. 

The armchair nearest the other man seemed to be calling to him. Some primal urge to be near his own, perhaps. Or maybe he didn’t want to seem as though he was eavesdropping into the juicy drama that Barbara was sharing with Lucy (apparently her son had cheated on his wife for the third time and got someone pregnant; quite the scandal; curse superhuman hearing). He tapped the pen provided against the frame of the board as he read. Bla, bla, bla, welcome to Serenity Springs, we hope you have a relaxing and rejuvenating time with us, bla, bla… First came the health conditions. His pen lingered at the check box beside ‘elderly’. There were ages specified in the brackets beside it but Bucky exceeded them, and so he decided not to bother. It wasn’t as though people were querying him on his pension every other day. The box beside ‘amputee’ was met with a tick mark, along with ‘mental illness’ and ‘poor sleep’. Shifting in his seat with a sigh, his eyes caught the receptionist making her way over with a coffee mug. 

“Here you go sir. Enjoy,” she remarked as she placed it on the coffee table beside him. “Here’s the key to your locker. Everything you need - robe, towel and sliders - are inside it. If you return to this area five minutes before your treatment, your therapist will come collect you. We hope you have a wonderful time with us, and please ask if you need anything.”

Bucky nodded and murmured a thanks, offering a tight smile. He felt uneasy in this place. Everyone was acting like they’d taken a sedative or smoked a joint. Must be something in the water. At the thought, he glanced at his coffee. Would that be so bad? Wasn’t that why he was here, after all? To relax. To loosen the hell up? He took a long sip and swallowed. Back to the clipboard. 

Is there anything your therapist should be aware of for your treatment?

It was hard to hold back his snort. The box didn’t provide enough space for all that. Instead, he simply wrote two words: ‘war vet’. There were some other boring terms and conditions to sign and date, like if he somehow became so relaxed that he might drop dead on the table, and then he was done. He watched the fish as he finished his coffee. There was a aquamarine one which kept bumping the glass. Darwinism. Then, with the clipboard handed over to the receptionist, who received it as if she’d won some grand award (“wonderful, thank you so much”), Bucky was venturing into the changing rooms. 

They were empty save for one gentleman. Elderly, wrinkled, still somewhat spritely in his way of moving as he fed things into his locker. Bucky used the key provided to open his designated locker. As promised, he was met with a robe and towel, and a pair of toweled sliders. He unpacked the backpack which had been slung over his shoulder, changing into his swim shorts. He hesitated at the hem of his shirt. The elderly man had long retired to the pool area. The changing room was empty. Inhaling deeply, Bucky tugged his shirt off quick and fast as if ripping off a band-aid. He tucked it into his backpack before pulling his robe on, quick to conceal his metal arm that glinted in the daylight seeping through the small windows above the lockers. Everything locked away, sliders now on, Bucky swallowed his pride and stepped out of the changing rooms and into the pool area as if he were walking onto an active battle field. 

There were a myriad of people lounging on sunbeds, eyes slipped shut or head buried in a book. Some were gathered in the hot tub; a couple sat side by side, chatting away, smiling brightly. A twenty-something-year-old was swimming laps like he was training for the Olympics in the pool. The whoosh of the waves that came with every stroke blended into the vague bubbling and lapping of the water. Through an archway were the so-called ‘amenities’ which he had been forewarned of. A sauna and a steam room, and an ice bucket which Bucky was planning to avoid like the plague. His feet seemed to guide him there, leading him to the hooks lining the wall outside the steam room. Swallowing the nerves, Bucky took a quick glance around him before shrugging off his robe. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious to reveal his arm. He didn’t tend to show it off in public, favouring gloves simply to save the stares and questions, and mostly the recognition. But this was different. It felt exposing. It wasn’t just the hand or forearm that would be on show. It would be the whole thing. 

Face hard like steel, Bucky pulled open the door to the steam room and stepped inside. It tugged closed behind him. With a quick survey, there was nobody else inside. The tension that he unconsciously carried eased slightly with the realisation. Only slightly. Sighing, he took a seat in the far corner, tucked almost out of sight, disappearing behind a cloud of aromatic fog. The breath he took in was deep, filling his lungs as if it were the first time he had breathed in years, and he instantly felt lighter. His eyes slipped shut and his head rocked back. Bucky could see the appeal.

Time stretched on like that. Droplets gathered on his face, his arms, his chest, his legs. They ran down the bridge of his nose and dripped off his chin and fingertips. His metal arm soaked up the heat but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His back began to soften into the tiled bench. He licked his lips and faintly tasted salt from his sweat intermingled with the steam. When the door clicked open, however, whatever semblance of relaxation Bucky had found vanished. 

“I think he’ll have to leave her, Lucy.”

It was Barbara and Lucy from the reception. They waddled in, their floral swimsuits fitting for their characters. The door clicked shut behind them and they glanced at Bucky, smiling brightly at him. He gave a closed lip smile back, acknowledging them, questioning whether to dart out. Barbara settled in the far corner, Lucy beside her, and they both sighed. Bucky eyed the door. 

“I think he’s been needing to leave her since the first one, Barbs. That little nineteen-year-old he scurried off with? It’s shameless.”

Bucky glanced down at the floor. He couldn’t believe that he was considering staying to listen in to some more of the conversation. God damn it. 

“Sometimes wish he just got that damn vasectomy. Would have saved him a lot of trouble.”

In his peripheral vision, Bucky saw Lucy elbow Barbara. She gave a pointed look over to Bucky. Shame prickled his spine, dread colouring him pinker than the heat. They’d recognised him. Oh God - what were they going to say? He should leave. He should just get up and–

“-oh, I’m sorry dear. Should watch my language, hm?”

Bucky looked at her blankly for a moment before finding his voice. He smiled politely. “No, no, you’re good. Don’t worry. I wasn’t even listening, really.”

“Impossible. Barbara, here, doesn’t know the meaning of talking quietly,” Lucy replied. Barbara scoffed and shook her head, laughing. Bucky felt his smile ease into something more natural. Then, Lucy’s eyes widened. With a gape, she exclaimed, “My God, you’re in good shape.”

“Lucy!”

“Well, he is! They weren’t built like that back in my days, I’ll tell you that for free,” Lucy shamelessly commented. 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, flustered and flattered all at once. “Oh, uh thanks, 'suppose.”

“What on earth do you lift? Cars?”

“Oh, Lucy, for Christ’s sake,” Barbara tutted, shaking her head. Then, at Bucky, she added, “sorry about her.”

“You’re good, you’re good. A compliment’s a compliment, so…” Bucky replied. 

“Mm, I think you might be a little young for this one,” Barbara joked. Bucky couldn’t help his smile as he thought, I think you’d be surprised to find that I’m definitely not. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Uh, no. First time, actually.”

“Oh, well you’re in for a treat!”

“We love it here. Come nearly every week,” Lucy chimed in. She had finally stopped ogling Bucky’s physique. Thumbing to her left, she added, “this one’s granddaughter works here. We get a discount.”

“Discount, huh? That’s a pretty sweet deal,” Bucky replied. 

“She’s a darl, she really is. A great masseuse too. Oh! Maybe you’ll have her! Are you having a treatment today?” Bucky nodded. Barbara clapped her hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, well here’s to hoping!”

Bucky smiled once more and nodded. “Here’s to hoping,” he echoed, finding the conversation coming to a natural close. The door cracked open and someone else joined. The elderly man from the changing rooms. He took perch and the room fell quiet once more. Bucky rocked his head back and closed his eyes. The strange conversation with Barbara and Lucy had seemed to wipe away any fears of how people might react to him being there. He contemplated his narcissism as he basked in the steam once more. Breathed in and out. If it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he likely wouldn’t have heard Barbara’s whisper to Lucy: 

“He’d be nice for my darl, don’t you think?”

“Oh certainly. If I was ten years younger…”

“Try thirty,” Barbara snorted. Bucky bit back his smile. Maybe this spa thing wouldn't be so bad after all. 

The rest of the waiting time passed without a hitch. People were weirdly welcoming. They kept to themselves. Shared polite smiles, the occasional odd word passed, a comment here or there about the temperature of the water in the hot tub or the essential oil used in the sauna. Any glances to his arm were fleeting like a comet; not a single comment made. Barbara and Lucy gave enthusiastic waves from across the room when Bucky accidentally caught their eye. He gave a small wave back; they were oddly endearing. In a funny way, he imagined that’s what he and Steve might have been like if everything had gone to plan: returning from the war, healthy and alive, settling to live long lives. 

Just as requested, at three-thirty-five, Bucky returned to the waiting room. He felt a little silly dressed in his swim shorts and robe, large feet tucked into a pair of sliders which were a size too small. He sat in an armchair and stared at the fishtank, losing himself in thoughts of what Barbara’s granddaughter might look like. He hadn’t asked for a name. Had no clue to go from, not unless she happened to be the spitting image of her grandmother. 

“James, is it?”

His head snapped to his left. You’d snuck up on him, somehow. You were smiling, warm and welcoming like a crackling fire in a log cabin. Bucky nodded. 

“Are you ready for your treatment?”

He nodded again. 

“Excellent. If you want to follow me, it’s just up these stairs.”

With that, Bucky pushed to his feet. He stood a good foot taller than you. Your hair was pulled back neatly, fly aways caught under bobby pins. The attire seemed typical for your job: a black shirt with black pants, plain flats which padded softly on the carpeted stairs that Bucky followed you up. The plinky music was back, slightly louder upstairs, and there was an oil diffuser which stunk the place up of lavender. You smiled politely over your shoulder. 

“Is this your first time at Serenity Spa?”

Bucky nodded.

“How are you finding it?”

“S’alright,” Bucky replied. You nodded, seemingly not discouraged by his quiet demeanour, and led him to a treatment room. 

“If you just want to take a seat for me,” you gestured to a leather single seater. Bucky nodded and did as asked. His hands clasped together; the metal twinkled under the low lighting of the room. You clicked the door shut, trapping the two of you inside of a mostly dark treatment room. There were electric candles scattered across the various surfaces. An orange light was dimly glowing above a sink. Coin sized spotlights were pressed into the ceiling to imitate stars. It smelt like essential oils. The plinky music remained, but now it was more like white noise, low tones that made Bucky feel like he was at the bottom of the ocean. The thing which caught his eye was an ornament. It was a Newton’s cradle: five metallic balls which were constantly in motion. One clicked against the other and it sent it all into action. 

“Right, so if we— Everything okay?”

Bucky glanced back at you. “Yeah.”

You turned to see where he’d been looking. “A fan of Newton’s cradle?”

“It’s annoying,” Bucky commented without thinking. You laugh, dissipating any worry Bucky had of being rude. 

“Suppose it is, yeah,” you quietly comment as you make your way over to it. A pedicured finger reaches out to catch one of the balls. You gently ease it back into place beside the others and it finally sits still. Looking at him, you ask, “better?”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, so where was I?” you wonder aloud, walking back over to him. You lean against the massage table, standing opposite him. “Right! So, welcome to your treatment. You said this was your first time with us at Serenity. Is it your first time having a massage?”

Bucky nods. The tension was coming back, creeping in like a morning fog. You weren’t intimidating or unwelcoming. In fact, Bucky had never known someone to have such a natural aura of calm around them. It was as if you exuded it. The smile that remained on your face wasn’t fake or performative. It was as if you’d been born with a quirk to your lips, tugging them upwards, beaming at seemingly nothing. For some reason, it didn’t annoy him. But the unfamiliarity of the process - the notion that he’d have to relinquish control to a stranger - that did little to set him at ease. The spa had been pleasant enough because Bucky could decide where to go and when to leave. He knew what a steam room and a sauna and a hot tub entailed. But this? This was unchartered waters. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding, “well, today you’ll be receiving a Swedish massage for your neck, shoulders and arms. All that means is the type of massage therapy I’ll be using. Nothing out of the ordinary - your classic oils and lotions. Does that all sound okay?”

Bucky swallowed. He forced himself to nod. 

“What’s your skin type?”

Bucky’s brows tugged together with a frown. He glanced down at himself, mostly concealed in the waffly robe. “Uh…white?”

You give a small laugh, polite, not demeaning. “Oh, uh, no, I meant what sort of skin type do you have? Oily, dry, sensitive…?”

Bucky shrugged. “Normal, I guess.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding once more. “Normal’s good. Makes things easy for me,” you smile. Bucky tries his best to smile back. The tension is consuming him. He feels like his shoulders are up to his ears; his back nothing but a metal rod. “Are you comfortable with lotions and oils?”

“Sure.”

“And is there any place that you would prefer not to be touched?”

Bucky eyes flit away from yours and down at the floor. He studies your shoes. They’re leather. The polish shines in the low lighting. “Uh…Well, I have a prosthetic, so…not quite sure how that works…”

“Right, okay,” you say. “I did notice you put ‘war vet’ on the form? Is that something you’d want to discuss?”

Bucky’s eyes quickly dart back to yours. His guard goes up. “Discuss how?”

You seem to notice your misstep, eyes widening momentarily, that permanent smile faltering. “Oh! No, nothing…intrusive. Just…does that make a change to how you might want to receive your massage?”

What kind of dumbass question is that? Bucky thinks to himself. He shrugs. “Well, I don’t really know what this involves so–”

“--Well, I’m just thinking to another war vet I had in here–”

“--there’s been some before?” Bucky can’t help but ask. You seem stunned by his question for a second. 

“Yeah,” you then say, smiling again, nodding. “A few, actually. Massage and aroma therapy can have incredibly beneficial effects on improving the mind and body, especially for those who have gone through rough times. Traumatic times, even."

Bucky studies you a moment as if searching for some insincerity. You don’t shy away from it. You wait, smile, hands clasped pretty in front of you. “What’ve you done for them, in the past?”

You visibly relax at his question. “Well, one preferred to know what I was going to do. I’d give him heads-ups for where I was going to touch him, and he’d tell me no if it was too much. It can be overstimulating sometimes, y’know?”

That didn’t sound all bad. Bucky cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat. It felt like a vice, holding him in. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good with me.”

“Perfect. Okay, so, when you’re ready, if you could take off your robe - you can just leave it on the chair - and then get up onto the table, underneath the blanket. If you lie on your stomach with your head through the hole, there. Is that alright?”

Bucky felt his cheeks burn warm as he reluctantly asked, “do I, uh…am I…dressed, or?”

You don’t seem surprised by the question. “It’s down to personal preference. Some people like to be fully nude beneath the blanket but some prefer to keep their swim shorts on. The blanket’s there anyway so I won’t be seeing anything.”

His stiff nod is your reply. You push off the table and head to the door. “Perfect. I’ll give you a few minutes, and I’ll knock before coming back in.”

“Got it,” Bucky mumbled. With that, you’re stepping out of the room. He lets out a deep breath the moment he’s alone. It feels stupid. The twinkling tunes do little to make him feel less of a pratt as he rises to his feet and shrugs off his robe. The table is sturdy as he climbs atop of it. It’s ungainly as he wriggles under the blanket, once more doing little to alleviate how out of place he feels. Least it smells nice. And that annoying tick-tick-tick of Newton's cradle has stopped. Then, Bucky just lies. His forehead presses into the cushioned lining of the head-hole. His hands lay by his sides, metal fingers whirring quietly as they twitch. Impatient. On edge. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever been more uncomfortable in his life, and he’d spent half of it locked in a chamber of ice. 

As promised, there’s a knock on the door. At Bucky’s silence, you click it open a crack. “All good?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. You step in and close the door. It feels like every part of him is on edge, waiting to be triggered like a loaded gun. His eyes listen carefully to every move you make. Every footstep around the room. He tracks it in his mind as if retracing a map of the four walled room. 

“Okay, I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say. You walk over to the sink. Bucky hears the water running. On, then off. “I’m going to turn this light off,” you tell him, and Bucky watches the light slinking across the floor become slightly dimmer. You approach the table. Your footsteps are light - you’d make a good spy, he thinks to himself. The tone of your voice is gentle, soothing like honey, squishy like wet sand. “I’m just going to pull the blanket down to your lower waist.”

The blanket is eased off his frame and folded carefully downwards. It isn’t cold in the room but goosebumps still pebble his skin. His fingers twitch again. He stares holes into the ground. His arm has never felt so obvious before. Bucky listens for the hitch in your breath, some sign of surprise or recognition, or maybe even disgust. But there’s nothing. You’re unshaken, it seems. Until: 

“I can see you’re wearing a chain. Would it be okay if you remove it?”

Bucky remembers the dog tags which are currently pressing into his stomach. They were a part of him now, always on his person, that he forgot about them entirely. “Oh, uh, sure.”

“Thank you. It’s just to make it easier to get to your neck,” you tell him. Bucky pushes up slightly on one arm, using the other to pull the tags up and over his head. In his peripheral, he sees your outstretched hand, palm open. He hesitates. “There’s a bowl right near the sink. They’ll be safe there.”

Handing them over feels wrong. It’s like he’s giving a piece of him away. Without them, he feels naked. Exposed. As he lays back down on his front, he catches the clink of his dog tags being placed in the tray. You cross the room and lather your hands in some sort of oil. Bucky’s heart begins to quicken. There’s an overwhelming urge to just get up and grab his stuff and get out. But he doesn’t. Fights to keep his body still, his mind present. You return to the side of the table. 

“Take a deep breath in for me through the nose, James,” you request in that same, supple voice. Bucky closes his eyes and does as you ask. “Good…Now let it out through the mouth.”

His body softens slightly on the warm table. 

“I’m going to apply some oil to your shoulders and back, now. I might touch your neck, too.” 

With that, your hands meet his skin. They’re warm, slick with oil, soft like you wrap them in cotton wool every night. There’s a slight pressure that presses through your fingertips as you rub his shoulders. You follow the planes of his muscles, easing down his back, tracing the flesh with that pressure that’s just on the edge of being too much. Bucky lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. 

“Good,” you murmur, as if somehow noticing. With that, your hands are returning to his shoulders. Your palms press into the flesh, feeling out the muscle, seeking out the areas of tension. It seems you’re exploring, almost. Familiarising yourself with his body and his skeleton. It isn’t creepy or intrusive. It’s almost scientific. Methodical in the way an architect might survey the land before designing a building, or a painter contemplates their canvas before applying paint. When you finally make contact with his metal arm, it’s different. Of course it is: Bucky wasn’t expecting you to try and massage pure metal, as if you might soften it up. But you don’t shy away from it. Instead, you run your hands tenderly over the limb, fingers imitating the way they might press into the rest of his flesh and blood, palms expanding over the plates. The oil dampens the vibranium as if you’re blind to the inhuman appendage. Something drops out of his shoulders. It feels like one of the many rocks he carries has been taken away. 

“How’s the pressure?” you ask as you return to his back. 

“S’good,” Bucky murmurs. 

The sensation creeps up the back of his neck. The tips of your fingers tease at the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. It’s dizzying, the way the massage of your hands can make him feel lighter. Bucky internally kicks himself for not trying this sooner. 

It isn’t a miracle cure. There’s a knot in his left shoulder where the scarring is that you work at, hands now lathered in lotion, which barely gives way. But with every precise push and prod at his body, he feels like a needle has been removed from a pin cushion. He feels like he’s floating on water’s surface. His body feels warm, liquid, and eased. Bucky lets out a sigh as you work at his back. Sinks deeper into the table like he’s melting. Just as promised, every time you do something different, you tell him. It helps him settle. Something in his mind is told to go off duty: we got it, we don’t need you right now. We’re safe. 

The hour is up too fast. The blanket is faithfully returned over his back, the hem lining his shoulders. You tell him that you’re going to wash your hands before doing so. Then you’re standing near his side. Bucky doesn’t want to open his eyes yet. He doesn’t want to step away from this pocket of peace he’s found, as if he’s stumbled blindly into the garden of Eden. 

“I’ll let you relax for a moment, and then if you want to return into your robe and meet me out in the seated lounge area when you’re ready: I’ll be outside.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. You open and close the door. The music isn’t as annoying as it was before. Bucky indulges in the nondescript instrumentation, lyricless but not without meaning. Reluctantly, he pushes up onto his forearms. The blanket slips down. He sighs and swings his legs off the side of the table. Climbing down, returning into his robe, he heads to the sink to retrieve his dog tags. Bucky takes a moment to check his reflection. Maybe it’s the essential oils seeping into his head, but he swears that he looks younger. He feels it. 

You’re sitting, one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window in the seated lounge. Bucky returns your smile when you turn to look at him. 

“How’re you feeling?” you ask. 

“Great, actually,” Bucky replies. He can’t help the slight amusement in his voice; he’s still bewildered that it did something. 

You’re not smug when you tell him, “I told you it does wonders.”

“Might have me drinking the Kool aid on that one,” Bucky smiles. He takes a seat to the left of you. 

“Can I get you a drink at all? Water?”

“I’m alright. Thank you, though.”

“My pleasure,” you say, rising to your feet. “Stay here as long as you like. There’s no rush to leave.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, smiling. As you’re about to leave, something occurs to him to ask. “Hey, uh–”

You pause and look at him expectantly.

“What’s your name again, sorry? Don’t think I caught it earlier.”

It rolls off your tongue easily and rattles in Bucky’s head. He echos it quietly and you seem to stare at him a moment. Bucky feels himself smile at you - a real smile. You smile back, somehow different from before, before leaving him alone in the lounge. Bucky sighs and relaxes in the chair. He can’t seem to shake the shadow of a smile on his face because for the first time since he was a dumb kid running amuck in Brooklyn, he feels like himself. He feels connected, his mind no longer lost in his skull, his body no longer a stranger to his soul. He feels present, lighter, rejuvenated. It’s like a drug. Now that he’s had a hit, he simply needs more. Cannabis doesn’t seem to touch him but this just might take its place. 

That was how it came to be that Bucky was a regular at the Serenity Spa. 

He went once a month, then twice, and now it was abnormal if he wasn’t there almost three times. There were membership perks which exceeded just the free welcome coffee. Turns out, there was a cafe too. They served brunch and sandwiches and Bucky got them for free. Drinks, too. Beers and whiskeys and wines. The other members became familiar faces. Barbara and Lucy were unlikely friends with Bucky. They pulled him into their gossip, quizzed him on a “man’s opinion” regarding Barbara’s lost-cause for a son. Some of the things he’d been told made Bucky feel like he wasn’t half bad in comparison (I mean, come on Darren, knocking up your wife’s sister is a step too far…). Lucy grilled Bucky relentlessly about his dating life. He knew why: he’d overheard them talking about how great he’d been for Barbara’s granddaughter - her ‘darl’ as she was known - more times than he could count. They’d questioned about his arm politely once in the hot tub. Bucky gave the shorter story - that he lost it in action and was lucky enough to get such an advanced replacement - and they seemed content. Apologetic and sympathetic in the way that most people are when they hear a snippet of Bucky’s life story, but not intrusive. Nothing seemed to jog their memory of former Captain America’s best friend. Perhaps it helped that he went by James at the spa, sporting it like some kind of alter ego. But he liked the separation. Nobody asked him about work, or about congress, or about how he was ‘holding up’. No, at the spa he was just James: a run of the mill guy who people likely presumed worked in finance or some other boring business career, with a barren love life and too much time spent in the gym. 

But the real draw that kept him going - the nicotine to his cigarettes - was you. 

Ever since his first time at the spa, you’d been his masseuse. He requested it so frequently that it wasn’t even a question anymore. The two of you had built a rapport of sorts. The conversations had expanded from outside of the start and end of the sessions. Bucky would ask you things whilst you massaged him. Silly, trivial things that he’d been wondering about on the drive back to the city, like what music you listened to, or what your favourite type of food was, or a show you’d been watching lately. He asked about how you got into massage-therapy and how long you’d lived in New York. Over three months, Bucky liked to think that the two of you were something akin to friends. Bucky didn’t request you as his therapist because you were pretty: he did it because he enjoyed your company and your talents. 

And, yes, okay, maybe because you were pretty too. 

It was your voice. He’s sure that’s what did it. You’d wormed your way into his ear drums and burrowed into the depths of his mind. He’d hear your crooning timbre in his sleep, which was increasingly less disturbed than before. He’d ask questions not just because he was interested but as an excuse to hear you speak. He’d bathe in the words, in the way vowels would fall off your tongue like dew drops on flower petals. How consonants were these melodic intricacies when they came out of your pretty mouth. 

Then it was your smile. It put all others to shame. Made Bucky wish that nobody else bothered with it, because they could never make it look quite as perfect and beguiling as you did. He’d started making jokes just to see it blossom into a grin. 

Then it was your lips. The way they’d uplift with your cheeriness, how they’d move when you’d speak, the way your tongue would dip over them sometimes, dampening them with your saliva like makeshift gloss, a gloss which Bucky wondered the taste of, the feel of…

But it was mostly the massages. That was the main draw. 

The massages, and the free drinks and food. 

The changes that the regular spa visits had brought in Bucky hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam was perceptive of the tiniest things. He could tell if a single chocolate chip cookie had been stolen from a pack of fifty. So it shouldn’t have come as a shock when he told Bucky, one random Tuesday:

“You’re different.”

Bucky was visiting him at his “headquarters” (a rented out unit filled with training equipment and computers, tracking leads on the wall with pictures and string). He’d been in the area whilst campaigning for this congressman role he’d been chipping away at and thought he ought to stop by.

“Seem happy.”

“I’m gonna try not to be offended at that,” Bucky replied. At Sam’s quirked brow, he added, “you’re implying I’m usually not happy.”

“Just stating facts, robocop,” Sam smirked. He smacked him on the arm as he walked past, over to the coffee machine. “What’s your secret? Hard drugs?”

“Just trying some things out,” Bucky replied, shrugging. He surveyed the room, leisurely taking a lap. Photographs were framed and lined the shelves. One of him and Sam caught his eye. It was taken at Coney Island - the first time Bucky had been back since before the war. 

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Just things,” Bucky murmured. He wondered if you’d ever been to Coney Island. 

“Things, huh?”

“Yeah.” Did you like rides? Or were you more of a games and stalls kind of girl?

“Sexy things?”

That caught his attention. Bucky frowned, glancing over to his friend. He was wearing a shit-eating grin. The coffee machine whirred loudly as it brewed. “Sexy things?” he echoed, voice incredulous.

“You heard me,” Sam doubled down, wiggling his eyebrows. “You getting some? That mummified body of yours still got it?”

“You’re a child,” Bucky dryly replied. 

“So, no sex?”

Rolling his eyes, he wandered over to the coffee machine. He took the mug offered out to him. “Why’s that the first place your mind goes to?”

“Look, man, you’re a-hundred-and-ten: you ain’t dead,” Sam tells him. 

Chuckling shortly, Bucky shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“A’right, so if it ain’t a girl, what is it?”

Bucky weighed up in his mind whether or not to divulge his secret. He’d managed to keep it under wraps for three months now. Sharing it felt like showing someone a page of your old journals: slightly embarrassing but not completely mortifying. He contemplated whether he was ready to let someone else in on his oasis. 

“If I tell you, you’re not allowed to laugh,” Bucky sighed. 

“I never laugh,” Sam shrugged. Bucky rolled his eyes mirthfully, shaking his head. 

“A'right. I’ve been getting massages.”

Sam’s quiet a moment. Bucky can see the cogs in his mind processing his words. It seems that ‘Bucky’ and ‘massages’ don’t quite mesh well together in his brain. “Massages? Like at a spa?”

“Yep,” Bucky affirms, taking another sip of his drink. 

“Well, that’s…something. How long you been going?”

“A few months.”

“I mean, I’d make fun but it’s worked wonders. Not gonna take a dig at something that’s made tinman get his groove back.”

“I don’t approve of any of these nicknames, by the way.”

“Where is this spa?” Sam asks, ignoring Bucky’s comment. 

“New York.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Gimme more than that, man. What’s it called?”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Cause I wanna get a piece of this!” Sam loudly replies, as if it were obvious. “You got any idea how stressful it is being Captain America? I need’a lie back in a sauna and get my back all oiled up.”

In a strange flash of images, Bucky pictures you giving Sam a massage in the same way you do him. Something green flares in his stomach.  

“You’re not going to my spa.”

“The hell I’m not. I’m a Captain now. I outrank you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “I’m your senior. I outrank you.”

“You’re a senior to everything except trees and building so that don’t count. It’s moot.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Sam argues. He tosses up a hand before Bucky can bicker his side. “Look, I’ll find out one way or another, so you might as well tell me. Maybe we can have a day there together. Our first bromance trip.”

Nothing has ever sounded more unappealing to Bucky. 

And yet he somehow finds himself standing side by side with Sam Wilson in the Serenity Spa reception. 

“Morning, Lily,” Bucky smiles at the receptionist: Mrs Wonderul, he’d labelled her in his head. 

“Morning, James,” she returns, chipper as always. Her eyes move to Sam. 

“This is my friend, Sam. I think I got one of those extra guest passes?” Bucky checks. 

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve been stacking them up, in fact,” Lily tells him. Her manicured fingers click-clack on the keyboard as she types. “Are the two of you wanting treatments this afternoon?”

“Treatments, huh?” Sam asks, humour pitching his voice. “What’s that entail exactly?”

“Massages, facials, that sort of thing,” Lily politely explains. Sam bobs his head and glances to Bucky, shrugging. 

“I’m game if you are.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. 

“Wonderful,” she chirps, typing away. “I have two slots at two-thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

“James, I’ll put you with your usual therapist. Sam, do you have a preference?”

“Whose his usual therapist?” Sam wonders, pointing to the stoic man beside him. Bucky grinds his teeth. Before Lily can reply, the door tucked in the corner, behind the reception desk, opens. You come walking through, focus on the clipboard in front of you. Your brows are furrowed together. 

“Lily, do you know where Matthew put the order of lavender oil? I’ve looked everywhere in the back,” you grumble. 

Lily glances over her shoulder at you and shrugs. “Who knows. He always put things in the weirdest places.”

“Almost like there’s a system in place to try and stop that from happening,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes. You look up at her but your eyes catch Bucky and Sam. The smile that jumps onto your face has Bucky selfishly thinking he has something to do with it. “James. You’re back.”

Bucky gives a closed lip smile back, nodding. His skin burns from the side-eye Sam gives him. Suddenly, his hand is extending out and over the counter, towards you. 

“I’m Sam. A friend of James,” he introduces. His smile is nothing short of charming. Bucky’s teeth crunch together so hard he’s amazed they don’t shatter; he somehow holds back his eye roll. You hesitate for a moment before taking his hand and shaking it, smiling cordially. 

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, introducing yourself. Then, snaking your hand away, your attention turns to Bucky. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Usually see you on a Friday.”

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when you regard him. He shrugs, hands slipping into his jean pockets. You flip one of the pages back into place on the clipboard and give them both a nod farewell. 

“I better get upstairs. See you later, hopefully,” you say as you walk out from the reception, towards the staircase. Lily excuses herself and follows you, seemingly needing to grab you for something. In the brief privacy given to them, Sam gives Bucky the widest grin he’s ever seen on his smug face. They speak in low voices. 

“So it is a girl.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s cute.”

“I mean it Sam.”

“You should swoop on that.”

Bucky’s head turns so he can meet his gaze dead-on. Sam gives a subtle nod and Bucky sighs, shaking his head, focus returning to the reception. “Drop it, Sam.” Lily wanders over again. 

“Sorry about that,” she says, taking place before the computer. She clicks around for some minutes, gathers a few more bits of information to complete the booking, and she’s handing over a key to Sam. Bucky doesn’t need one anymore; he has a claimed locker now. The two of them change and head into the spa amenities. As they pass through the doorway, the humid air sticking to their skin, Sam can’t seem to keep it in any longer. 

“She’s into you, man.”

“She’s doing her job,” Bucky sighs, leading them to the steam room. All the sly looks and grilling from Sam have his tension creeping up by the minute. “She’s paid to be nice to people.”

“Maybe,” Sam shrugs. “She wasn’t just being nice to you, though. I saw the way her eyes were looking. She’s got a thing for Freaky Magoo.”

“I’ll push you in the pool. Don’t tempt me,” Bucky warns. Sam chuckles and shakes his head. He seems to drop it with that. As his hand lands on the handle for the steam room, someone is calling his name. The two of them turn to lay eyes on Barbara and Lucy. 

“James!” Barbara grins. “Not like you to be here on a Wednesday.”

“One off,” Bucky shrugs. He gestures to his right, to Sam. “Brought a pal along.”

“Good God,” Lucy murmurs underbreath. Her eyes shamelessly rake up and down his body. Barbara rolls her eyes and elbows her. 

“Keep it in your swimsuit, Luc,” she chastises. 

“Nice to meet you, ladies. You know Tin Man, here?”

“He’s lovely,” Lucy tells him. “We’ve been nagging for him to settle down already. God, we know plenty of nice girls who would want him.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Funny you should say that,” Sam starts, “there was a certain masseuse at reception that seemed pretty interested.”

Barbara’s face lights up like a city in Christmas. She claps her hands together, brimming with excitement. “I wonder if it was my darl!”

At Sam’s visible confusion, Lucy adds, “Barb’s granddaughter works here. We’ve been trying to set him up but he refuses.”

“Some boundaries I won’t cross, Barb,” Bucky tells her. 

As much as he appreciated Barbara and Lucy’s concern for his loneliness, Bucky didn’t need hands piecing his love-life together for him. Back in the thirties, even though he was somewhat of a play-boy, he knew that if the right girl came around, he’d settle down. The house and two-point-five kids had always appealed to him. Mundane routines in the morning, taking the kids to school, spending nights at the dining table with his wife and little ones: he wanted it all. But when the war came, that image had been put on the shelf. With every new chapter of his life that followed, it got pushed further and further back. Now it feels almost out of reach. 

Whilst he’d recovered a lot since being pardoned by the government, there were still chunks of him which he couldn’t figure out where to put. Things that different versions of him wanted now sat around like mismatching puzzle pieces. A relationship was one of those things. He wasn’t sure if anybody would ever want him, and even if they did, he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Flirting was still rather daunting. Dating was a foreign language now. The date which he shared with Leah was like pulling teeth. He had no idea what to say, how to act, how to be. He felt like a child walking around in a pair of their parent's shoes, two sizes too big. If Bucky was going to date anybody, it would be on his terms. He would choose when and how and who. 

Sam thankfully manages to keep his thoughts about you to himself as they pass their time in the sauna and steam room. Lucy and Barbara are happy to converse, passing stories and sharing advice, and Bucky feels the tension that he’d gathered from the week spent filling out forms and approving various campaign materials roll off his shoulders with the steam and sweat. However, the pocket of peace he’d found is nothing more than an illusion the second they’re entering the reception for their appointments. 

“You gonna make a move, then?”

“Oh, good. You’re not past it,” Bucky sarcastically mutters. He doesn’t look at Sam, instead watching the fish. Before Sam can open his mouth again, an employee is approaching them. She has that peaceful serenity masking her face like most employees at the spa did. She greets them and requests they follow her upstairs. Apparently you’re just finishing up one of your appointments, and Sam’s therapist should be ready in a couple of minutes. They’re guided to take a seat in the lounge. 

“This place is pretty fancy, huh?” Sam comments. He surveys the lounge and nods approvingly. “I see the appeal, man. I do. Those ladies downstairs were sweet too.”

“Yeah, they’re a good crowd,” Bucky agrees, relaxing now that you’re no longer Sam’s current topic of conversation. “Barbara’s always telling us about her son, Darren. Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Oh, really? How so?” 

Bucky lips move as if to speak, but something makes him stop. Sam raises a brow, waiting. Bucky’s brows tug together. His ears catch onto something, a conversation. Words muffled through walls and doors. 

“What? What is it?”

Bucky raises a hand and Sam obeys the silent request. Tilting his head slightly, he focuses and tries to listen into the conversation.

‘Come on,’ a guy is saying, ‘You know you want it…’

‘Please stop,’ a woman whimpers. 

No, not a woman. 

You. 

Like a reflex, Bucky is on his feet. He strides through the corridor and shoves his weight against the door. It swings open, whining loudly on its hinges. He knows Sam is on his tail, quick to follow. Bucky’s eyes zero in on you. Your back is pressed against the far wall. Standing in front of you is a man, shirtless; his hands on your waist. It’s red. That’s all Bucky sees. He clears the distance, grabs the man by the back of his neck. His metal arm whirs as he yanks him away. The man gasps out, shocked, scared. Bucky grunts as he tosses him against the massage table. His fingers fasten around his throat, pressing into his neck - enough to bring discomfort, not enough to do any real damage. 

He’s seething. Mind a flurry of rage; thoughts jaggered pieces of glass. 

“I got him, man,” Sam tells him. He places a hand on Bucky’s metal arm, a quiet mark to surrender. The man stares up at Bucky, eyes wide. There’s a flash of fear Bucky recognises like an old favourite song. The realisation that this might be how he dies. Bucky lets go. The man takes a gasping breath in, as if Bucky had truly been strangling him. Bucky takes a step back and lets Sam step in. He grabs the man by the biceps, muttering “move it”, and watches Sam escort him out of the room. 

He lets out a sharp exhale through the nose; jaw a wire trap. He turns, looks over his shoulder. You’re still standing where you were. His expression softens. You’re shaking, hands cupped close to your heart, eyes wide, wet with unshed tears. They’re staring at the doorway, where Sam’s just shown the former client out. When Bucky takes a step towards you, your gaze darts to him. He reaches a hand out, not quite touching your arm. 

“You okay?”

You swallow. Your head starts to shake ‘no’. His fingers shadow your skin, touch barely there. 

“C’mon. Sit down,” he gently tells you. You let him guide you to the chair that Bucky’s grown used to sitting in. Your leg jitters as you sit, hands wringing together in your lap. “What happened?”

“I don’t know…I…” You shake your head and swallow, licking your dry lips. “One second I’m washing my hands and the next…”

The breath in your body starts to catch. Bucky knows the signs of a panic attack approaching all too well. He places a hand on your knee, the jitters ceasing. 

“S’alright. Just focus on breathing, yeah?”

You nod. Take a deep measured breath in through the nose and another through the mouth. Your head hangs, eyes slipped shut, and you continue practising slow, steady breathing for a couple more minutes. You do it until the shaking stops. Until you open your eyes and find his. He gives you a reassuring smile. You try to return it. It’s wobbly, still rattled, but there nonetheless. 

“Where is he?”

“Sam took him outside,” Bucky replies. 

“You don’t have to be here,” you apologise. “You’re a customer. You should go back out, enjoy your time.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be than here,” is his sincere reply. Your eyes lock onto his. The smile on your face strengthens. 

“Thank you,” you quietly say. “For stepping in like that.”

“Course.”

“I had a gut feeling about him when he walked in,” you confess, glancing over his shoulder to the massage table. A shiver runs down your spine at the memory. “He gave me the creeps.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “Shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda thing.”

A gentle knock at the door catches both of your attention. Bucky removes his hand from your knee. It’s Sam, and behind him is Barbara. Sam gives him a nod, confirming that the asshole who thought he could put his hands wherever he wanted was gone. Then, Barbara’s pushing past him and making her way over to you. 

“Oh my God, we heard what happened,” she says, voice thick with sympathy. Bucky makes space for you to stand. Barbara tosses her arms around you, pulling you into an embrace, and you hug her back. Your face rests in the dip of her shoulder. “Are you okay, darl?”

Darl. 

“Yeah, grams. I’m okay,” you murmur. 

“Oh thank God these two were here,” she breathes, relieved. “Lily said that that awful man won’t be coming back. They can call the cops if he does.”

“That’s good.” 

You pull away from her, an arm still hooked around her back, and smile appreciatively. Looking over her shoulder, you nod and thank Sam too. “Don’t mention it,” he says, “just glad we could help.”

“You should go home,” Barbara tells you. You shake your head, stepping away from her. 

“No, no, I can’t,” you say, “I’ve got two more clients this afternoon.”

“Darling, you’re all shaken up. You need to go home and rest,” your grandmother insists. 

“I can’t, grams,” you sigh, exasperated. You brush a hand through your hair. “The trains are on strike today. The next one to Brooklyn isn’t until five, at least.”

“I can give you a ride home.” Bucky’s not completely certain he’s the one who spoke until everyone’s looking at him. He shrugs. “It’s no problem, really.”

“I live all the way in Brooklyn, I couldn’t possibly ask you to drive that far,” you tell him. 

“Not an issue. I live in Brooklyn too,” he assures. 

“That would be helping us out a lot,” Barbara says gratefully. But you’re still shaking your head. Guilt shadows your eyes as you step towards him. 

“Are you sure? I’d hate to put you out like that.”

Bucky nods, smiling at you. “Your grandma’s right. Things like that shake you. You need to get home, relax. I’m more than happy to drive; it’s totally up to you.”

With that reassurance, you only take a few moments to consider his offer before you’re nodding. Looking back to Barbara, you tell her that you’ll need to let Lily know, and your manager. She agrees. A plan is made and soon enough, Bucky’s waiting for you down at reception, bag in hand. The door to the staff quarters opens and there you are, dressed in jeans and a jumper, work attire packed away in the bag that’s slung over your shoulder. It seems you’ve calmed a little since the incident. There’s a playful charm to your voice as you tell him, “last chance to back out.”

Bucky chuckles. He nods his head to the doorway. The two of you head out. It’s bizarre, having you walk out with him. It feels like stepping out of a store with the employee. As you pass the threshold of the doorway to the spa, it feels like you’re walking into a new territory in the bond the two of you share. The strange relationship that doesn’t quite qualify as friendship, but surpasses something purely professional. The label of masseuse falls away: instead, you’re just you. 

“This one’s mine,” Bucky off-handedly says, unlocking a black hatchback. He pops the trunk and gestures for you to put your bag in; you do so, slotting it beside his. It smells of fresh linen thanks to the air freshener as the two of you climb in. When the door shuts, you let out a small sigh. 

“You sure about this? I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me a ride back just because.”

“I offered, for one thing,” Bucky chuckles, turning on the engine. He glances over to you, smiling. “And it’s up to you whether to take me up on it or not. If you wanna head back and stay at work, then do. But don’t turn down a ride just to be polite.”

You cock a brow, smirking. “Pretty good speech there.”

Laughing, he shakes his head. Your answer is the click of your seatbelt into place. Bucky pulls out of the parking lot and starts the route back to Brooklyn. The playlist he was listening to on the drive to the spa kicks up again, the gravelly voice of Elvis seeping through the speakers. 

“Elvis fan, huh?”

“Undecided,” he replies. “Only just started listening to him.”

“He’s alright,” you shrug. “Questionable history though. Did you know he met his wife when she was fourteen?”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Bucky murmurs. High school sweethearts were a rarity but a nice tale when they occurred. 

“He was twenty-four.”

“Ah,” his tongue clicks. “Less sweet.”

“Much.”

“Mm,” he nods. 

“Y’know who is good?” you ask, rhetorically it seems, as you answer, “Lionel Richie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re kidding,” you gasp. The pure astonishment in your voice has him laughing. “He’s basically the definition of romance.”

“Queue him up, if you like,” he says, gesturing to the touch screen of the radio. You gladly take him up on the offer. Your fingernail taps the screen as you type, and then the song is cutting off and switching. A low bass riff vibrates the car. Humming contently, you relax back into your seat. A saxophone joins, a long, sensual melody that sounds like velvet. Lionel Richie, Bucky assumes, begins to sing. You sing along quietly, under breath, as if it’s a secret. His lips twitch. 

“Nice, right?”

“Yeah. I like it,” Bucky agrees. The music washes over him like a warm shower; picking pebbles off his shoulders. “He marry a fourteen-year-old too?”

The giggle you let out has him smiling to himself. It’s like gold dust, making you laugh. “No, but I think he maybe beat his wife.”

“God damn,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. 

The ride stretches on. Trees and fields lining the highway merge into the cityscape. The sun sits low in the sky. It casts the world in an enchanting amber tinge, like lining around buildings. The blue sky has clouds shaded pink. His eyes flit to you. You’re leaning against the door of the car, content, watching the world roll by. Whilst Bucky would have preferred different circumstances to have the excuse to drive you home, he’s still grateful to have the privilege of being in your presence. You remind him of the first long day after winter, when the sun stretches on for hours, and the world feels brighter, awake, lifted free from a veil of darkness. 

As you cross into the city, you start to give Bucky directions to your building. 

“Just this one, on the right.”

He slows the car down, pulling up beside the pavement. The rumble of the engine quiets as he turns the key. You purse your lips, clear your throat. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Bucky nods. “You’re welcome.”

You unclick your seatbelt. He does the same. Turning in your seat, you face him. His eyes scan over your face, searching for some remnant of distress from before. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I am. Just need a nice shower and some sleep, I think,” you reply. Your smile dims, eyes downcast to your fidgeting fingers. “Just feel kinda stupid.”

“How so?” Bucky frowns. 

“I just froze up. Didn’t do anything, just stood there,” you sigh. Your eyes nervously glance back up to his. Bucky shakes his head. 

“S’normal reaction. People always talk about fight or flight, but they never talk about freeze. You weren’t prepared for that kinda situation. And why should you be? You’re just tryn’a do your job. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. Ashamed, even.”

You nod, reluctantly agreeing. Women have a tendency to place the blame on themselves; society’s made it that way. You shouldering the situation that another man put you in doesn’t sit right with Bucky. He’ll be damned if you feel embarrassed for how you acted. 

“Guess you just made it look so easy. Coming in and grabbing him like that.”

Bucky shrugs. His eyes lower down to his metal hand. He flexes his fingers and watches how the intricate plates glide into place. He was fight. Always had been, since he was a kid. He sort of had to be, what with Steve Rogers being his best friend. That punk could find a fight with anyone, anywhere, always trying to do the right thing. Shame his bark didn’t always match his bite. 

“Suppose it helps having Captain America there, too.”

Bucky’s eyes darted up to yours. His organs fall through him: heart in his stomach; stomach in his feet. He swallows the bile scratching at his throat. You’re watching him, a patient smile on your face, brows slanted as if preparing for his reaction. Sympathetic, perhaps. Understanding. He wants to ask but can’t seem to find the words. His body contorts within itself; his intestines tangle into his guts. He feels sick. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t fight, because right now, Bucky can’t think of anything better than running. 

“I know who you are too, Bucky.” 

The words are hardly louder than a whisper. But from the way they shatter Bucky’s world, you might as well have yelled. 

He can’t seem to look away from you. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to say something. Do something. Berate him. Insult him. Accuse him of lying to you. Rebuke him for deceiving you. Bucky waits for the loathing to come. For it to twist your beautiful face, narrow your gaze, curl your lips. But instead, you just sit. 

A hand slowly reaches across the centre console. Your fingers steadily come to rest atop of his metal hand. It’s enough to help Bucky speak. 

“How long have you known?” he croaks. 

“The moment I met you,” you confess. Bucky’s not sure which answer he would have preferred. “Not many war vets who go by the name ‘James Barnes’ with a metal arm. Then grandma started talking and I pieced it all together by the end of the first day. Seeing Sam today just made me know I was right.”

“You never said.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t want to freak you out, or make you uncomfortable. I got the sense that it’s an escape for you there, and I didn’t want to take that away from you. ‘Sides, not like it matters.”

“Can’t say that,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. His eyes gaze out the windscreen. There’s a pigeon in the centre of the road, fighting for a piece of stale bread with another. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know enough to know you’re a good person.”

Bucky’s eyes slip shut like hearing the words are physically painful. Your fingers squeeze his hand. There’s no give under metal. Nothing but cold, hard ice. His eyes eventually open but he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. His head is still wrapping around everything, grasping at the fact that you know who is and yet here you are, willingly sitting beside him, telling him that he’s good. There’s something about hearing you say it that makes Bucky want to believe it might be true. His silence stretches for miles as he thinks. It builds and builds until it seems to suffocate you. 

“I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”

He looks over to you. You pull your hand away, pressing it against your lips with the other, and you curse yourself quietly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shake your head. 

“I knew it. I freaked you out. Can’t keep my big mouth shut.” Bucky’s brows twitch together. You look out the window, wringing your hands in your lap. “God, here you are coming to a spa to get some peace, and then you have to save some random girl from a creep, give her a drive home to be nice and she completely invades your privacy all because she has a stupid crush on you, like I’m twelve years old again or something.”

His stomach clenches. You’re looking at him now, eyes wide with apology. 

“Just forget I said anything,” you almost beg. “I promise I’ll never bring it up again. Okay?”

Bucky doesn’t move but you seem to take his silence as confirmation. You climb out the car like it’s on fire and speed walk up to your apartment building. Everything you said came out so fast, he thinks he might have whiplash. It takes a couple of seconds for his mind to catch up, and for Bucky to get out of the car and follow you. He’s quick as he grabs your bag from the trunk. It seems you’ve realised in that moment that your keys are in your bag, still safely in the back of his car. As you go to retrieve it, you gasp, stopping as you come face-to-face with Bucky. Before you can continue your self-deprecating rampage, Bucky drops the bag by his feet and speaks. 

“I get three massages a month. Three. You know why that is?”

You stare at him for a long moment before answering, “because it helps you sleep?”

Bucky’s lips twitch with a smile. “Yeah, it does. But that’s not the only reason.” He takes a step closer. “I needed an excuse to see you.”

Something flickers in your eyes. Bucky takes another step closer. “I wanted to say something but I didn’t know if I should. You’re just doing your job. Last thing you need is some one-hundred-year-old creep telling you he thinks you’re pretty.”

There’s a flicker of a smile.

“Can you tell the time?” you ask him. His confusion must be obvious. You laugh: short, small, secretive. “I always give you an extra fifteen minutes because I don’t like it when you leave. You’re my favourite part of the day.”

A weight falls off Bucky’s shoulders. He can’t look away from you, bewitched like staring at a supernova. He could spend his life trying to describe you and he’d never have enough words. Time would give out before he could finish trying to fathom how you make him feel. Bucky thinks back to earlier, with Sam and Barbara and Lucy. Somehow, it feels like a lifetime ago. The inner-battle he’d had returns to him: loneliness in one hand, and chance in another. He contemplates. He decides. 

“Can I take you out?”

You’re still for a second, then you nod. The smile grows bit by bit like drops of water in a bucket. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Dinner, maybe? Next Saturday? I’d say tomorrow but I’ve got this stupid meeting I gotta go too–”

“--next Saturday is perfect,” you interrupt, like you can’t hold the words in. Your hand takes his and you give a gentle squeeze. The tips of your fingers are cold. “I can give you my number and we can work something out?”

Bucky nods. His smile teetering on a grin. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to retrieve his phone. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a nervous smile on his face, as he hands over the outdated flip phone. You don’t comment. Instead, you take it and type in your number. A few seconds later, your phone buzzes with a message that presumably you’ve sent. You hand him back his phone. He passes over your bag.

“Perfect,” Bucky says, giving the device a small shake before putting it back in his pocket. He takes a step down the staircase. You take a step towards the door to your building. “I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Those three words are the only thing in Bucky’s head the drive back to his apartment. When he walks into his empty place, his hands find his phone. Your contact name has him smiling like he’s eighty years younger. There’s one text message attached, the one you sent to yourself earlier despite being addressed for him: I’m free next Saturday. 

The mint in Bucky’s mouth crunches against his teeth. It’s nice to have something to do. A distraction, like fiddling with a piece of string, as he waits at a table for two in an Italian restaurant you’d passingly said you’d like to try. It’s overtly romantic: cream silk table cloths; vases with single stemmed roses; candles flickering in the centre of the table. Jazz music purrs out the speakers. Waiters and waitresses dressed in pressed black pants and skirts and white button-up shirts, an apron tied neatly with a bow around their waist. Bucky takes another sip of his table water. He’s nervous, the same way he was the first day of his therapy session and his first time at the spa. It feels as though there’s a sign above him glowing with the words ‘DOESN’T BELONG HERE’, and a fluorescent arrow pointing down at his head. He swipes a hand over his beard. He’d trimmed it specifically for tonight. His hair had been combed probably one too many times. He’d flossed and eaten five mints so far as a nice pre-dinner appetiser. The deep blue suit jacket suddenly feels like it might be too formal, and with that the whole date feels like it might be too much. He doesn’t want to freak you out. Scare you off. He looks to his left with a busy mind and scans the bar. 

“This seat taken?”

His head whips round to spot you standing beside the chair, a hand delicately placed atop of it. With your smile, Bucky feels his tension slip away with his breath. You look beautiful. Slightly unrecognisable in a dress that moved like summer rain; make-up enhancing your already gorgeous features; hair loose and free. He smiles. “It is now.”

You take the invitation and tuck yourself in. “Been waiting long?”

“Just a couple hours,” Bucky shrugs. Your eyes widen and he chuckles. “I’m messing with you. I got here ten minutes early, don’t worry.”

“Damn you, Barnes,” you murmur, smile telling of your humour. Your fingers open the menu placed before you. “I’ve been wanting to come here forever. Walk past it all the time.”

“I know,” Bucky says, opening his own menu. “You told me so, about a month ago.”

Your eyes dart over the table to him. “You remember that?”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Course.”

A bottle of wine is ordered and the two of you toast to good health before taking a sip. Your lipstick leaves a stain on the edge of the glass. A strand of hair slips free from behind your ear and dangles by your cheek, head hung as you prop yourself up on your fist, reading the menu. Bucky can’t help but admire you. Gracefully, you tuck it back into place and hum in thought. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells you. You glance up at him, stunned, and then you smile. 

“Thanks.” There’s a flush to your face. Bucky bites back his idiotic smile. “So do you. Handsome.”

His heart twists. God damn it. “Thanks. Trimmed my beard,” he hears himself reply, stroking the coarse hairs of his jaw. 

“I noticed. It looks good,” you say. You're casual as you look back down to the menu, adding, “I like a man with a beard.”

Bucky makes a mental note: never shave beard. 

It’s awkward at first. This area of the relationship feels like picketed grass which has been previously forbidden. The compliments Bucky would silently relay to you in his head can now be spoken. They come clunky at first, but easier after the first few are shared. His eyes linger longer, his smile holding a new edge. There’s no need to be coy anymore and tiptoe around things. Once that’s acknowledged, the two of you sink into the date as if it’s your third rather than your first. You order the ravioli and him the lemon and herb salmon. You tell him a story from work the other day and he tells you one from a plane ride he had to Washington for a campaign fundraiser. The drinks flow, the food comes and goes. You offer him a bite of your pasta off the fork. As the empty bowls and plates are taken by the waiter, Bucky wonders what had him so nervous. 

“I still can’t believe you never put two and two together about me and granny Barbs,” you giggle. Your finger toys with the rim of your wine glass. 

“In my defense, it’s not like you’re the spitting image.”

You laugh, head titling backwards like a little kid, and Bucky grins. He likes the fact that he can make you laugh. There was a time when he was sure he’d never be able to tell a joke again, or get a girl to swoon, and yet here he was. 

“Still. Surely she talks about all the family gossip with you and Lucy,” you say. 

“Not about you. I’ve gotten my fair share about Darren, though.” Your lips press together, smiling still, but smaller. Bucky treads carefully as he asks, “if you’re Barbara’s granddaughter, then that makes Darren your…uncle?”

A solemn shadow casts over your pretty face. “Darren’s my dad.”

Bucky nods his head slowly, visibly surprised, lips parting. “Ah. He certainly seems…”

You save Bucky from fumbling with something kind to say, laughing sadly as you joke, “like a Freudian nightmare? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“Yeah. I haven’t heard great things,” Bucky says apologetically. 

You shake your head and sigh. Your gaze drifts down to your wine glass and once more, you trace your finger around the circular rim, following it with your eyes. “I love my dad in the way that every daughter loves their dad. Y’know, in an innate kinda way? But I don’t like him. In fact, I can’t stand the guy. I haven’t had a conversation with him in over a year.”

Bucky is quiet as he nods. Your eyes glance up to meet his. As always, your smile never leaves, it only changes. It’s small, sad, heavy with the disappointment of a girl who once admired her father, only to realise the pedestal was made of sand. 

“And your mom’s still with him?” he broaches. 

You scoff, sighing. “Yep. She refuses to leave. She’s sick. Has been for a long time now. She says she doesn’t want her last years to be wasted with divorce. I don’t know - I’d rather that than spend my time with a dirtbag who swoops on anything with a pulse, but that’s just me…”

You cut yourself off with another quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you say, picking up your glass of wine. “Not exactly a wonderful first date topic, huh? Offloading all my daddy issues.”

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Bucky reassures. You take a sip and hesitantly meet his gaze. He smiles, empathetic. “My dad was a piece of crap too, so.”

“Ah. Good to see some things span across the generations.”

Bucky laughs. It was typical of you to find the sunlight in a blackened room. You raise your half-empty wine glass in the air and Bucky takes the hint, grabbing his own. “To shitty fathers.”

“Cheers to that,” he chuckles, his glass clinking against your. You both take a sip: the rich red wine soaking onto his tongue. “I gotta ask - and I’m probably out of line so please tell me to shut up- but your grandma said something about your mom’s sister…?”

“Ah. That old chestnut,” you kid, voice void of any real humour. “Yeah. The baby showers in a couple weekend’s time. Granny wants me to go with her to have a ‘familiar face’ there. I can’t think of anything worse.”

Bucky shakes his head, disbelieving. It was one thing to know your dad was a creep and a cheating coward - it was another to wrap your head around the fact that what was going to be your niece was also your half-sister. Bucky had seen and heard some pretty messed up things in his lifetime, and this wasn’t far off. 

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to go to that,” Bucky tells you. 

You shrug and take another sip of your wine. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” There’s a twinkle in your eye as you return your glass to the table, attention switching to him. “Now tell me about how your dad was a piece of crap so I feel less of a disaster-first-date.”

Bucky laughs and nods, indulging. “Alright. You want the short version or the long?”

“Oh - I didn’t know there was a choice,” you hum, leaning forward on the table, chin propped atop of your closed fist. “Long version.”

“Alright then,” Bucky clicks his tongue. His mind journeys back to before the torment and the ice and the torture. It goes right back to before the war. He smiles as if he can picture his mother’s living room: like he can smell the embers of a burnout fire in the hearth. There his dad would sit, in the dusty armchair by the window, usually with a paper in hand. “I loved my dad. He was strong and stoic, y’know? The kinda guy you felt like you could go to in a crisis and he’d have it covered in a second.”

You nod. 

“He was drafted into the first war and everything changed. He changed. He was always quiet before but he became mean. Distant. Didn’t wanna talk, didn’t wanna listen. Didn’t care about anything, really. He started fighting with my mama over stupid things, things they wouldn’t have fought about before. He didn’t give a crap about me or Becca. Everything was just work to him, all of a sudden. Like being around us was like doing a chore.”

You nod once more, eyebrows slanting with sympathy. Bucky takes a breath, clears his throat; his finger strokes the base of his wine glass. 

“One day I come home from work and there he is, stood in the kitchen with a suitcase. He was waiting for me to get home, apparently, to make this big announcement. He was leaving.”

Your breath catches. Bucky shrugs, eyes slipping down to study the table cloth as he loses himself in the memory. It feels just as disorientating now as it did back then. Tired, hands aching from labour, mind fuzzy with exhaustion and confusion, staring at his dad dressed in his Sunday best. 

“Mom begged to know why. If there was another woman, maybe. But he didn’t give us anything. He just said he had to go. And that was it,” Bucky says, eyes meeting yours once more. “He was gone. Never saw him again.”

“Just like that?” you quietly wonder. 

He nods. “Just like that. Left my mom all alone without a dollar to her name, two kids. Then I got drafted when the second war came and I had to leave them both, and it–”

He cuts himself off with a sigh, losing nerve. Your hand reaches across the table, lying atop of his metal one. You squeeze gently.  Bucky wants to retract his hand and shrug it away like he did when it happened. But something makes him sit in the moment of vulnerability. It doesn’t feel as daunting when it’s you, especially with how you’re looking at him. Like you care. Like you understand. Instead, he envelopes his other palm atop of your hand and smiles at you. You smile back, reassuring, and he sighs once more. 

“It killed me, ‘cause after my dad left I promised myself that I’d never abandon the people I love like he did…And then I never came back.”

You begin to shake your head. “That’s different, Bucky.”

“How is it?” 

“You didn’t abandon them. You were taken from them.”

Bucky stares at you and you stare back. Your voice is firm and sweet like cookie batter. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” you say, “the main one being that one of them is a choice and the other isn’t. You didn’t choose to leave your family, the way they didn’t choose to lose you. Your dad, on the other hand, chose to.”

Bucky considers this a moment, turning it over in his mind. It’s a new perspective - a side to a shape that he’s never seen before. With that, something somewhat new occurs to him. “I think the war broke him. He just couldn’t handle it.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “But that’s not an excuse to leave in the way he did. Not to me.”

Nodding, Bucky’s eyes drift down to your interlocked hands. Another weight is slowly lifted off his shoulders, and once again, it’s thanks to you. Never before did he think he’d be unpicking traumas from before the war even began. But here you were, teasing him apart carefully like untangling a necklace chain. Bucky begins to smile. “Hell of a first date, huh?”

“I’ll say,” you grin. Then you squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you told me that.”

“I’m glad you told me about yours too,” Bucky replies sincerely. 

You shrug, a playful glimmer in your expression. “Barbara sort of beat me to it. Hard to be mysterious when you have a gossip for a gran.”

He laughs at that. The two of you sit in the lifted mood for a moment and a waiter comes over. He plants a dessert menu down in front of each of you, and Bucky reluctantly pulls his hand from yours. You thank the waiter as he leaves. Surveying the desserts, you make a joke about one of the cheesecake flavours, and that leads into another anecdote about the time you tried to make chocolate mousse, and the gravity of the prior conversation lifts away. Bucky watches you from across the table, dazzling in the candle light, dressed in an emerald green dress, smiling and giggling and chattering away as if you’d known Bucky all your life. You’re carefree around him and it makes him feel normal, like he’s the Bucky he was before everything happened. If he focuses just on you he can pretend it’s the forties: the world melts away and it’s just him and a pretty girl. 

Bucky insists on paying. You complain about it half the walk home, insisting that next time it’s on your dime. The only thing Bucky hears is the ‘next time’. You hold his hand, fingers intertwined with his gloved ones, and chatter. Questions are passed back and forth and Bucky’s happy to indulge. The hem of your dress sways with every step you take; heels clicking on the pavement. He wants the sidewalk to stretch on forever. But eventually, you get to your building. You unlock the door, push it open and turn to him. 

“You wanna come up for a nightcap?”

Bucky hesitates for only a second before agreeing with a “sure”. You smile and lead him. Three flights of stairs and Bucky’s walking into your apartment. You toe off your heels and weave through the hallway, talking as you go about your latest squabble with Barbara. 

“In the end we called it even. Better to do that then spend the rest of the week arguing…”

Bucky’s half listening. He glances around the small entryway as he slips off his shoes. Pictures hang on the walls. They’re all of you and your friends. There’s a motivational quote embroidered into a hoop that hangs against a door. A mirror fills up a small slither of wall. Bucky glances in it and checks himself. 

“You want coffee or tea?”

With that, he follows your route into a living area. It’s open plan, half sitting room, half kitchen. “You have tea?” 

“Course. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” you reply. 

“Coffee’s great, thanks,” Bucky tells you. You nod and open your fridge. 

“Take a seat wherever.”

“This is a nice place,” he comments, sinking down onto the sofa. It’s squishy, sucks him in like a marshmallow: a plethora of throw cushions keep him nicely propped. As you make coffee and reel off some random facts and price points for the place, Bucky takes it in. Books upon books, a few about mindfulness and massage therapy; an empty bottle of champagne from a seemingly notable occasion; ornaments which imitate landmarks - the Eiffel tower; Big Ben, the pyramids; a bouquet of flowers sits in a vase on a small dining table, just big enough to seat two. It’s warmly lit. A string of fairy lights slinks from one side of the room to the other. 

Bucky watches you walk over. You sit down beside him, curling one leg under you, and offer him one of the mugs. He thanks you and nurses it. The skirt of your dress rides up, just long enough to save modesty, and like a teenager realising girls exist for the first time, Bucky tries his best not to stare. 

“I had a really fun time tonight,” you tell him, taking a sip of your steaming mug. Bucky smiles. 

“Me too. I’m glad we did this.”

You shuffle a little in your seat. Propping an arm up on the back of the headrest, you lean your cheek against it and gaze at him. He chuckles. 

“What?”

“Just thinking…Wanna ask you something but don’t know if it’s exactly first-date appropriate,” you say. 

Bucky rolls his eyes mirthfully and takes a sip of his coffee. “Feel like we’ve known each other long enough to forget about those kinda rules.”

“In that case: when was the last date you went on?”

Bucky’s brows twitch up; he wasn’t expecting that question. He looks down towards his lap, watching how his metal thumb rubs the porcelain handle of the mug. “Uh…About a year ago. Maybe slightly longer.”

“Oh really? How was it?”

Internally cringing at the memory, Bucky chuckles quietly. He shakes his head. “Not so hot.”

“Oh,” you hum. “Well, that’s a shame.”

He shrugs and turns his head to look at you. You’re so laid back: sock clad feet wiggling restlessly. “Not really. Means I’m here right now with you.”

“Ooh,” you grin, nose crinkling. “Nice line.”

“I try,” he suavely returns. You chuckle. He smiles. The coffee is good. “What about you?”

“Three…No, four years ago.”

“Four?”

“Don’t have to sound so horrified,” you snort. Bucky laughs, apologising. 

“I’m just surprised. You’re gorgeous. Don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to take you out. Treat you nice.”

The fluster his words bring doesn’t go unnoticed. His ego triumphs. The smile on your face sinks into something more unshielded; as if peeling back some curtain. “Want the truth?”

Bucky nods. You sigh. “Most guys these days don’t know what they want. I’m not a one-night-kinda girl, and I need stability. An idea of where things are heading. That usually freaks people out. So it’s easier not to bother than to let myself get invested, only to wind up disappointed.”

He nods once more. You wash your words down with a sip of your coffee. “I get it,” Bucky tells you. “I tried the whole online dating scene. It’s a mess. Don’t know what I’m looking at half the time. And it feels like people can say anything on there without really meaning it.”

You hum in agreement, nodding, and meet his eyes again. Bucky’s flit down to your lips. They’re glossy from the lipstick you’d chosen, shimmering slightly in the twinkling fairy lights. He swallows. Then, he looks away, back down to the floor. 

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Bucky admits. “Dating, I mean. I don’t know what’s right and wrong. What’s old and what’s new. I mean, that date I went on, I brought her flowers. Pretty standard thing to do, back in my time, but she sort of laughed it off. Don’t think she meant any harm but still…Shakes a guy’s confidence, y’know?”

“I get it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you quite yet. In his peripheral, you lean down to place your mug gently on the wooden floor. “I’m always scared I’m too much. It’s like there’s this unspoken boundary you can’t cross and I never know where it is.”

Laughing under breath, agreeing, Bucky smiles smally to himself. “Yeah.”

“For the record,” something in your tone has him looking back up at you. The smile he’s met with is like the first day of Spring. It fills him with fresh air. “I love flowers. Don’t think I’d ever laugh at something like that.”

There’s a quick rush of adrenaline as Bucky sets his mind. He places his coffee mug quickly but carefully on the table to his left, and then, before he can lose his confidence, he’s reaching over to you and capturing your face in his hand. Leaning over, his lips find yours, and his eyes slip shut. Your breath catches, mouth parting with a split-second of surprise. Then your hand is reaching up to rest atop of his, and you press into his hold, and kiss him back. The feel of your right hand on his thigh has his body sparking to life like he’s been in hibernation. You lean your weight forward slightly, sighing against Bucky’s mouth, and he pulls away for a breath before kissing you again. Harder. Deeper. Fingertips run down along his forearm, up his shoulder, until they’re looping into his hair. You give a gentle tug and Bucky groans against your lips. You smile. He can feel it. He smiles too. 

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur into the kiss. Bucky’s teeth catch against your lower lip and you gasp. The breath that escapes you is shaky as he pulls just-so before letting go, kissing away the sting. Your fingers tighten in his locks. He smirks. It’s coming back to him; muscle memory, like dancing or riding a bike. Every little sound you make; every twitch of your fingers; every push and pull of your body: it drives him. Feeds him. He needs more, more, more. Somehow, you find yourself beneath him on your back. Bucky looms over you, propped up by his left arm, and he ventures further. Kisses the corner of your mouth, still shadowed with a smile. Kisses the cusp of your jaw. Suckles slightly at the tender skin of your neck, teeth scratching tauntingly at your jugular. 

“Bucky,” you sigh, head rocking backwards as if to present him with a fresh canvas.

He moans against your flesh. Your perfumed skin is pressed to his nose and it intoxicates him like liquor and turns him on like pheromones. His right hand sweeps down and along your figure. The forest green of your dress, silk and satin, bunches in his fingers as he squeezes your waist. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Bucky’s body is alight with a fire that’s laid dormant for years. Centuries. Blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp. But as his fingers feel the lace of your panties through the thin material of your dress, Bucky remembers where he is and what he’s doing. He eases off slightly. Peppers kisses until his lips find yours again. You pull him closer by the nape of his neck, tongue lapping salaciously into his mouth with a wanton moan. Bucky indulges for a moment before slowly pulling away. He opens his eyes to find you gazing up at him. Your pupils are blown wide like you’re stoned. Lips wet and swollen. You look fucking delicious. His hand parts from the side of your frame to come up to your face, swiping gently at your lower lip. You smile up at him. Bucky smiles back. He rubs his lips together and savours the taste of you. You somehow read his mind. It’s playful, understanding, as you whisper, “unspoken boundaries.”

He chuckles. “Plenty of time.”

“There better be,” you murmur, making him laugh harder. You plant one final peck to his lips. Bucky crawls off you and you sit back up, propping onto your arms. He reaches a hand on instinctively to help flatten some of your hair and you giggle, flustered. 

“Beautiful.”

The way you look at him is how any man would want to be looked at. As if there’s nothing else on the planet that will matter as much as he does. A twinge of nausea turns over in his stomach with dooming realisation. Like stepping off a cliff, Bucky was falling in love with you. Hard, fast, indomitably so. And the thing which seemed to terrify him the most was the fact that he wasn’t scared of it. Not even slightly. 

After the first date, Bucky had taken you on a second: drinks in a basement bar in Brooklyn, specialised in ‘surprise’ cocktails and craft beers. He’d brought you flowers. He’d walked you home and kissed you at the doorstep. He lingered and left. The third date was to a farmer’s market hosted in a city park. You’d wandered from stall to stall, hands intertwined with his, clad in a springtime jacket that made your skin seemingly glow under the daylight. It seemed you could spark up a conversation with anybody. Everything was interesting to you, from how beeswax soap was made to which cheese was the most challenging to produce. You’d drank coffee together whilst sat on an outdoor table outside of the New York City Library. He’d parted ways with you at the subway station, leaving you with a kiss, as you went to catch another train to work.  

Bucky still attended the spa. In the three weeks which followed the dinner date, Bucky had gone once for each. You were very professional, he had come to learn. Nothing more than a peck behind the closed door and another before he left, lingering if only slightly. But the massages remained the same. You followed routine, giving gentle heads-ups before placing your hands on his frame. Bucky didn’t need them much anymore. His trust in you shocked him to the core; it took nearly a year for Bucky to give a fraction of that level of trust to Sam. But he was certain that you could walk into the room with a knife and he’d think nothing of harm. 

“I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say, walking over to the sink. As you rinse them thoroughly under running water, Bucky props himself up onto his elbows. You walk over to him, standing at the head of the table to meet his gaze. “How you feeling?”

“Like a million dollars,” he says with a charming smile. You smile and lean forward to kiss him. You don’t give him time to try and search for more, pulling away all too quickly. Stepping away to tidy away some of the oils and lotions - the mystery of the behind-the-scenes now removed - Bucky climbs off the table and retrieves his robe. 

“So, I have an update on that whole baby shower thing,” you say. Bucky heads to the jewellery pot to retrieve his dog togs. 

“Oh?”

“Apparently I’m out of the will if I don’t go, according to Barbara,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. Bucky quirks a brow, hooking his tags over his neck. 

“You gonna go?”

You shrug. Twisting a lid back onto a tub of lotion, you say, “I’ve been giving it some thought. I think I should go.”

“Really?” he frowns. He crosses the room to lean against the massage bed, arms folded over his chest, watching you work. 

“It’s not fair to the baby,” you sigh. You slide the tub back onto the shelf. “It didn’t ask to be born into some weird-Greek-tragedy nightmare. ‘Sides, I always wanted a sibling. Guess it’s my fault for not being more specific when I made my birthday wishes.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling smally. “You’re incredible, y’know that? I mean, seriously, not a lot of people would take this in stride like you are.”

You laugh. “Believe me - I am not taking it in stride. I just figure it’s worth giving the baby a chance. Don’t want it to be treated like the black sheep.”

He shakes his head again. “Better person than me, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” you hum. You busy your hands with folding the blanket that had been covering Bucky’s body. He can’t catch your gaze. “I was kind of thinking it might be slightly more bearable if there was a familiar face there, just for me?” Bucky’s brows raise. You finally meet his eyes. “Wanna be my plus one?”

“You sure? Your family’s gonna be there, right?”

“Not really. Just my aunt and granny Barbs. Lucy’ll probably come too; they’re like a package deal.”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky interrupts. “Are they…?”

“Gay?” You guess. He nods. Laughing, you shake your head. “Not that I’m aware of. Just lifelong friends, really. I call her aunt Lucy - she’s been around as long as I can remember.”

“Just thought it was worth checking,” Bucky hums, shrugging. “So, anyway, you were saying: your aunt, your gran, Lucy…”

“And some of the blushing soon-to-be-mother’s friends, probably,” you finish. “My mom and aunt’s mother died way back when, before I was even born. Grandpoppy too. And mom is, of course, refusing to go.”

“Seems fair,” Bucky mutters. 

“Daddy dearest is at work so we’re free of him. So really, it’s just two blood relatives.”

“Just two, huh?” he says. He clears the space between the two of you, taking the blanket from your hands and lying it on the table. With that, he places his open palms on your hips, tugging you closer. “Think I can handle that.”

“You sure? You might be about to witness a Shakespearan drama up close.”

“Lifelong dream.”

Smiling up at him, you push up onto your toes and kiss him dead on the lips. Bucky smiles. “You’re perfect,” you say against his damp mouth. “Thank you.”

The words catch in his throat. Anything for you. 

As decided two days prior, Bucky picks you up from outside your flat. Your aunt’s house was just outside of the city, not far from the spa, and you’d offered to take the train, but he figured driving was better. It gave him an excuse to have you all to himself for close to an hour. Lionel Richie crooned out of the speakers the whole ride there, accompanied by your slightly off-key harmonies. He’d smiled stupid most of the journey. But as the two of you neared the house, only five minutes away, your joy seemed to fizzle out like sun behind clouds. 

“You good over there?”

“Just mentally preparing,” you murmur. You’re staring out the side window. “I haven’t seen aunt Millie since before the Blip.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “Feels like I’m betraying mom, though.”

“Does she know you’re going?” Bucky asks. His eyes flit over to you, concerned. You shake your head. 

“Her memory isn’t all that good these days. Thought it wasn’t worth the stress for her. ‘Sides, it’s not like we’re particularly close anyway.”

Bucky’s heart clenches. If someone were to ask him what he thought your family was like, he would have offered up two proud as peach parents and a little brother or sister who adored you. Instead, it seemed the only person worth their salt in your family tree was Barbara - second to you, of course. Whilst Bucky’s dad was a disappointment in the end, he still had fond memories of his childhood, and even after with his mom and sister. Steve was like a brother, and his parents a second set to his own. He never went without love or support, in some way or another. From the small stories you’d scattered within your time together, Bucky had built up a rather lonely picture of your upbringing. And yet here you were, far from bitter and still willing to step into the most mind-blowing scenario simply to prove to an unborn baby that you would try. 

His hand reaches across the seats until it lands on your knee. He squeezes reassuringly. Your warm palm envelopes over it and you catch his gaze. The two of you share a smile, a silent promise to go into this as a team. 

“Barbara and Lucy might just lose their minds when they see you, by the way,” you tell him, lightening the tone. 

Bucky grins, eyes drifting back to the road. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to shift gears, preparing to turn down another street. “I’m ready for the grilling.”

“Oh, nothing could prepare you for their grilling,” you warn, making him laugh. 

The house is charming. As Bucky pulls onto the driveway, he takes note of the magnificent topiaries and trimmed bushes. Flower beds line the front of the bricked building: cream painted window panes outlined with ivy. It’s like something from a fairytale book: enchanting and bewitching. Around the doorframe are balloons which rustle in the wind: blue and pink. Bucky puts the car into park and shuts off the engine. You’ve gone quiet. You’re staring at the house, lost in thought. 

“We don’t have to do this, y’know,” Bucky hears himself tell you. You don’t move, don’t look at him. “We can go right back to the city. Or just keep driving. Whatever you want.”

The silence stretches. Then, you shake your head. You turn to face him, a smile pushing onto your face. “No,” you say. “No, I need to do this. For the baby.”

He nods. When he gets out of the car, you follow. Retrieving a pair of gift bags from the back seat, Bucky hands one to you and carries the other. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as the two of you head to the door. You take a deep breath in and knock. There’s music inside, muffled by the bricks and wood, and the vague sound of animated chatter. Bucky’s spine bristles. He didn’t love new people, or gatherings, or gatherings of new people. But this was important to you. You needed someone to be there for you, to help get you through it, and Bucky would be damned if that person wasn’t him. He’d opted for a long sleeved henley, deep blue, and jeans. His metal hand was on display but it didn’t draw too much attention, or at least he hoped so. 

The door swung open before he could obsess much more about his appearance. A lady stood, face round and cheeks flushed. She was heavily pregnant. This must be Aunt Millie. Bucky clenched his jaw and tried to find his inner peace. 

“Darling!” she cooed, throwing her arms around you. You were visibly stiff, reluctantly returning the embracement. “So glad you could make it!”

“Of course, aunt Mil,” you murmur. As she pulls away, her eyes naturally drift to Bucky. She eyes him with slight suspicion. “This is my friend, James.”

“James,” aunt Millie echoes, reaching out a hand. Bucky shakes it with his right. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. Congratulations,” he says, sounding far from enthused. She smiles nonetheless. Her hand retracts to smooth over her baby bump. Bucky feels slightly sick.

“Nearly there. Daz says I’m about to pop any day now,” she says, rolling her eyes mirthfully. It’s your turn to clench your jaw. It seems an unfamiliar tick for someone so peaceful and relaxed as yourself. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s in the living room!”

You follow after her, Bucky in tow, and the pair of you step into an unfortunately beautiful living area. The homely interior looks like a stork has gone to town on it: blue and pink bunting strung on every wall; streamers dangling from the ceiling, pearly white; balloons everywhere. Poppy music plays from an Alexa. Drinks are laid out on an ebony cart, labels beside pitchers of blue and pink concoctions with cute baby puns. An impressive spread of food is on another console table. Party guests sit on the sofas and in armchairs, a few on stools. Bucky’s eyes land on Barbara. She’s brooding in the corner, a party hat skew-whiff on her head. She hasn’t seemed to notice him yet. 

“Everybody!” Aunt Millie calls. The conversations die down. What seems to be nine pairs of eyes drift over to you and Bucky. “Some new guests have arrived. Of course, you remember our little darling. And this is her friend, James.”

He finds himself looking at Barbara. There’s a shit-eating grin on her face. It seems the party has finally started for her. 

“Where should we put these?” you ask, lifting up your gift bag. 

“Oh, you sweeties,” aunt Millie preens. She guides the two of you into the adjoining kitchen. There’s a enormous stack of presents atop of the kitchen island. “You can add it to there. Thank you so much, that’s so kind.”

With that, she’s returning to her party. Bucky stands by your side and places his gift bag beside yours. “What’d you bring?” he murmurs. 

“Vodka,” you deadpan. He snorts. “I’m kidding,” you say, flashing him a grin. A real one, this time. “I found these cute baby blankets at this little store in Manhattan. Couldn’t resist. It was purely to benefit capitalism.”

He chuckles.

“What about you?”

“Some pacifiers. Figured you can never have enough, and I didn’t wanna spend more than twenty bucks.”

“Very smart of you,” you agree with a nod. You sigh and look up at him. Smiling, your voice is heavy with sincerity as you tell him, “thank you, for coming to this. I don’t think I could do this on my own.”

“Course,” Bucky quietly replies. He smiles down at you. You’re beautiful, standing in a summer dress that ends just before the knee, painted in peonies and snapdragons. “You need me, I’m there.”

Something in his words seems to hit you. Your eyes widen by a slight. If Bucky wasn’t trained to be so perceptive, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. But he does. Your lips part as if to say something, but instead of your sweet voice coming out, instead it’s:

“Well, well, well.”

Your eyes press shut. Bucky somehow holds back his laugh. The two of you turn to lay eyes on Lucy, saddled up beside Barbara. He’s not sure he’s seen either of them so happy. No, not happy. Gloating. 

“Nice of you to join us for this little shin-dig, James,” Barbara cordially greets. 

“Yes, so nice of you,” Lucy parrots. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you both too.”

“I should have placed money. If I was a betting man–”

“--What do you mean ‘if’? You lose about a twenty a week on those damn roulette tables on the internet.”

“Secret roulette tables,” Lucy hisses. 

“Glad to see the two of you enjoying yourselves,” you say, leaning against the kitchen island. “We miss anything so far?”

“Just a riveting round of ‘pin the baby bundle on the stork’,” Barbara says, sounding far from entertained. 

“Barbs here placed it way off to the left on the wallpaper. I think it was on purpose,” Lucy says. 

“What do you mean ‘think’, you twit, of course it was on purpose. This whole party is a whole load of–”

“--There you all are!”

It must look rather frightening, the fakeness of the smiles Aunt Millie is met with from the four reluctant guests. 

“We were just about to start a round of ‘twenty-one-questions’. Care to join?”

“How could we say no?” Lucy sardonically replies. Aunt Millie claps her hands together and returns to the living room. Lucy rolls her eyes; Barbara takes a swig of her glass of red wine. 

“What a dithering idiot,” Lucy mutters, following after the host. Barbara nods in agreement as she shadows. You shake your head and laugh quietly. 

“This is going fantastic.”

Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You squeeze his metal palm and let him guide you back into the belly of the beast. There’s a loveseat empty which the two of you can only just fit on: your thigh presses up against Bucky’s. Without option, you’re each handed a paper cup of mocktail. Bucky has blue, you have pink. 

“Mm. What’s your taste like?” you quietly ask him. The attention is largely on aunt Millie who is explaining the very complex game of twenty-one-questions (‘so, essentially, everybody asks questions…’). 

“Sugar. Yours?”

You giggle underbreath. Pushing the cup near to him, you whisper, “here. Try it.”

He takes it from you and has a sip. Strawberry fizz hits his tongue like a sherbet. He bobs his head and nods. “Mm. I prefer mine.”

“Lemme try it. I might like it more.”

“No, I want it,” he childishly argues back. 

“Come on!” you giggle, reaching for his cup. He holds it up and out of reach, grinning down at you. “Bucky–”

“You two okay?”

His head snaps up to meet Aunt Millie’s curious expression. He lowers the cup, face flushing with embarrassment at the attention from the other party attendees, and nods. Clearing his throat, he replies, “yep. All good here.”

Twenty-one-questions goes by without a hitch. In fact, Bucky thinks you begin to enjoy yourself somewhat. The event is rather nice if you block out the fact that your mother’s sister is pregnant with your dad’s baby, your soon-to-be half-sibling/niece/nephew. The first round is a pig, the second a newspaper. 

“Alright, who should go next?” Aunt Millie wonders. 

“I think our darl should. She always comes up with clever ones,” Barbara says, pointing over to you. Bucky quirks a brow, looking down at you. You sigh and roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. 

“Got one?”

“Yep,” you smile, nodding. Bucky takes a sip of his neon blue concoction - it’s starting to grow on him. The questions start to come in and clues are uncovered: it’s a person; a relatively young person; a black person; a black man; a black man who flies; no, not the first black pilot; he isn’t a pilot, he just flies; a black man who–

“Is it Sam?” Bucky suddenly asks. 

You grin, looking up at him. “Sam who?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky catches on quickly. “Is it Captain America?”

“Hey! James got it!” you cheer. The room cheers too, clapping jovially, whilst you gloat in your little gag. Bucky shakes his head at you; he’s smiling, hard. You let out a little laugh. He’s glad you're enjoying yourself. Relieved, even. The game comes to a close after that and stories are passed. The two of you end up wrapped in a conversation with one of your aunt’s friends from college. She’s nice enough, likely oblivious to the Freudian case study which was her friend’s pregnancy. As she’s telling you and Bucky about a trip she went on to Paris the other month, there’s a knock at the front door. Bucky vaguely tracks Aunt Millie getting up to go answer it. It was a reflex, to stay alert at all times. His hearing catches onto what sounds like a man’s voice. His brows tug together slightly, lips losing some of his smile. He sees it before it’s announced. His stomach twists. His back goes stiff. His palm sweats. He doesn’t have to know what Darren looks like to recognise him. An asshole like that is distinguishable from a mile away, by a blind man. 

“Look who made it!” Aunt Millie announces with dumb excitement. Everyone in the room turns. Bucky wishes there’s some way to warn you of what you’re about to see, but there isn’t. Everything is somehow happening in slow motion with no time to intervene. He knows the second you lay eyes on him. 

You go statue still. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Darren grins. He’s charming. Smarmy. Makes your skin prickle with disgust, a gut feeling that he wasn’t all he pretended to be. “Told the boys at work the occasion and they let me get off early.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” aunt Millie gushes. She ushers her friends to make space for him. Bucky’s gaze hardens to steel when he watches Darren’s eyes fall onto you. 

“Darling.”

You don’t speak. Don’t move. Bucky’s eyes flit down to you but he can’t see your face, just the back of your head. 

Darren’s guided to take perch on the sofa, a space cleared for him as if he’s royalty, and as he falls into conversation with aunt Millie’s friends, their attention all zoned in on him, you abruptly get up from the sofa and walk to the door. Bucky’s eyes dart over to Barbara and Lucy’s. They’re watching with an eagle gaze just like he is. Barbara looks apologetic, disappointed, worried. Lucy just looks pissed. Bucky gets up and gives them a brief nod; he ditches his cup on the coffee table as he heads for the door. You’re stood outside, lent against the brick wall. Your head is lulled back, eyes closed, lips pulled into a thin line. Bucky lets the door quietly click shut behind him. He doesn’t speak. Just stands, hands in his pockets, and watches you, quietly concerned. 

“He came,” you mumble. 

Bucky nods despite the fact you can’t see him. 

You lift a hand up to the bridge of your nose and pinch it, rubbing. “The fucking asshole came. He’s shameless. It actually makes me sick.” Sighing, you open your eyes and glance over to Bucky. Tears gather in the waterline. His mind splits. A part of him wants to go back in there and beat the son of a bitch until he can’t walk, and a part of him wants to stay and hold you and tell you everything will be okay. He knows which one to lean into the second a tear slips down your cheek. 

“Come here,” he murmurs. You don’t need any further prompting. You practically fall against him, a hand coming up to fist at his shirt, and Bucky wraps his arms around you, holding you close. Your body shivers with your quiet tears. He places a kiss to the crown of your head, pressing his cheek against your hair, and he holds you. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I fucking hate him,” you cry into his shirt. “I hate his guts.”

“That anyway to speak about your old man?”

Bucky’s shoulders seize. He slowly turns his head to find Darren standing there in the doorway, flesh and blood - a waste of both. He’s happy to let his contempt be palpable. It’s easy to sink back into his old ways: brooding, silent, deadly. Darren doesn’t seem to be all the way stupid. He shifts slightly under Bucky’s gaze. He eyes him warily and doesn’t take a step out of the house towards you. 

“Come on, darling. I just want to talk,” Darren says, softer. 

You slowly ease away from Bucky’s frame. Sniffing, you wipe your cheek. One of your hands stays on Bucky’s side, as if you need to keep him close. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” you say, voice still quivering. 

“Look, I understand this is a bit of a surprise–”

“A surprise? Which part exactly?” you spit. You’re angry, suddenly so. Pulling away from Bucky, you furiously wipe your face dry as you take a step towards your father. “You being here and ambushing me, or you knocking up mom’s sister?”

“It’s hardly an ambush, darling. This is a baby shower for my child.”

You laugh. It’s haunting to Bucky, void of humour. “Do you even hear yourself!? Can you not fathom how insane that is!? You need fucking help!”

“Don’t be cruel, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl, pointing at him. “You don’t get to call me that. You ruined my life.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think–”

“God, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Darren swallows. He looks uncomfortable. Bucky stares him down. “Can we talk somewhere alone, maybe?”

“No. I don’t want to be alone with you,” you state. Darren sighs. His hands slip into his pockets. You press your lips together and take a deep breath. In the lull, he takes a step outside and closes the door behind him. Bucky imagines it’s to save face from the others. God forbid people know the truth about this piece of scum. As if incapable of reading the room, Darren’s eyes drift up over your head to Bucky. 

“I see you’ve met someone,” he says. Bucky almost wants to laugh at the man’s idiocy when he extends out a hand for Bucky to shake. “I’m Darren.”

“I know who you are,” is all Bucky says. He doesn’t shake his hand. Darren eventually returns it to his pocket. The attention returns to you. You’re shaking your head, hands on your hips, staring at the wall just to the side of Darren’s head. 

“I see things are going just as good for you as always, then.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. Your eyes slowly drift over to your dad. He feels the need to expand. 

“First you throw away your medical degree and now this. Dating a former criminal. A known murderer. You’re just throwing it all away now, huh?”

Bucky’s blood goes cold. You shake your head. Slowly at first, then fast. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to live my life when you’ve made such a shitshow of yours.”

“You don’t talk to me like that. I’m your father.”

“And what exactly qualifies you of that title?” you ask, cocking your head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you had a good future lined up before you threw it all down the shitter,” Darren boldly states. 

“I like my life,” you tell him. “I like the choices I’ve made in my life. I’m happy.”

“With him?”

“Yes. With him,” you affirm. Bucky wasn’t aware of how badly he needed to feel your touch until your hand reached behind you for his. The tension eased from him like water rolling off leaves. “I hated my life before. I hated college. I hated medical school. I hated you.”

“You could have been a doctor,” your dad says, shaking his head. There’s something akin to disgust in the way he appraises you. “You could have been a psychiatrist.”

“And whose fault is it that I’m not?”

He doesn’t answer. It seems he knows it, though. His brows twitch, his fingers too. Bucky doesn’t like him for a myriad of reasons, but partly because he can’t predict him. One moment he’s the apologetic father and the next he’s the disappointed dad. 

“You’re not who I thought you’d be, darling,” Darren remarks, shaking his head. He tuts. “What a waste.”

Anger blinds him. Bucky takes a step forward. Your hand clenching his is the only thing which makes him stop.

“I could say the same thing to you, dad,” you say. Your voice is steady, frighteningly so, when you speak. “You were all I looked up to, and now I can’t even look at you.”

Darren stands there, stupefied. His lips part like a fish out of water, searching for words. Rage colours his face, distorts his hideous features. But you don’t bother to wait for his comeback. It would only be a waste of oxygen. 

“Goodbye, dad.”

You turn heel and walk to the car. Bucky lets his hand slip away from yours. He doesn’t stop you and you don’t wait. Darren bristles as Bucky stalks towards him. He doesn’t stop until the shorter man’s back is pressed against the door. He dips his face, invading his personal space, and glares daggers into his wide eyes. 

“You do anything as much as text her, and I’ll find you. Got it?”

Darren swallows. Bucky’s metal arm whirs, his patient dwindling, and he grabs firmly at Darren’s upper arm. He squeezes. Hard enough to leave a mark. His smirk is impossible to hold back at the quiet whimper he’s met with. 

“Got it?” he grits out. 

Finally, Darren nods. Bucky lets go in an instant. He brushes his hands down Darren’s arms, smoothing his shirt, and takes a step back. His smile is overly polite. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re sitting in the passenger seat when Bucky reaches the car. He glances over to the house as he turns on the engine. Darren’s gone back inside, it seems. Barbara is at the kitchen window, watching. Bucky gives her another nod and she gives one back. He taps on the screen of the car until the satnav chimes to life, logged for your address. 

“Ready to leave?” he checks, glancing over to you. You’re slumped in your seat, staring out the passenger side window. Your reply is a silent nod. Bucky pulls out of the driveway and starts off down the road. 

You don’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Not a single word. You’re not crying, though, which Bucky takes to be a good thing. Bucky decides not to open the conversation. He knows more than anyone the value of space. You needed time to think and to process. Bucky never got to see his father again after he walked out, but he can only imagine that if their paths ever somehow crossed - then or even now - he would need time to work it all through.

But he’s human, still. His worry nibbles away at him until he can’t help but reach a hand across the console, just as he had done on the ride there, placing his hand on your knee. It lingers there for a minute. He considers taking it back. But then, your hand is laying atop of his. He glances over to you and you meet his gaze. The smile you flash him is real. Genuine. You might not be good, but you’re okay. That’s all Bucky needs right now. 

The radio hums quietly in the background. Bucky hadn’t bothered to queue anything up; he isn’t sure which playlist is on. A piano melody opens a song. A man begins to sing. You shuffle in your seat. 

“I like this song,” you mumble. Bucky glances at you. You turn to sit facing inwards, towards him. He reaches over to the dial and turns the volume up. A few moments later, you’re quietly singing along.

Bucky smiles to himself. The song swells into rhythmic blues with haunting synth tunes. As it ties together, fading off into the next tune, you sigh. 

“I’m okay now,” you say softly. Bucky doesn’t say anything. You nod. Smile. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He offers out his hand to you and you take it. And for the first time since Bucky’s met you, he thinks he might be the one to remove a weight from your shoulders. 

Something shifts in the relationship after that. There’s a gravity to it which wasn’t there before, and a new meaning defined. It was more than pleasant dates and lingering kisses and longing stares. Bucky had seen the side of you which you kept under layers of armour which time had built. The endless patience he’d been privy to snapped. He’d held you whilst you cried and helped to dry the tears. In a strange way, it felt like a milestone had been met. One which underlined how serious Bucky was about you, and you about him. But it remained unnamed and unlabelled - the relationship the two of you shared. Bucky was still finding his footing with romance. The steps were coming back to him but he needed some time to remember the routines. Was asking someone to be your girlfriend even a thing anymore? It felt juvenile, outdated, and yet necessary. In a caveman-like way, Bucky wanted people to know you were with him. He belonged to you. 

“Watched any good movies this week?” you ask Bucky as you walk down the streets of Brooklyn one evening. In your right hand is a carrier bag filled with miscellaneous items you’d picked up on an errand run. It had felt domestic joining you in the shop as you picked out shampoo and mouthwash and painkillers. Your left hand is encased in his, warmed by his leather glove. 

“Fight Club,” he replies. Despite the little book Steve gave him being gone, Bucky had continued his catching-up on the things he missed. That included movies. You’d ask him occasionally about what his latest ‘education’ was. 

“Ah. Man-classic. What did you think?”

Bucky shrugged. A couple across the street laughed. “It was alright. The ending was pretty strange.”

“The whole movie is,” you snort. “I don’t like how it’s filmed. It makes me feel dizzy.”

“Definitely not my favourite,” Bucky agrees. 

“Brad Pitt is sexy though, so it gets points for that,” you comment. Bucky glances down at you, amused. 

“Can’t say I noticed.”

You roll your eyes, grinning up at him. “Yeah right. Nobody is immune to Brad Pitt.” Neither agreeing or disagreeing, you continue to fill the city-scape buzz. “What’s next on your watch-list?”

“Not sure,” Bucky hums. He reels aloud different titles from the mental list he'd been making, from people's recommendations of 'you have to see so-and-so movie - it's a classic!' You let out varying intonations of hums in response to each. Then, you gasp. 

“You know what we should watch?” Bucky quirks a brow in question. “Dirty Dancing. Now that is a classic.”

“Dirty Dancing? The hell’s that?” Bucky frowns, bemused. 

You gape at him like he’d just insulted your religion. “It’s the best romance movie ever made.”

“Quite the claim.”

“Because it’s true,” you insist. Your pace picks up slightly and Bucky laughs to himself. “We’re watching it tonight. You can’t fight me on this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

He’s more than happy to let you drag him to your apartment building, driven with newfound purpose. Your apartment is something of a second home to him now. He kicks off his shoes when he walks in; lounges on his claimed spot and turns on the television whilst you potter about in the kitchen. The fairy lights and lamp flicker to life. You wander over with two glasses of wine and a bowl of popcorn. Bucky pops a piece in his mouth whilst scrolling through the various streaming platforms. You sit sideways on, stretching your feet out and onto his lap. He loves it. It’s so easy, so natural, so right. Eventually, Bucky finds Dirty Dancing. As the opening credits roll onto the screen, Bucky’s metal hand busies itself with rubbing soothing, deep circles into the sole of your foot. Little tricks he’d learnt from your time together. The movie stretches on. Sixties music with blues drum beats; sepia tainted footage. His attention is only half on the story. It keeps drifting to you. You’re enthralled, smiling to yourself faintly. Your head bobs along to the music sometimes. Your lips move silently with some of the dialogue; you’ve seemingly seen it enough times to rehearse it. 

“Patrik Swayze is so attractive,” you randomly announce. Bucky chuckles. He squeezes your foot playfully and you squirm. “Don’t worry, you’re hot too.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs with a lazy grin. 

“I think there’s nothing sexier than a guy who dances,” you muse. “What’d you think so far?”

“I like it,” he tells you. You meet his eyes, a brow quirked as if to ask ‘really’. “I do. It’s fun. Romantic.”

“So romantic,” you swoon like a teenager. Bucky grins, shakes his head, and looks back to the movie. “Do you dance?”

“I used to,” Bucky says. He smiles at the faint memories of hours spent in dance halls. The smell of smoke gripping to the wallpaper; the taste of whiskey on his tongue. A girl on his arm, Steve begrudgingly tagging along. “Used to be pretty good at it. I could waltz fairly good. My ma taught me how.”

“I’m jealous,” you murmur. “People don’t dance these days. Not like back then.”

Something in your tone has Bucky pushing your feet off his lap. His body isn’t his own when he rises to his feet. You look up at him, mildly amused, and he extends a hand out to you. 

“Come on then.”

You quirk a brow. “Really?” 

He nods. You hesitate for a moment before slipping your hand into his. He helps tug you up and onto your feet. You giggle, nervous, and let him maneuver you like a puppet. His heart thrums nervously in his chest. He hasn’t danced in years; not properly. No more than the toe tap in the kitchen as the radio plays. But something about you has him taking the chance. 

“Like this,” he murmurs. His voice fades into the music and dialogue of the movie. 

Your left hand is guided onto his shoulder, and your right is captured in his metal hand. His right lands on your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh gently like sinking into snow. He nods and takes a step forward, and you take one backwards. 

“That’s it, you got it,” he quietly praises. Your shoulders ease slightly. You accidentally step onto his sock clad toe. 

“Oops. Sorry.”

“You’re good,” Bucky chuckles. After a few more stumbles and squished toes, you start to pick up on it. Bucky leads; his hand stays safe on your side, his other occasionally squeezing your palm. You're staring down at the floor, watching your feet like you might grow an extra toe, brows tugged together within concentration. Bucky lifts his finger under your chin and eases your face up, until your eyes meet his. A timid smile has his heart hiccuping. Bucky dips his face, pulling your body closer to him by the waist, and rests his chin by the crux of your shoulder. Your fingers press into the bridge of where metal meets flesh. He takes a deep breath in: you smell of your perfume and moisturiser. He tilts his head just enough to let his lips ghost a kiss to your neck. A quiet gasp escapes you. Bucky holds you closer still. His hips roll instinctively to the rhythm. His eyes slip shut. A weight rolls off his shoulder. Your own body begins to sway, the musicality contagious, and Bucky kisses you again on the throat, his lips lingering against the thin veil of skin. Your hand slinks away from his shoulder and up, into his hair. Your head turns and his eyes find yours, half-hooded, smiles gone. Something sweeps over the two of you, captures you in a bubble, and Bucky dances with you without shame. His hand grips at your hips and guides them to the beat, against him. Your eyes don’t shy away from his. Your lips remain parted, breath a little short; there’s the faintest tinge of wine that fills the ever decreasing gap between the two of you. And he can’t take it any longer. Bucky kisses you. He pours everything into it. Every memory, every thought, every compliment. You hold him close. Let him live in the dream of being a normal guy with a pretty girl. His lips slowly break apart but he remains close. Revels in the feel of your warm breath fanning his mouth. He swallows. Digs inside of him for guts to say the three words that have been there maybe since the start. 

A loud clatter on the television has you jumping. 

The bubble pops.

The two of you look to the TV. There’s a fight, a scuff of some kind between Johnny and another guy. Bucky swallows, his confidence flickering like a dying candle. You slip out of his hold with a nervous smile. Flustered like it was your first kiss. Combing some hair behind your ears, you smile at him. 

“I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”

Bucky nods. As you head out the room, he sighs. His fingers still tingle from your touch. His heart is racing. His mind feels foggy, like he’s been possessed by a former version of himself. When you return, he’s back on the sofa, drinking his wine, watching the movie. You wordless return to your spot beside him. Your head leans against his shoulder. You bring the bowl of popcorn up and take a handful. Bucky takes a piece too. 

“Y’know, you kinda remind me of her,” Bucky says, tipping his glass towards the screen. 

“Baby?”

“Mhm. Determined. Kind. Giggly, with an edge. Sexy.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“Hey, if you’re having Patrik then it’s only fair that I have her.”

You giggle. Crunching on a piece of popcorn, you shrug. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that logic.”

The popcorn goes down piece by piece, the bowl empty by the time the end credits roll. Bucky sees the appeal. It’s charming, living in its time like Bucky wishes he could. Yawning, you reach over for the remote and turn the volume down. That’s when the two of you catch it. It’s raining. 

“Sounds pretty heavy,” you comment. Bucky hums. Getting to your feet, you gather the empty glasses and bowl and head into the kitchen. He clicks off the TV and follows. Your back is to him as you stand at the sink, rinsing the pots. Bucky doesn’t wait for you to ask, grabbing a tea towel and taking the spot beside you to dry the pots you wash. Domestic. Safe and secure. “Y’know, you could just stay over.”

Something zips through Bucky at the thought. “Yeah?”

“I mean…I am, so…”

He chuckles at that, catching your cheeky grin in the corner of his eye. He swallows, turns over the offer in his mind like assessing an artifact. “You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

You shut off the sink. Looking up at him, you smile. There’s something on your face that isn’t familiar to Bucky. Your eyes flicker up and down over him; it’s quick but noticeable. “Certain of it.”

Considering Bucky has never stayed over before, the two of you step into a routine as if you’ve done it dozens of times before. Your shoulder brushes his upper arm as you stand side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth. In the reflection, your eyes catch. You smile at him. He smiles back. He stays behind to use the toilet as you head into your bedroom. In the quiet seclusion of the bathroom, he washes his hands and studies himself in the mirror. The memory of you moments ago, close to his body, close enough that he could feel every little twitch that every breath brought, was replaying in his mind, over and over. The way your breath caught, the tiny gasp that came when he kissed your neck. The smell of you was consuming him, driving him crazy. He closed his eyes and gripped the sink. Get it together, Barnes. Jesus. He was acting like a goddamn teenager, going through puberty all over again. But with the eroticism came anxiety. It seeped into his shoulders, tightened the muscles like pulling on strings. It had been years - years - since he laid with a woman. He imagined it to be the same as dancing; muscle memory. But he worried himself sick. What if he wasn’t as good as he used to be? What if it’s a big disappointment for you? He wants to make you feel good…That’s all he’s ever wanted. 

Bucky splashes some cold water on his face. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He trusts you. That’s all that matters. He knows you, too. Knows you won’t laugh in his face. That you’ll be patient, understanding. It was in your nature, as embedded in your body like your tendons and bones. Get it together. He heads out the bathroom and into the bedroom. 

You’re sitting on the bed atop of the covers, scrolling on your phone, in your pajamas: an oversized shirt from your former college, sporting the emblem on the front, and a pair of sleep shorts. The only light comes from your left, a yellow-ish glow from the bedside lamp. He’s not sure where the idea comes from, but the second it's in his mind, it’s out his mouth. 

“Y’know what I was thinking about?”

“How sexy Patrick Swayze is?” you wonder, not looking up from your screen. Bucky rolls his eyes in good nature. 

“I wanna give you a massage.”

That has your attention. You look up and over to him, clicking off your phone. “A massage?”

“Yeah. I wanna see what it’s like. Pay you back. Tit for tat,” Bucky shrugs, slipping his hands into his pant pockets. You chuckle; your phone joins the bedside table. 

“You don’t gotta ‘pay me back’. It’s a service, Bucky. That’s how economy works. Business,” you tease. He rolls his eyes and sits down on the bed. You’re still deliberating his offer. Eventually, you shrug. “I mean, I’m game.”

His brows raise slightly. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” you say. You get to your feet and head for the door, saying as you go, “there’s some spare oils and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll go get them.”

In the brief time you’re gone - the extractor fan light telling of your whereabouts - Bucky meddles with the bedsheets. He arranges it so there’s a pillow laid out for your head, pushing the duvet off the foot of the bed. He’s still standing by the foot of the bed when you come back in, a bottle of massage oil in each hand. 

“Your choice,” you say, lifting each, “lavender or cedarwood.”

“Lavender,” he nods. You hand it over. He turns it over in his metal hand, vaguely reading the label. You click the door behind you and press your back against it, waiting. Bucky clears his throat, finding his smile. He gestures to the bed. “Your massage bed, ma’am.”

“Why thank you,” comes your accented reply. He chuckles. You climb onto the bed, sitting on your knees, and something about it sends a chill down Bucky’s spine. You quirk a brow, expectant. 

“Could you, uh, take off your top. So I can get to your shoulders, s’all.”

Your lips quirk. “If you wanted me naked,” you lowly say, fingers catching the hem of your shirt. Bucky’s lungs go empty as you pull it up and over your head. It’s tossed to the floor. He lets out a shaky breath through the nose. “All you had to do is ask.”

His eyes slip shamelessly down from your eyes to your chest. You sit there, shirtless, waiting. He swallows. He gestures to the bed. “Lie down, on your stomach.”

Your compliance shouldn’t be as erotic as it is. You sink down into the mattress, face turned to the right, facing the wall. Your eyes slip shut with a breath. Bucky’s eyes trail down your bare back; he admires every muscle, every dip, every freckle and scar, every stretch mark. You’re beautiful; something pulled from his fantasies and crafted into life. He sinks onto the bed on his knees. He hooks a leg over your body, holding himself over your frame in a straddle. Opening the bottle of oil, he tips what seems a sufficient amount into his right hand. The bottle clinks on the bedside table. He rubs his hands together and inhales slowly, calming himself, his heart racing, mind veering off into sensual reveries. 

“I’m going to touch you,” he murmurs. You don’t speak. His hands sink down onto your skin. Your body is firm beneath his touch, but there’s the squish and give of skin that gives when he pushes gently into the muscle. You let out a deep sigh. He smirks. “That’s it…”

Bucky’s mesmerised with how your body feels beneath his touch. He mimics what you do to him; presses into the crux of your shoulders, follows the flow of muscles down your lats and arms. He runs his palms by the heels of his hands up your back. The way you're breathing is driving him crazy. He’s never practised such restraint; growing harder and harder with every second his fingers are on your body. Then, he’s leaning down, down, down, until his lips meet your upper back. He kisses you. You sigh heavily. Another, and another, tracking down your spine. His fingers dip into the waistband of your sleep shorts. Before he can ask, you’re lifting your hips enough to help him slide them down: a silent mark of consent. He guides them down your legs, tosses them onto the floor. You’re not wearing panties. Bucky thinks a part of him dies and gladly goes to heaven. 

He runs a palm up your leg, starting at the shin, following the inner track of your thigh. He coaxes them apart and you give like parting water. Bucky’s eyes flick up to your face. Your eyes remain closed; your breathing, hard. He realises he is too. Your glistening core has him letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands plant on your hips and he guides your body so you’re propped up onto your knees. You shift, leaning on your forearms. His finger reaches out and brushes through your folds, gathering some of the slick on his fingers. You gasp out at the tiny sensation. 

“Bucky,” you mumble. He groans. His grip is just shy of mean when he grabs your ass, guiding you open; he leans down and he can fucking smell you. It’s dizzying, intoxicating. It’s going to kill him. 

And what a way to die. 

His nose nuzzles against you first before his tongue licks a long, deep lap right to your clit. You’re gasping out, fingers fisting into the sheets. He’s a man starved. He can’t get enough. Your taste is addictive. It’s more than heroin, more than crack. It’s everything. His tongue dips at your weeping cunt, sucks at your swollen clit. He moans against you, eating you out like it’s his God given right. His fingers grab at the flesh of your cheeks, sure to leave bruises. You rut against his face, moaning stupid into the sheets. He keeps going until you’re begging. “Please, baby, please…God, fuck Bucky, don’t stop…M’gonna come, oh God…”

He keeps going until you’re clenching around nothing, shaking as you tip over the edge. He keeps going until you’re trying to crawl out of his hold, the overstimulation teetering on too much. He sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, licks his lips, savours the taste that he already wants more of. You’re on him in a second. Practically crawling into his lap, hooking your legs over and around his waist so you’re straddling him. Hands around his neck, in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, pulling at his brown locks. You can surely taste yourself as you kiss him. It’s messy, filthy, nothing but tongue and teeth and broken pleas and moans. His hands can’t stay still. They roam over your body; rub at your thighs, caress your tits. You grab at his t-shirt and tug until he’s breaking apart, pulling it over his head. His dog tags rest against burning hot skin. 

Leaning back into his hold, your hands glide down his chest. You take your time with it, following along with your eyes, mouth agape. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” you sigh. Then you’re leaning in, pressing kisses to the junction of his prosthetic, and his eyes roll back into his head. They linger more and more as you journey to his ear, catching his lobe between your teeth. He’s amazed he doesn’t come as you whine into his ear, “need you to fuck me.”

With a grunt, his hands grab your hips and he tosses you onto your back. He’s caging you in, kissing you senseless until neither of you can remember your names. Your hands push at his pants and there’s a small struggle as Bucky kicks off his pants and boxers. But when your fingers wrap around his throbbing length, Bucky lets out a choked gasp, head dropping onto your collarbone. 

“Don’t tease,” he quietly begs. He kisses at your nipple. “I won’t last.”

“How long?” you whisper. You work him gently, slowly, careful of the pressure. 

“Too long,” he chuckles. He’s too turned on to be embarrassed by the admission. 

You kiss his forehead reassuringly. He lifts his head, eyes finding yours. “Me too,” you confide. 

Bucky ruts into your hand, hips rolling instinctively. Your thumb traces over the tip; his eyes slip shut with a moan of your name. 

“That’s it,” you murmur. Bucky wants to cry as you start speaking to him in that voice. The voice that hooked him in. The voice that could make him do anything. “Feels good, baby?”

“Fuck,” he grits out. He’s painfully hard. “No, no, m’close…”

“You wanna fuck me?” you innocently ask with a coo. Bucky moans, rutting desperately into your fist. “You gonna fuck me, James?”

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he practically whines against your clammy skin. 

Your hand finally eases away and he lets out a breath, both of relief and disappointment. Then you’re wriggling up the bed, sitting up enough to reach over into the drawer of the bedside table. Bucky keeps himself busy with face fucking your tits. Your back arches at the hickeys he decorates the plump skin with. His dog tags dangle, ghosting your skin. Cupping his jaw, your fingers stroke lovingly at his cheek to guide his face away, back up to yours. The kiss you catch him in is different: slower, sweet, tender. His fingers seek out your free hand, stealing the condom from your hold. But then you’re breaking apart with a shaking head, breath fanning hot against his swollen lips. 

“I’m not ready yet,” you whisper. Bucky swallows. “It’ll hurt.”

“What’d you need?” Bucky murmurs through kisses. He leaves them anywhere. Your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. “Whatever you want, baby…”

“Need to be fingered,” you hum. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut at the thought. His right hand runs up and along your leg, but before he can reach your cunt, you’re grabbing at his wrist. Face contorted with confusion, he glances up at you. You look fucking gone. You’re shaking your head, a small smile on your lips. “The oils aren’t for intimate use.”

He shakes his head, not following. 

“You can’t use them internally,” you explain, easing his hand away from you. He goes to push off you to wash his hands but you hold him close, stopping him. His brows are furrowed slightly, muddled, as he watches your hand slip away from his. Your finger slides through the soaking folds of your pussy. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. Your head tilts back, eyes slipping shut as you sigh, pushing a finger inside of you. 

You start to fuck yourself with your fingers. 

“Holy fuck,” Bucky moans. He can’t seem to look away. He kisses your neck and jaw, insatiable, eyes trained on your digits that sink in and out of your soaking hole. How he hasn’t come yet is beyond him. You let out a desperate moan when you scissor yourself open. His metal thumb reaches down and he plays with your neglected clit. The squeal you let out is adorably erotic. Bucky chuckles against your burning hot skin. You’re like a fever he can’t sweat out. He kisses at your ear; nibbles at the edge of it. “So fucking sexy, fucking your hand.”

You cry out, groaning. The lewd squelch of your fingers runs like cold water down Bucky’s spine. 

“Bucky,” you whimper. “M’so close.”

“That’s it,” he croons. His fingers pinch your pebbled nipple. You’re rocking on your hand, three fingers buried inside of you. He shakes his head, smirking. “Doing so good for me, doll. You can come, baby. Let go…”

You shiver when you come. Your fingers slip out of you as you climax, incoherent blubbers falling from your kiss-swollen lips, a blasphemy of his name with the lords. Bucky rests his head against the crux of your shoulder, leaving love bites on your neck, his hand rubbing your waist reassuringly as you slowly start to come down. The sound of sucking has him opening his eyes. Your fingers are deep inside your mouth, cleaning them of your juices. He can’t help but laugh. 

“You can’t be fucking real,” he mutters. Your eyes open and he kisses you, chasing the taste of you on your tongue. 

And then finally, finally, he’s easing his way inside of you. 

You’re laid back on the bed; head rolled back, eyes pressed shut, mouth agape. Bucky props himself up above you, his metal hand guiding him into your sopping cunt. Despite the foreplay, you squeeze him as he enters. His moans are muffled into the skin of your shoulder. Your fingers thread through his hair, soothing him as he pushes inside, deeper and deeper, until you’re all he can feel. 

Somewhere in the haze, the two of you lock eyes. You smile at him. It tells him thousands of things. The trust you hold in him is astronomical in that moment, Bucky realises, and the same goes for him. He kisses you tenderly. Then he gently rocks his hips back, easing out, before driving back in. Your moan is half broken with a gasp. He groans against your body. Then, the tether snaps, and he loses all restraint. He fucks you into the bed until you can’t speak. He fucks you until your legs are locking around his body like a vice. He fucks you until you’re begging him for something, anything - until all that matters if hearing his name falling from your mouth over, and over, and over. 

“Fuck, James,” you cry, pulling him impossibly closer. He knows you're close. He is too. He has been for the past hour. “Please, baby. Please…”

“I know, doll, I know,” he grunts. The kisses are sloppy; broken but not wasteful. He moans as you clench around him. “Fuck, feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your voice cracks when you come for the third time that night. And it’s with that dying cry of his name that Bucky lets himself fall over the edge, tumbling into white-blind ecstasy. He’d forgotten, somehow, in all the years of torture and running and rebuilding: he’d forgotten how good it felt. 

Now that he’d remembered, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could ever go without it again. 

You’re still shaking after Bucky’s throws out the condom. He grabs the duvet and tugs it back up and onto the bed. It’s eased just up to your hip; your body is still hot as fire. Beads of sweat run down Bucky’s face. He lays on his back, eyes transfixed on the ceiling until he can’t hold them open any more. His chest is heaving as he slowly but surely begins to catch his breath. You sleepily shuffle closer, snuggling up against his clammy chest, panting still. He wraps his arm around you and presses a kiss to the crown of your forehead. 

“James?” you quietly broach. Your voice is a little breathless, those less so than before. He can still hear you crying out his name; nothing has ever sounded as sweet as you coming. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something?” He swallows and nods. His finger swipes over your back, stroking at the skin, still slick with oil. “I love you.”

The words sit in the sex-soaked room. They seep into his mind like vapour, clouding every thought. Every nightmare and every horror is cloaked. Every self deprecating insult that he’s berated himself with becomes hidden. And through the mist, is you. It was always you. He knew it from the moment he met you. The reason why he had put up with all the shit that was thrown his way. The reason why he was still here, still trying, still fighting for something. It was because he needed to find you. 

It might be the easiest thing he’s ever said, when Bucky tells you, “I love you too.”

~*~*~*

taglist (please let me know if you want to be added/removed, or if you want to be in the jj maybank only or bucky barnes only taglist!) : @abslvrs13 | @s0phreakingfunny | @highformaybank | @mayanneaa | @stevesstranger | @thisismysafeescape | @nooneshallfindme | @pastelbabygirl19 | @araunahj | @lmaowhatt | @raineshua | @darlingchronicles | @jjsfavgirl | @vampiriito | @love-at-first-sight-23 | @delusionalxreader | @bee-43

I might do a part two. Let me know if that's something people might want! also, this is my first time writing for bucky on this blog - please let me know if this is something you want to see more of!

I’m screaming!! Bucky is so adorable in this fic!! This was so well written🥹 I always look forward to your posts!!!

a halloween trick and a halloween treat

pairing: cat shifter!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you wake shortly after midnight on halloween, thinking it must've been your rescue cat disturbing you. but when you discover a naked, sleeping stranger in your bed, you're in for a much bigger surprise.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), monsterfucking, shifter dynamics (mating, purring, a nonhuman cock), sorta fated mates, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, nipple sucking, fingering (f receiving), oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, dry humping, light bdsm dynamics, lots of check-ins, biting, dirty talk, alpha kink, praise kink, pet names (koshechka [russian for kitty]), aftercare, very fluffy happy ending

word count: 12.9k

a/n: i had the idea for this fic so many weeks ago i don't even remember what inspired it, but i thought it might be a fun halloween fic! i struggled a bit with this fic, especially the magic and justifying bucky's decisions, so i hope it all makes sense!! suspension of disbelief is your friend with this one 😅 anyway i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

halloween fics masterlist

Something was…off. 

It was the middle of the night, the waxing moon shining brightly through the curtains of your bedroom, an October chill in the air, and you’d been woken by… something. A sound, maybe? 

It wasn’t uncommon for your rescue cat to wake you up in the middle of the night by knocking something over or playing with one of the many toys you’d gotten him. Sometimes, he’d even wake you up when he gently padded onto your bed in the middle of the night to snuggle into your body over the covers.

You smiled sleepily at the memory of having been woken up plenty of times in that manner since you’d found the Russian Blue trapped in a bucket behind your apartment building the previous November. You’d named the cat Bucky, which you could admit wasn’t the most creative idea you’d ever had, but it fit the mischievous feline. 

At the very least, you certainly understood how he’d gotten himself trapped in that bucket, since he’d gotten himself stuck in any number of places around your apartment in the year since you’d brought him home, yowling for help until you rescued him. 

In fact, you sometimes thought he got himself stuck on purpose for the sole reason of getting your attention—and the soothing snuggles you offered him afterward, cooing soft words about how he was your precious, handsome man in his soft little ears. 

But that October evening, almost a year after you’d brought the cat home from the vet with a clean bill of health, you strained your ears to listen to the dark stillness of your apartment. You couldn’t hear the telltale padding of Bucky’s paws, or feel his warm body curled up next to yours. 

Something still felt…different. Off.

Thinking about it more, you thought you felt a weight on the other side of your queen-sized bed. When you shifted, and the covers caught on something, as if they were being weighed down by something, you thought you must’ve been woken by Bucky jumping onto the bed and curling up to sleep.

Your eyes were still closed and you were snuggled deep beneath your blankets, but you pushed an arm free, reaching across your bed, your fingers seeking the soft fur of your cat. But when you searched the spot just below the other pillow you kept on your bed—in the hopes that you’d one day have a partner to share your bed with—you didn’t feel Bucky.

You felt bare skin. Warm, bare skin. Warm bare skin covering a broad, muscled back. 

Pulling your hand back with a hiss, you wrenched your eyes open and found that it wasn’t your rescue cat in bed with you—it was a man. A man with his broad back turned to you, his soft brown hair messy on the other pillow and his spine curved like he was curled into himself. 

And when your eyes trailed down the length of his back, you realized with a gasp that this stranger was naked. In your bed. In the middle of the night. 

What the actual fuck!? 

You sucked in a sharp inhale, your lungs filling as your body prepared to let loose the shrillest scream you could manage, because what the fuck!? 

The man must’ve been woken by your gasps or your movement, because before you could make another sound, his head rolled over on the pillow and he blinked at you.

His eyes…

For a moment, they seemed to shine yellow in the moonlight—so much like Bucky’s when you were snuggling in bed before falling asleep. It stole the breath from your lungs, and your scream died in your throat. 

As you watched, the man’s eyes shifted into a calm, piercing blue, and you had the odd feeling you recognized them. It almost looked like they were the same shade as your Russian Blue’s, even if they looked so different, so human.

The man’s eyes flickered with confusion and his soft lips pulled down into a frown. He reached a hand out to you, as if wanting to comfort you, but jerked to a sudden stop, his gaze falling on his own hand and staring at it as if it wasn’t his own. 

He looked almost as disturbed as you felt finding a strange man sleeping naked in your bed.

The moment he’d looked away from you, you’d filled your lungs with more air, preparing to finally scream for help, and the man’s gaze flicked back to you. Just before you could scream, the man moved swiftly, rolling over and throwing his body on top of yours. 

His strong arms caged you in beneath the blankets and his broad, warm chest pressed down on yours, keeping you pinned but not crushing you. The man’s hand cupped the back of your head and pressed your face into the curve at the base of his neck, effectively muffling your scream into his smooth skin. 

It all happened so fast, you didn’t have a chance to feel scared, and a second later, a purring sound filled your ears. Vibrations seemed to come from the man on top of you, making your entire body hum pleasantly from the sensation traveling through the blankets that were trapped between your bodies. 

It was remarkably comforting…and oddly familiar in a way you couldn’t place. It made you feel…safe. 

So safe that your body, which had been tensed with fear, slowly relaxed. All your muscles loosened until you were a melted puddle of pleasant tingles. A dazed smile teased the corners of your lips and you nuzzled the man’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin. He smelled like something wild, like the night and the moon. 

The purring tapered off, and without the sensation of the vibrations reverberating through your body, you tesned again. It came back to you that you were pinned beneath the blankets of your bed by a strange, naked man, who’d somehow broken into your apartment in the middle of the night. 

You began to thrash beneath the cage of the man’s broad chest, kicking your legs and flailing your arms to try to dislodge him, but he was a solid weight on top of you. 

In fact, if he wasn’t a strange, naked man, he’d make a pretty good weighted blanket. But as it was, fear was making your pulse pump hard in your veins—that is, until you heard his voice. His first words.

“It’s me,” he rumbled, his words barely discernible above the purring that started again from his chest. His voice was deep, rough, gravelly, like he hadn’t used it in a long while. “It’s Bucky—your Bucky.”

The breath stalled in your lungs and all thoughts of screaming died a quick death. You blinked past the man’s shoulder, staring up at your ceiling, trying to process what he’d said. How could this man be your cat, Bucky?

The orange glow of the streetlight was filtering through your curtains, joining the bluish hue of the moon, casting your room in dark, multihued shadows. It was late October—it was Halloween, if you remembered correctly, since it must’ve been after midnight.

It was the time for spooky things, and you were probably more inclined than most to believe in the fantastical, but you couldn’t seem to wrap your still sleepy mind around the fact that there was a strange, naked man in your bed and he claimed to be your pet cat. That just…it couldn’t be real. Right?

The man kept purring, and the longer you thought about it, the more peculiar it seemed. Men didn’t purr like that. Like a cat trying to soothe a frightened kitten. But that’s exactly what he was doing—and you were the frightened kitten in this scenario, which didn’t bother you as much as you would’ve thought. Because the purring did feel and sound very nice…

But still, he couldn’t be Bucky. That would mean he was somehow able to shift between human and cat form, and you didn’t care how many romantasy novels you read about shifters falling in love with humans, they couldn’t be real. They just couldn’t. 

Even as you thought that, and told yourself you knew what was real and what was fantasy, the fact that the man was also your pet cat was the only thing that made sense. It was the only explanation for why his purr sounded so much like Bucky’s, why his eyes had looked so much like Bucky’s, why his warm, wild scent reminded you so much of Bucky. 

“B-Bucky?” you whispered into his shoulder, your voice shaky and uncertain. You were so quiet, you didn’t know if he’d heard you. But his purring softened, and he pushed up enough that he could hover above you. You saw his face properly for the first time.

And…oh. What a handsome face it was.

Two piercing blue eyes framed a straight nose, leading down to a pair of perfectly soft-looking lips. His jaw was broad and sharp, softened slightly by the thick, dark scruff that was almost long enough to be a beard. In the moonlight, you could see patches of silver streaking through the dark brown of his scruff, and you ached to rake your nails through it.

Instead, you flicked your gaze to his brown hair, which was longish and falling into his face in the most charming way. But even as you wondered how it’d feel to run your fingers through the man’s soft hair, your eyes wandered back down to his eyes, which were staring at you warily. He was watching you closely for your reaction, but you were too stunned by his handsomeness to do more than stare back. 

“Are you going to scream again?” he asked gruffly, his voice still raspy from sleep or disuse, you couldn’t be sure. 

You took a moment to think about his question, really think about it. If you were honest with yourself, you were starting to believe the man was, somehow, who he said—Bucky, your pet cat transformed into a human. It was hard not to consider it, especially when you were staring up into his eyes that looked so much like Bucky’s that it gave you an eerie sense of déjà vu.

But the rational side of your mind reminded you that he could still be a lunatic pervert with eyes that just happened to look like Bucky’s. He could’ve been stalking you long enough to know your pet’s name, and could be trying to lure you into a false sense of security to…murder you or something. 

 So you narrowed your gaze on him.

“Maybe,” you finally answered. “Depends on whether you can prove you are who you say you are.”

He nodded like he wasn’t surprised by your answer and looked away, his eyes trailing over your room. There was something about the way he looked at your pile of not-clean-but-not dirty clothes and the mess on top of your dresser that made you think he knew the landscape of your bedroom almost as well as you did. 

Which was, decidedly, not like a stalker pervert who’d never been in your room before. 

“First,” he started in that deliciously gruff voice of his. “Can you tell me if it’s Halloween?”

You huffed a sound that was halfway between surprise and frustration. You didn’t understand why he was delaying. You wanted him to either make you believe he was Bucky, or convince you he wasn’t so that you could get on with screaming and calling the cops. Feeling him laying on top of you was beginning to feel far too comforting for your liking.

“Yeah,” you answered, after a moment of thinking about the days. “I mean yes, it definitely is.”

The man looked a little crestfallen at your answer, his lips pulling down into a frown. You were so preoccupied with the way his soft mouth looked perfectly kissable amidst all the rough scruff on his jaw that you almost missed his muttered words. 

“I must’ve lost track of the days,” he said to himself, shaking his head with disappointment etched all across his handsome face. 

The urge to comfort him, to wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him close so you could bury your face in his chest and inhale his comforting, wild scent was strong, and it made you restless. You were frustrated with yourself, with the way you were waiting quietly for this strange man to get his bearings when you should’ve been demanding answers.

Unable to stop your frustration from boiling over, you wriggled beneath him impatiently, trying to buck him off. But you didn’t move his bulky form even a bit. And there was absolutely no part of you that found that attractive, that liked that he could pin you down and hold you beneath him with his sheer weight and strength. 

The purring emanating from the man’s chest picked up again, his body pressing you deeper into your soft mattress. He shifted a little, and if you weren’t mistaken, you felt something twitch against your belly, something that had you glaring up into his stupid handsome face.

“Tell me who you are and what you’re doing in my bed right now,” you hissed through snapping teeth, hoping you came across fiercer than you felt—which was like a spitting kitten for all the strength you had in comparison to the larger man. 

A slow, tempting smile spread across the man’s face, his purring stuttering like he was holding in a laugh. Despite yourself, you had to work to hold onto your anger, which wanted to abandon you in light of the stranger’s charmingly appealing grin.

“You’re adorable when you try to be threatening,” he cooed, still grinning at you. He was so close that his scent enveloped you, and his purr still vibrated softly through your body. It was all you could do not to relax and give in to the strange man’s charms. 

Then, to your great surprise, he ducked down and nuzzled your cheek with his own, his scratchy scruff roughing over your soft skin in an affectionate gesture.

It was so achingly familiar, it made your heart squeeze in your chest. 

It was so much like how Bucky would rub his sweet little face against your cheek and the underside of your chin when he was cuddling with you. You’d seen plenty of TikTok videos about how clingy male cats could be with their female owners, and that was exactly how Bucky acted. He was so affectionate, always rubbing himself against you and staring up at you like you were his whole world…

A surprised puff of air escaped your lungs, along with a shocked little whimper. The man must’ve heard you, because his purring picked up and he shifted so his mouth was right next to your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmured, his voice gentle and genuinely remorseful. “Will you let me explain—please?”

It was the man’s final word, the strain in his hoarse voice, as if he was begging for his life, that did you in. With a disgruntled sigh, more at yourself than anything else, you said, “Fine.”

The man lifted his head and stared down at you, his piercing blue eyes raking over your face—and a soft affection that had your heart thumping harder in your chest. There was uncertainty in the gentle twist of his mouth and, as you watched, he took a deep, steadying breath, as if preparing himself to jump off a cliff. 

“I’m a shifter,” he said bluntly, his gaze watching you sharply. When you only blinked up at him, he went on. “I can turn into a gray cat—a Russian Blue, to be specific. Sound familiar?”

A smirk flirted around the edges of the man’s mouth as he raised his brows, as if prompting you to see the connection between what he said he was and your pet cat. However, you refused to be charmed by him, so you pressed your lips into a firm line and narrowed your eyes at him, telling him wordlessly that you still didn’t quite believe him. 

He huffed an amused laugh and went on.

“Halloween is the one day of the year I can’t stay in my cat form,” he explained patiently, his expression open and honest. “It’s something about the thinness of the veil on this day, it forces all shifters to walk the earth in our human forms.”

There was a beat of silence as you processed the man’s explanation. He really did look so earnest, and you couldn’t ignore all the similarities you’d already noticed between him and Bucky. The purring, the nuzzling, the eyes…

“So you’re my cat?” you asked dubiously, your eyes still narrowed up at him, mouth pursed in a skeptical frown. “Bucky?” 

The man nodded, hope transforming his face. But then he paused, tilting his head to the side as if considering your words more closely. 

“Well, yes—but my name isn’t Bucky.”

Your frown deepened. Embarrassed heat bloomed in your cheeks at the realization that you’d not only named the handsome Russian Blue you’d rescued from a bucket so unoriginally, but that he’d been a shifter who had a name of his own. 

“What is it?” you squeaked, trying to tamp down on your humiliation. 

“James Barnes,” he said, as he studied your expression. Something about the way a playful grin was spreading across his face told you that you weren’t successful in hiding your embarrassment from him. “But I like Bucky, too,” he said, ducking his head down to murmur in your ear, “Because it’s what you call me.”

You tried to ignore the way your heart flipped in your chest at the implication of his words, but a pleased warmth was flooding through your body and making you melt beneath his comfortably heavy weight. It took all your self-control not to purr right back at the strange man—James, or Bucky, or whoever he was. You still weren’t sure if you believed him.

“Kind of convenient that you can’t shift right now and prove you’re telling the truth,” you pointed out, trying to get the conversation back on track and get the undeniable proof you needed. You were surprised to find you wanted James to prove he was really Bucky. It would be…nice. 

At your words, the man sighed, leaning up so you could see his face while he carded his fingers through his hair in a sign of frustration. You couldn’t help the little stab of jealousy as you watched, wishing it was your fingers sifting through his soft strands. Maybe pulling a little bit, tugging him down to kiss you…

You shoved the thought away and focused on him as he began to speak.

“I know,” he huffed, a displeased frown on his face as he stared off to the side. Shaking his head to clear away whatever he was thinking about, his gaze refocused on you. “I had a plan.”

“A plan?” you echoed, unsure what he meant by that. 

“I was going to slip out before you woke up,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck as a sheepish smile curved his mouth. “And then bump into you when you go get your coffee—like you do every morning.”

“Ok, stalker,” you mumbled to yourself, a little disturbed by how well the man knew your routine. A ripple of fear passed through you, but it dissipated when James huffed a self-effacing laugh. 

“I know how that sounds,” he said, looking down at you, his blue eyes glittering with affection and his mouth curving into a fond smile. “But it was hard not to notice you going out every morning and coming back smelling like coffee and sunshine and happiness,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to meet you—really meet you—there, somewhere that made you smile.”

James shifted his arm, his hand cupping your face gently and his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth, his eyes staring at that spot, like he was picturing your smile. It was hard not to melt at the poetry of his words and the soft way he was looking at you, but you soldiered on with your interrogation of the strange man.

“What were you going to do after we met?” you asked, your voice more breathless than you would’ve liked, but you couldn’t help it. Not when James was looking at you so intensely. 

“I was going to buy your coffee for you, strike up a conversation,” he said, his voice faraway, almost dreamy as he kept staring at your mouth. “Do things the right way.”

At that, your brow furrowed and your lips tipped down in a confused frown. That seemed to snap the man out of whatever daze he’d been in, his eyes flicking back to yours. 

“Do what the right way?” you asked. 

“You know…” he said, regarding you like he was trying to figure out if you were being deliberately obtuse or if you really didn’t understand. He must’ve decided you really didn’t know what he was talking about, because he went on. “Dating you, wooing you, telling you about what I am after you know me—the real me.” 

Your heart did that annoying little flip again, but you couldn’t help it, not when a man as handsome as James was talking about wooing you. Still, you weren’t going to let him off the hook just because the man—who may or may not be your pet cat (but probably was)—had a romantic side to him.

“Yeah that sounds like a better plan than letting me wake up to you sleeping naked in my bed,” you said dryly, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“I know,” he huffed, pulling his hand away from your cheek and scrubbing it down his face as he groaned in frustration. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you were supposed to trust me. I had a plan.” His final words were bitten out through clenched teeth, and you could practically feel his annoyance radiating off him. 

“Mmm,” you hummed in acknowledgement, wanting to comfort him but not allowing yourself to give in to the urge. Not when you still had so many questions. “So if today is the only day when you can’t change shift at will, why have you been living as my pet for almost a year?”

For the first time in your conversation, Bucky’s face shuttered and his expression turned guarded. His eyes darted away from you and he rubbed a hand over his scruff, the soft, scratchy sound filling your quiet room. 

For a moment, you desperately wanted to rub your cheek against his scruff, to nuzzle him the way he had you, but you squashed the idea as soon as it flitted through your mind as you waited for him to answer your question.

Bucky’s gaze drifted back to yours, and the walls he’d put up moments before seemed to come down just as fast as he stared into your eyes.

“A pretty girl took me in and fed me and kept me warm,” he rumbled, his voice low and deliciously gruff as he raked his eyes over your face. “She let me sleep in her bed, and curl up with her. She let me comfort her when she was sad, and smiled just for me when she was happy.”

The way Bucky was looking at you, his gaze filled with so much naked affection, stole the breath from your lungs. You didn’t know when you started calling him Bucky in your mind, but you realized you truly believed that he was who he said he was. He was your cat, transformed into a human.

“What was I supposed to do,” he went on, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth. “Shift right in front of her, and scare the fuck out of her, then ask her out?” He laughed quietly, shaking his head ruefully in answer to his own question. “I wanted to do things right.” Cupping your face gently, he stared deep into your eyes. “Besides, I liked being yours.”

Happiness burst like fireworks in your heart. “You…” you trailed off, needing to swallow past your dry throat and your thumping heart before continuing. “You liked being mine?” you asked, needing to hear him say it again for some reason you couldn’t understand. It seemed too unreal that he could like being your cat more than he liked being able to live his life as a free man. Or shifter.

Bucky’s eyes slowly swept over your face, taking in your parted lips and your hopeful gaze. He seemed to be able to read you like a book, and you found you didn’t mind that so much, not when Bucky’s mouth was gently curving into a smile that was deeply pleased with what he saw in your expression. 

“I liked being yours,” he repeated for you, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers through your body, settling deep in your core and making a warmth bloom that had everything to do with the man in your bed. “And I wanted you to want to be mine—to like being mine, too.”

He watched you for a long, silent moment. You couldn’t be sure, but you thought he was holding his breath, waiting for your reaction, though you were still too stunned to give him one. When he realized this, he spoke again.

“Please tell me I haven’t ruined things.”

The hushed desperation in his tone was your undoing.

Your arms pushed against the cocoon of blankets you were trapped in, and Bucky lifted himself up higher to let you pull free. He was watching you warily, like he was half expecting you to use your arms to push him off you. 

Instead, you lifted your hands and cupped his face, tugging on him gently until he lowered himself back down on top of you. His weight felt more familiar and comforting than it had any right, and you had to force your request from your lips. 

“Tell me something only you’d know, Bucky,” you whispered, your own thinly veiled desperation in your words. You already knew in your heart that he was Bucky—your Bucky—but you needed something more definitive to quell the fear and doubts in your mind. “Please.” 

He stared at you for a moment, something like hope and excitement swirling in his piercing blue gaze. When he spoke, his voice was gruff, full of emotion. 

“When you think I’m sleeping, you whisper secrets in my ear,” Bucky said, his eyes briefly trailing down to your mouth like he couldn’t help himself. But his gaze flicked back quickly to yours before continuing on. “You told me how annoying your coworker is—Agatha, right? And how you wish your boss appreciated you more.”

You were silent and still beneath Bucky, shock rolling through you and leaving you stunned. Bucky was right, you did have a habit of talking to your cat, whispering in his ear when he was curled up in your arms or on top of your chest, telling him all the things you didn’t say to anyone else. 

It was slowly dawning on you that the man really, truly was Bucky. But he seemed to take your silence as uncertainty, and so he went on. 

“You told me how you get sad and lonely sometimes,” Bucky rumbled, his arms shifting so he could cup your face in his big hands, his thumbs brushing gently across your cheeks. “You told me how you wished someone would hold you the way you held me.” 

Slowly, he lowered himself down on top of you, as if still waiting for you to push him away. Instead, your arms wound around his bare back, your fingers pressing into his skin and clinging to him while he nuzzled his scruffy cheek against yours. You returned the gesture, nuzzling him back.

“You told me how much you want to fall in love,” he murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin, making you shiver. “And how afraid you are of getting your heart broken.” 

Lifting himself up to look at you, you could see the pain and desire churning in his eyes, and you could hear it in the way his voice cracked on his last word. It all seemed to finally loosen your tongue.

“Bucky,” you whispered in a thick voice, tears threatening to fall with the sheer amount of emotion flowing through you. There was shock, of course, but also so much wonder and happiness. “It really is you,” you said, marveling up at the man above you, lifting your hands to trace the lines of his handsome face.

His eyes closed, like he was savoring your touch, and a purr kicked to life in his chest while a small smile curved the edges of his mouth. It was a mouth you were suddenly aching to kiss. And you couldn’t, for the life of you, come up with a reason why you shouldn’t. 

Just as tentative as he’d been, you leaned into Bucky, your hands tilting his face down to yours while you raked your nails lightly through the scruffy hair on his cheeks and jaw. You brushed your lips against his, so softly it could barely be considered a kiss.

You felt the big man above you stiffen with surprise, his eyes flying open to stare into yours with a question clear in his blue depths.

In answer, you leaned in again, pressing your mouth infinitesimally more firmly against his, and flicked your tongue out to swipe at his plump lower lip. 

He tasted like the night, dark and alluring, and you could already tell that you would quickly grow addicted to it, licking along the seam of his lips, searching for more.

Bucky groaned, the sound deep and masculine, sending delicious shivers down your spine as he dug his arms beneath your body and held you crushed to him. He captured your mouth before you could retreat again, kissing you until you were breathless. He kissed you like he’d been starving for you and since he’s gotten a taste, he’d be damned if he let you go.

It was intoxicating to feel the way he wanted you as much as you wanted him, and you gave yourself into it, kissing Bucky back as hard as he was kissing you. Your fingers sank into Bucky’s soft brown hair, clinging to him with the same desperate devotion with which he held you. 

Of their own accord, your legs spread beneath your blankets, allowing Bucky’s hips to settle into the cradle of your thighs. Even through the layers between your bodies, you could feel the hot, hard length of his arousal pressing into the juncture of your legs so tantalizingly, you moaned into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Bucky growled, breaking free from your lips to press kisses along your jaw. His breathing was harsh in your ear, like he couldn’t catch his breath. “D’you know how long I’ve wanted to kiss you, koshechka?” He sucked on a spot just beneath your ear, dragging another mewling moan from your lips before answering his own question. “Since the day you brought me home. I’ve wanted to kiss you since that first day.”

“Bucky,” you chastised on an uncontrollable giggle as he nuzzled his scruffy jaw into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he was breathing in the scent of your skin. He groaned, making you shiver with pleasure. Still, the words burst out of you, “That’s creepy!” Your tone was meant to be admonishing, but your voice was too breathless to have much heat. 

“The smell of you and the taste of your skin are burned into my mind,” Bucky murmured before dragging the flat of his tongue up the curve of your neck, wringing a low, throaty moan from your lips. “But I wanted to know if your mouth would be sweeter.” He captured your lips for another kiss, his mouth moving against yours in a way that made your head spin.

“Is it?” you asked when he pulled away, giving you a brief reprieve from his drugging kisses. Bucky’s eyes looked as hazy as you felt, and he seemed to not understand your questions. “Sweeter, I mean.”

A slow, seductive smile spread across Bucky’s face, and even cast in the shadows of your room, you could see plainly how handsome he was—so much so, your breath caught in your lungs.

“Oh koshechka, your mouth is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured before diving down for another kiss.

Between your thighs, you could feel Bucky’s cock throbbing and twitching—and it was so hot, you could feel the heat of him through your blankets. 

A slight sheen of sweat was gathering in the creases of your thighs and behind your knees, your own center pulsing with a desperate ache to be closer to Bucky, to be pressed against his warm, bare skin. Your legs kicked restlessly at your blankets, trying to push them out of the way without letting go of your hold on Bucky, whose body was pinning yours to the bed.

Bucky chuckled against your mouth and lifted up enough to help you push the blankets off your body—laughing harder at your disgruntled whine—before settling back down on top of you. Your legs spread to make room for his narrow hips between your thighs, his hard cock pressing against the thin fabric of your panties. 

Without the blankets in the way, you could feel something strange about Bucky’s cock. There were…bumps on it? A pattern of bumps circling the shaft, which grew thicker toward the head. 

Your brows lowered in a frown of confusion and you tilted your hips, rubbing your clothed cunt against the length of him, groaning in pleasure when the bumps dragged deliciously against your clit. 

But you were distracted from further exploration by Bucky’s voice.

“Do you want to know what I looked forward to most about dating you, koshechka?” Bucky asked against your lips, nipping and licking the breath from your lungs while he picked up your rhythm, grinding his cock against your slit through the meager fabric of your panties. 

“Wh-what?” you asked in a trembling voice, your hips rocking up against Bucky, your ankles looping around the backs of his thighs for more leverage to grind against his cock. 

“I couldn’t wait for the first time you’d let me stay over,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw and playfully biting the lobe of your ear, drawing a gasp from your lips. “I’d give you my shirt to sleep in, instead of one of these little nightshirts you like,” he said, his fingers curling into the fabric and rucking it up around your hips, spreading your legs wider and giving him more access for his rolling hips.

“What’s wrong with my nightshirts?” you asked on a needy whimper. You pouted as you tipped your head down to look at him while he was busy placing wet, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones through the thin cotton of your shirt. 

Bucky flicked his eyes up to yours and growled, “They don’t smell enough like me.” His hands slipped beneath your nightshirt, his warm palms skimming over your bare skin and making you shiver. He wrapped his fingers around your ribs, thumbs brushing over the lower curves of your breasts, just teasing your nipples while he stared up at you, watching the way you gasped for him.

It took you a long moment to process his words, and when you did, all you could manage was to whine his name, “Bucky.” The thought of smelling like him did something to your heart and your insides, melting them to the point that you squirmed from the heat flooding your body. 

As you watched, a slow smirk spread across his face. He lowered his mouth to one of your tits and flicked his tongue across your pebbled nipple through your shirt. 

“You should always smell like me,” he muttered into the soft curve of your breast, almost like he was talking to himself, before he latched onto your nipple and sucked the tight peak into his mouth.

Warm, wet heat surged through your body as Bucky suckled on you in long, deep pulls that tugged on a line connected directly to your clit, which was throbbing with need against his still gently rutting cock. His precum was slowly leaking onto your lower belly, making a mess of your panties, but they were ruined by your own arousal anyway.

Between Bucky’s cock and his mouth, your body was a mess of pleasure and wetness, your panties growing increasingly drenched the more he rocked against you, bullying your clit and torturing your nipples. His head shifted, moving to the other, before giving your other breast just as much attention and making your mind spin.

It took you long, long minutes before you could form a coherent thought, your mind catching on something Bucky had said. What tumbled from your lips was the inelegant question: “Do you even own a shirt?”

Bucky paused, like your question surprised him, and a second later he was laughing into the valley between your tits, his forehead pressed to the top of your sternum as his warm breath ghosted against you through your shirt.

“Koshechka,” he rumbled, still laughing as he raised his head to meet your curious gaze. His eyes were sparkling with humor and affection in the moonlight. “I have a whole apartment across town.”

“Then why did you stay with me?” you asked. Your brow furrowed in confusion at that revelation, even as curiosity began winding through your mind. What did his apartment look like? Was it cozy or sparse? Did he have plants or a massive flatscreen? Did he have a pet cat of his own? 

And who was taking care of his apartment while he’d been living with you? Or did he sneak out while you were at work to go hang out at his home?

Bucky’s voice reeled you back into the moment. 

“I told you, koshechka,” Bucky murmured, leaning up to press a kiss to your swollen lips. 

It was soft and sweet and you didn’t want him to stop, but you were too curious about his answer to protest when he pulled away to look at you again. 

“A pretty girl took me in and kept me,” he rumbled, his voice low and delicious, his mouth curved into a mischievous smile that you desperately wanted to lick. “She let me cuddle her and nuzzle her cheeks and sleep in her bed, why would I leave?” He chuckled, shaking his head as he stared at you. “Being your pet was better than being my own man.”

Bucky’s words sank deep into your heart, tears of something like joy springing to your eyes, and you cupped his face to pull him in for another kiss. With no words, only your mouth, you told him how much his statement meant to you. 

He liked being with you more than he liked being free. How could you ever be expected to let go of a man who said such things to you? You didn’t know if you could, even considering the strangeness of your meeting.

Your kiss grew heated and your thoughts melted away, your body writhing beneath Bucky’s as you tried to press closer, despite there being little space left between your bodies already. A whine worked its way up your throat and Bucky swallowed the sound, his mouth curving against yours in a smile before he eased back. 

“May I?” he asked, nodding down to your nightshirt, which he was slowly pushing up further. It took you a moment to realize he was asking your permission to take it off, but when you did, you nodded. However, he didn’t move, only gave you a more intense look. “Use your words, koshechka.” 

“Yes, please…” you said, trailing off as a thought occurred to you. “Do you still want me to call you Bucky?” you asked, tilting your head on your pillow and staring up at the man who’d told you his name was James. 

You watched Bucky’s smile spread across his face and he ducked down, kissing you quickly, like he couldn’t help himself. He trailed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat while he pushed your nightshirt up slowly, teasingly.

“You can call me anything you want, koshechka.”

You considered his words distractedly while he tugged your shirt off, both of you pausing while Bucky admired your body. You had the urge to cover yourself, but held back, more than a little stunned by the sheer amount of heat and desire in Bucky’s gaze. A pleasant warmth prickled beneath your skin everywhere he looked, and it made you want to reach for him, so you did, tugging on his shoulders to pull him closer.

Obligingly, Bucky settled back down on top of you, his mouth working against your collarbones before trailing down to your tits. His big hands worked your soft flesh, kneading you firmly enough to make you gasp and writhe, while his mouth moved between kissing, licking and nipping your skin, teasing your nipples with purposeful flicks of his tongue. 

Despite how perfectly Bucky was working your body, your mind was still caught on what he’d said about calling him anything you wanted.

“What about daddy-cat?” you asked, your voice breathless as you held in a moan. It was the most ridiculous nickname you could think of, and you were curious to see how Bucky responded. He only huffed out a muffled laugh, suckling on your nipple and dragging the moan from your lungs that you’d been holding in.

“If you want,” he murmured against your skin, shrugging a shoulder and not even looking up from your tits.

“Okay,” you said, dragging out the word, your thoughts scattering when he moved to your other breast and sucked deeply on your nipple. Wetness flooded between your thighs and you whimpered pathetically. 

Suddenly, a word came to mind, one you’d seen in some fantasy novels you’d read, and it appealed to you in a way you couldn’t put into words—especially not with Bucky’s mouth on your tits. But it felt right, and it tumbled easily from your lips.

“Alpha.” The word was half gasp, half plea, and filled entirely with your need for Bucky.

Bucky went still, his body going rigid even as his cock twitched between your thighs. Then, his purr kicked to life in his chest, louder than you’d heard it yet.

The vibrations that had teased you through your blankets were so much more intense when your skin was pressed against Bucky’s, and you let out a soft, gentle moan. Your body relaxed instantly, melting beneath Bucky’s broad form while he dug his arms beneath your back and held you close to his chest. 

“I like that,” he rumbled through his purring, kissing up your chest and neck until his mouth found yours. “Call me that, koshechka.”

“Yes, alpha,” you said on a sweet sigh that Bucky swallowed down with a filthy groan, sounding like he was tasting something delicious.

“Fuck, koshechka, you’re making my cock so fucking hard,” he growled against your mouth, his words sliding over your tongue and making you shiver with need.

Bucky’s fingers circled your wrist and he dragged your hand down between your bodies slowly—slowly enough, and his grip loose enough, you knew you could’ve pulled away if you’d wanted. 

But you didn’t want to. You knew what he was doing, and you wanted to feel him, wanted to feel what you did to him. 

And you wanted to explore the strange shape of his cock.

“Feel what you do to me, koshechka,” Bucky growled, placing your palm on his cock and you sucked in a sharp breath of surprise at the feeling of it.

Your fingers circled the base of his cock and ran up the length, feeling the way it swelled and grew bigger as you neared the head. It was so thick, you wondered how he would fit inside you, but your body responded to that thought by growing wetter, and you knew you were eager to try to make it fit.

You stroked Bucky’s cock up and down the shaft, feeling the pattern of bumps circling it. They were more complex than you’d thought, more like barbs that caught slightly on your fingers and palm, though not in a painful way. Just in a way that made you shiver and wonder wildly what they would feel like inside you, dragging against your inner walls and stimulating you in a way you’d never felt before…

Suddenly, you were desperate to feel Bucky slide inside you.

“Alpha, please,” you begged on a whine, a need rising up in you that you couldn’t even begin to control. You shifted your grip on Bucky’s cock, pressing him into your panty-covered slit and grinding against him, writhing your hips beneath his large body. “Please fuck me—I need you inside me, alpha, please.”

“Oh fuck,” Bucky grunted, his hips jerking and fucking against your slick panties, his precum leaking from the tip of his cock and making even more of a mess of you. “Are you sure? I really did want to take you out on a date, do things the normal way…”

His frantic words trailed off on a moan when you pressed his cock deeper between your folds, until he was sliding between your puffy pussy lips. 

Even through your panties, you could feel the barbs on his cock rubbing against your clit and you let out a needy moan. The fingers of your other hand threaded through his soft brown hair and you pulled him close, until your lips brushed against the shell of his ear.

“You’re a cat shifter who’s been watching me sleep while pretending to be nothing more than my pet for almost a year,” you whispered, and even though you knew you’d have to deal with Bucky’s lie at some point, you weren’t ready yet. 

You wanted him, you wanted his cock buried inside you, so you nipped playfully at his earlobe to lighten the mood. Of course, you also thoroughly enjoyed the way his hips rutted between your thighs reflexively, making you giggle softly before you continued on. 

“I think we bypassed normal right around the time I brought you home and you decided to stay,” you murmured, a hint of humor in your tone. “We can play out your Halloween coffee shop meet-cute later, but for now, I need you to fuck me, alpha.”

A rumbling growl ricocheted in Bucky’s chest, teasing your skin where you were pressed together. Your nipples hardened further into tight, achy peaks and your pussy gushed between your thighs, reacting to the desire in Bucky’s growl. 

“I will take you out later,” he said firmly, “But I’ll always give you what you want, and if you want to be fucked—I’ll fuck you good, koshechka.” Bucky pushed up until he was hovering above you, flashing you a charmingly rakish grin. Then his hands were shoving your panties down over your ass and thighs, moving to pull them off you entirely. 

When that was done, Bucky sat back on his haunches and stared at you, laid bare beneath him, your skin swathed in the silvery light of the moonlight and the warm glow of the streetlight outside your window. His piercing blue eyes raked over every inch of bared skin, appreciating you for long, long moments. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, koshechka,” Bucky murmured distractedly, his hands sliding up your legs and pushing your thighs wide. He stared down at your sopping wet pussy with reverence etched in every line of his face. “Even your pussy is pretty—I just need a little taste.” His last comment was mumbled, like he was talking to himself, just before he ducked down between your legs.

The flat of Bucky’s tongue licked up the full length of your slit, digging into the top until he found your clit. His hot mouth against your cunt had you whining and whimpering, your fingers digging into his soft hair and holding on for dear life. He buried his face into your folds, his tongue licking deep into you and making you moan loudly while he ate you out.

“Fucking hell, koshechka, even your cunt is sweet,” Bucky groaned when he finally came up for air, pressing filthy wet kisses to your quivering thighs. You were close to the edge of your release already, but as much as you wanted to come, you wanted something else more.

“Alpha,” you begged in a whining tone, squirming against Bucky’s big hands that were pinning you to the bed. “Feel so empty.”

Bucky lapped teasingly at your clit, and you could feel his smile against your heated skin. He worked your body until you were writhing harder, squirming harder against his hands to rock into his mouth and grind down on his tongue. Still, it wasn’t enough and you whined louder in a wordless plea.

“C’mon, koshechka, come on my tongue and then I’ll fill you up with my cock,” Bucky murmured into your swollen folds, his command half-muffled against your slick pussy. 

Your head thrashed side to side on your pillow and you whimpered, “Alpha,” as you tried to hold on, tried to last until his cock was inside you. But Bucky was determined to feel you come on his mouth.

When he slipped two of his fingers into your drenched hole and stroked a spot deep inside you, the electric shot of pleasure was too much. Your fingers curled so tightly in Bucky’s hair, a distant part of your mind worried you’d yank some of it from his head. 

But you couldn’t think about that—not when he was pushing you over the edge and pleasure was crashing through you in an earth-shattering orgasm.

A silent scream caught in your throat as your whole body went rigid, ecstasy pulsing through your limbs while Bucky kept fucking you with his fingers and sucking on your clit. It was nearly overwhelming, how good his mouth and fingers felt, and you let yourself sink into the waves of pleasure as they washed over you.

You were still twitching with the remnants of your release when Bucky crawled up your body, his mouth kissing your belly and your ribs, pausing to flick his tongue over each of your nipples, then the hollow of your throat. Finally, his lips found yours and he kissed you passionately, making you moan as you tasted yourself on his tongue. 

“Can you taste how sweet you are, koshechka?” he murmured against your mouth while he rubbed the length of your cock through your slick folds. The barbs were catching on your clit, making your hips twitch as you dragged in desperate gasps of air. “Sweet as a Halloween treat.” 

Bucky pressed another kiss to your lips even as you huffed a little laugh.

“I see how it is,” you muttered, a little bitterness seeping into your tone. “You play a trick on me and you still get a treat?” You didn’t quite know where the words came from, but it seemed you weren’t doing so well at putting off dealing with the fact that Bucky had hidden his true self from you for almost a year. 

It was annoying that the betrayal you felt was raising its ugly head before you’d even gotten to feel his cock inside you, but you supposed it had something to do with the deeply satisfied feeling of coming on his tongue. Still, you were embarrassed enough by your blurted, bitter question that you turned your head to the side, trying to hide in your pillow.

Bucky hovered above you, and you could see the serious expression on his face out of the corner of your eye. He gently grabbed your chin and turned you back to look at him, holding your gaze with his own.

“I’m sorry for lying to you for so long, koshechka,” he said, his tone entirely genuine. You could even see remorse simmering in his blue eyes. “I was selfish, and afraid you wouldn’t like me as much like this.” He gestured at himself, indicating his human form. 

That made you huff a laugh and roll your eyes a little before catching Bucky’s gaze again. “How could I not like you like this?” you asked, cupping his handsome face in your hands. Your nails raked lightly through his scruff, and he closed his eyes as a soft purr started in his chest. “But I’m going to need time to forgive you for lying.”

Bucky’s mouth pulled into a bittersweet smile and he nodded his head, his eyes opening again.

“I understand,” he murmured, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm. “I’ll earn your trust back, I promise,” he vowed, staring deep into your eyes, as if willing you to believe him. 

Your lips curved in a small smile and you tipped your head up, pulling him in for a brief kiss. It was little more than a brushing of lips, but you felt the determination in the rigid line of Bucky’s shoulders. You ghosted your lips along Bucky’s jaw, sucking playfully at his skin as you tried to lighten the mood. 

“I still need you to fuck me, alpha,” you purred in Bucky’s ear, your thighs spreading wider beneath his hips, his cock pressing deeper between your still soaking folds.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his hips moving on instinct until the tip of his cock was pressed to your tight hole. But he stopped himself from pushing inside, instead pausing to ask you, “Are you sure, koshechka?” 

Your heart thumped harder in your chest at Bucky’s question, but you knew what you wanted. “Yes, alpha—please.” 

Your final word was a broken plea, and it seemed Bucky didn’t need to be begged again. He pushed forward, sinking slowly into your tight, warm pussy with a tortured groan. The head pushed inside you, then the thick bulge of his cock, and every additional inch felt like a revelation. 

“You feel so fucking good, koshechka,” he rumbled, his low, gravelly voice sinking into your skin and making you shiver. “Feel so fucking perfect.”

You didn’t have the breath to respond, but you shared his sentiment. The thick bulge of his cock stretched your tight hole to its limit, and you sighed in pleasure when he was finally buried deep. It was a little odd, the feeling of his inhuman cock inside you, but it felt perfect, too. 

For a moment, Bucky paused while he was fully impaled in your cunt. His arms curled around your body, and yours wound around his shoulders. You clung to each other, your chests rising and falling together as your hearts beat in tandem beneath your ribs. 

“Talk to me, koshechka, are you ok?” Bucky asked softly, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. He nuzzled into you, his scruffy face tickling your skin while a soft purr kicked to life in his chest.

Your body relaxed beneath Bucky’s large form and you nodded, trying to catch your breath a little before answering. 

“Yes, alpha, ‘m ok,” you mumbled in throaty voice, your fingers stroking idly through Bucky’s hair at the back of his head. His purr grew stronger, vibrating through you and your inner walls clenched around Bucky’s stiff length, pleasure pulsing through you at the wild, unusual sensation of his cock inside you. “So full.”

“Mm, your tight cunt feels good around my cock,” Bucky murmured in agreement, kissing up your neck until he could brush his lips against your sweaty temple. His scruffy jaw tickled your cheek and you squirmed lazily, a grin spreading across your face. “Feels like you were made for me—fuck, you were made for me, weren’t you koshechka?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed languidly, rocking your hips experimentally and feeling the slight drag of Bucky’s cock inside you, the barbs making your breath catch as delicious pleasure jolted through your body. Distractedly, you asked, “Do shifters mate?”

Bucky tensed above you, and your mind sharpened, focusing on his reaction and the way he was hiding his face in the pillow beside your head.

“James Bucky Barnes,” you growled in warning. He’d lied to you for almost a year, hiding his human identity from you while pretending to be nothing more than your pet, and you’d be damned if you let him keep lying to you. And you knew he was hiding something from you, his reaction to your question made that perfectly clear.

“Yes, we can scent our compatible mate,” he admitted on a gusting exhale, his voice muffled in the pillow.

You licked your lips as you processed that revelation. Unbidden, all the times that night that Bucky had told you how sweet you tasted, how deeply he’d breathed in your scent—and how good his wild scent smelled to you—came to mind. It seemed only natural that your next question was, “And, am I…?” 

“Yes,” he said quickly, cutting you off before you could even finish your question. “You’re mine. I’m yours.” 

His words were slightly less muffled by his face buried in the pillow, and you were suddenly frustrated by the fact that you couldn’t see him. You pushed against his shoulder and twisted your hips until he obliged your wordless request and rolled onto his back, taking you with him.

Your knees dug into the soft mattress on either side of Bucky’s hips and you pushed yourself up with your hands planted firmly on his hard chest. Bucky’s piercing eyes were looking up at you warily, his hands settling lightly on your hips, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you anymore.

“How long have you known?” you asked on a whisper, watching him carefully.

“Since you found me in the bucket,” he confessed with a sheepish wince. “I scented it immediately, especially since I was in my cat form.”

Reflexively, your nails dug into Bucky’s skin as frustration surged through you. “Were you ever going to tell me?” you asked in a harsher tone. 

“I had a plan,” Bucky said, but his tone was apologetic, like he knew it wasn’t a good enough answer. 

For a long moment, you stared down at the man between your thighs. Your mate, apparently. 

Despite how much you knew you should be, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be angry that he’d held back this particular aspect of his shifter identity. Even knowing it, you didn’t feel like you truly understood what it meant to be Bucky’s mate. 

And if you were being honest with yourself, after everything he’d told you that night, you were a little tired of the revelations. 

It probably would’ve been better if things had gone according to Bucky’s plan. You’d have met him in your favorite coffee shop and slowly gotten to know him—the real him—and he’d have opened up to you when you were both ready. If things had gone that way, you would’ve been able to learn about him being a shifter and your mate at an easier pace.

Instead, you’d been thrust into all this shifter stuff, and Bucky had tried his best to not overwhelm you too much. You couldn’t fault him for that. In fact, you appreciated it. The night had been a lot, and you suddenly knew exactly what you needed from him.

Heaving a heavy sigh, you lay down on Bucky’s chest so your head rested on his shoulder. 

“Can you purr for me, alpha?” you asked in a small voice, craving the comfort of the rumbling sensation.

Bucky’s purr kicked to life an instant later, giving you exactly what you asked for. You let yourself sink into the comfort and pleasure his purring offered, allowing yourself to relax. His cock was still buried deep inside you, and even that felt good—it felt right.

“What else do you need, koshechka?” Bucky asked softly, concern in his tone. His hand stroked tentatively up and down your spine and you smiled into his chest, melting further into his chest. “Tell me, and I’ll do everything in my power to give it to you.”

“I think I want to follow the plan,” you said, realizing it was what you wanted only as you said the words. “I want to try things your way, the ‘normal’ way.” You said those final words a little wryly, but your tone was otherwise genuine. Turning your face up so you could catch Bucky’s eye, you let a little smirk flirt around the corner of your mouth. “After you fuck me.”

Bucky’s eyes heated as they dropped to your mouth, but his hands still felt uncertain on your hips. “Are you sure, koshechka?” His big hand cupped your face, his thumb stroking over your cheek and your eyes fluttered closed at the comfort of the gesture. “I’d understand if you never wanted to see me again.”

At that, your eyes flew open and you glared at Bucky. “That is the last thing I want,” you spit out fiercely, surprised at how strongly you reacted to the idea of never seeing Bucky again. You took a moment, closing your eyes to gather yourself and opened them again to fix Bucky with a firm stare. “Tonight has been a lot, but I want to come on your cock, and then I wanna take the time to get to know you, to see how things go, to do things the normal way.”

A smirk curled the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “I thought we bypassed normal a year ago,” he commented, echoing your earlier words. 

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to lean up and kiss the smirk off Bucky’s face, so that’s exactly what you did. 

He groaned into your kiss, his hands tightening on your hips and urging you to rock against him. You broke away from the kiss, unable to bite back the filthy groan that tumbled from your lips at the sensation of his cock shifting inside you.

You could feel the gentle drag of every barb on his cock, the dulled points clinging to your inner channel and making you moan loudly. Your body moved on its own, lifting up Bucky’s cock, needing to feel more of that sensation. Once only the head remained inside your warmth, you shoved yourself down, wringing a delighted screech from your lips while Bucky groaned ferociously. 

“Fuck, koshechka,” Bucky grunted, his big hands kneading your ass while you lifted up again and slammed back down. “Use me—use me for your pleasure.” His voice was breathless, and as you stared down at him, you watched his face contort with pleasure. 

You lifted up, planting your hands on his pecs and set a slow, hard pace, lifting yourself up slowly before slamming down hard on his cock, grinding into the base before doing it all over again. 

Before long, you were both panting and sweating, and your whines grew louder as your body begged more.

Bucky seemed to know exactly when you’d reached your limit of having control, and he wrapped his hands more tightly around your waist, holding you above him while he took over, drilling into your cunt from below. 

The bulge of his length and the barbs were unlike anything you’d ever felt before, and it was only a few breathless moments before you were teetering on the edge of your second release.

“Can I come, alpha?” you gasped on a whimpering whine. Your fingernails were digging into the plush padding on his stomach, pressing hard enough to feel the firm muscle beneath, delighting when his abs twitched at the same time as his cock inside you.

A purr began in Bucky’s chest and he caught your eye, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Does my sweet koshechka want my permission to come?” he purred, staring at you with lazy, half-lidded eyes while he pounded up into you. “Do you need your alpha’s command to come on my cock?” 

“Yes, alpha, please—please command me to come,” you whimpered, your whole body trembling with your need for release. But you found you truly needed him to say it, to tell you to come, before you could do so. You didn’t know if that was a shifter thing, a mate thing or a you and Bucky thing, but in that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Bucky fucked you harder, thrusting up so hard that your tits were bouncing with the force. A growl tore through his chest, and you felt his pleasure in the sound, knowing instinctively that he was pleased with the sight of you bouncing on his cock. 

“Come, koshechka—come all over your alpha’s fat cock,” he snarled, just before wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and dragging you down to his chest. His mouth found the curve of your neck, where your throat met your shoulder, and he bit down, his teeth sinking deep into your skin. 

You came with a yowling scream, the slight sting of pain from Bucky’s blunt teeth mixing with the blistering pleasure of his cock until you were swept away in a torrent of ecstasy. You shattered apart on his cock, your pussy pulsing and gripping him hard, dragging him over the edge after you.

Bucky came with a groan that was half-muffled against your shoulder, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled his hot seed deep in your belly. His moan morphed into a stuttering purr as he fucked you through the aftershocks of both your releases, until you collapsed on top of him with a satisfied exhale.

One of Bucky’s hands smoothed up and down your spine comfortingly while the other was still wrapped around the back of your neck. He finally pulled away from your shoulder, his tongue lapping at the deep indents he’d left in your skin. 

Strangely, some part of you was disappointed that his teeth hadn’t broken skin. But the feeling of his tongue on the mark he’d left, his cock still throbbing in your pussy, and his hand stroking you softly were all too good to focus on that twinge of disappointment. You pushed it aside and promised yourself you’d ask Bucky about it later. 

Exhaustion was tugging at the edges of your consciousness and you could feel yourself slipping back to sleep. It didn’t help that Bucky dragged the blankets back over your cooling bodies, wrapping you up in a warmth that felt like it sank deep into your bones and curled closely around your heart. 

“Rest, koshechka,” Bucky urged, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll see you at your coffee shop later—I’ll be the one wearing clothes.”

You would’ve laughed, but you were already falling back to sleep.

On the morning of Halloween, you woke with a pleasant tingling between your thighs, and an excessive amount of wetness trickling from your slit. You got up and cleaned yourself up, not too surprised that your Russian Blue didn’t make an appearance as you got ready for the day. 

Your nighttime escapades felt too real for you to even begin to try to convince yourself it was a dream, though you did find yourself missing the soft pitter-patter of your pet’s feet padding across your apartment. You paused in the middle of your living room, feeling a little bit of loneliness creep in as you listened and heard no sign of life in your home.

Shaking your head, you reminded yourself that you weren’t going to be lonely without Bucky the cat—because Bucky the man was waiting for you. 

With that thought in your head, you nearly skipped down the street to your regular coffee shop. 

It was a cute little storefront nestled in between a hair salon and a plant store. The employees had put up decorations for Halloween, including a string of paper bats and little pumpkins in the windows. Inside, there were even more fall decorations, and the scent of coffee was cut with cinnamon and nutmeg.

You scanned the tables, but didn’t see Bucky, so you got in line to order. A moment later, you felt a presence behind you and you somehow knew it was him, even before his scent washed over you and his hand settled gently against your lower back as he came to stand beside you. 

“Good morning, koshechka,” he murmured, ducking to press a kiss to your cheek. 

You gave him a quick once-over, seeing that he cleaned up nice in the light of day, wearing a soft sweater, dark jeans and a warm-looking leather jacket. His breath smelled minty like he’d brushed his teeth, and his skin felt clean and fresh, as if he’d showered. But he’d kept the scruff on his face, and you couldn’t help but be glad for it as it tickled your cheek, a smile curving your lips. 

“Good morning, Bucky,” you said, staring up at him, a little surprised at how easy it seemed to be to fall into step beside him as the line moved forward.

Still, you couldn’t seem to drag your eyes away from his face. He truly was the most handsome man you’d ever seen, and you let your eyes roam greedily over the planes of his face that were so much easier to see in the daylight. You didn’t think you’d ever get tired of looking at Bucky’s face.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” Bucky asked, dragging you from your thoughts. His hand was moving soothingly in a small circle on your lower back, and you could feel the warmth of him even through your jacket.

“Yes, please,” you said sweetly. 

When it was your turn to order, you got a hot latte, while Bucky got a chai. He helped you out of your coat and pulled out a chair for you at one of the small tables, then retrieved your latte from the counter before he settled into the seat across from you. 

The barista had drawn a ghost with the foam on top of your drink and you smiled down at it, wrapping your cold fingers around the warm cup as you considered where to start.

“So,” you began, lifting your eyes to Bucky—taking in the soft sweater that stretched across his broad shoulders, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, before catching his eye. A smirk curved your lips. “Tell me about yourself.”

A slow, answering smile curled the edges of Bucky’s mouth and he leaned forward, planting his arms on the table in a mirror of your posture. When he spoke, his voice was low, a delicious gruffness to it that tingled all the way through you, down to the tips of your toes.

“Well, I’ve had a bit of an unusual life,” he began, catching your eye and holding your gaze with his own sparkling blues. “I served in the army with my best friend, came back, didn’t really know what to do with myself—until I met a pretty girl who took me in and showed me what it’s like to be loved.”

Your heart thumped excitedly in your chest at Bucky’s final word even as your breath lodged in your throat. “Oh really?” you asked softly, swallowing thickly before you continued. “That sounds like an interesting story.” 

“Mm, I’ll say,” Bucky said, his eyes roving hungrily over your face. After a beat of silence, he seemed to have a thought, leaning in further and dropping his voice lower. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” you said on an exhale, mesmerized by the affection swirling in Bucky’s eyes and the way his mouth curved at the edges when he smiled.

“I’m excited to show her what it’s like to be loved by me,” Bucky murmured. 

His words had the same effect as his purr, making you melt as you smiled across the table at him. “I’m excited for that, too,” you admitted softly. 

Bucky’s smile widened, and your eyes dropped to his mouth. You wanted to kiss him so badly in that moment, but you also wanted to stick to his plan to take things slow.

Taking a deep breath, you sat back from the table, giving yourself some space away from the intoxicatingly wild scent of Bucky and lifted your cup to your mouth. You hummed in delight at the taste of the drink, closing your eyes as you savored the rich flavor. 

A choked sound came from across the table and you opened your eyes to see heat simmering in Bucky’s eyes. 

“Are you trying to torture me, koshechka?” he asked in a low rumble. 

You snickered and hid a smirk behind your cup before taking another sip and setting it down on the table. Tossing your head, you looked up at Bucky from under your lashes. 

“It’s the least you deserve for the little Halloween trick you played on me,” you teased. You slid your tongue along your lower lip, licking up the last bit of your coffee, smirking when Bucky groaned quietly. 

“If I behave, d’you think I’ll get a little Halloween treat?” Bucky asked, waggling his brows so suggestively, you tipped your head back with a laugh. 

“We’ll see,” you said with what you hoped was an enigmatic smile. 

Leaning across the table, Bucky ran his thumb over the corner of  your mouth and when he pulled away, you saw a little bit of foam on his finger. He popped it into his mouth, making your eyes narrow on the way his tongue flicked against the pad of his thumb, your core tightening as you remembered the things that tongue had done to you the night before.

“I’ll take whatever you want to give, koshechka,” Bucky murmured, his tone thick with emotion and desire, and you knew he was talking about more than just your body. His piercing eyes pinned you with an intense stare, and you held his gaze determinedly. 

The tension eased when Bucky looked away, his hand reaching across the table, palm up, waiting patiently for you. After a brief moment of hesitation, you slid your fingers into his palm, and your hands folded together. Warmth spread through your body and curled up deep in your heart as Bucky caught your eye again, both of you smiling at each other.

For the next hour, you sat at that little table in your favorite coffee shop with Bucky, getting to know him and learning more about his life. You discovered he had a best friend named Steve Rogers who’d been watching his apartment for the last year while he’d been living with you. He was the friend Bucky had served in the army with and he told you plenty of stories from their childhood. 

At the end of your date, Bucky gave you his phone number, and texted you before you’d even gotten home to plan another outing. All day, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, and you couldn’t help your thoughts from wandering back to your Russian Blue shifter. 

Bucky had given you a Halloween trick and a Halloween treat, and he was giving you the space you needed to wrap your head around everything. Still, you couldn’t wait to see him again, to continue getting to know him, and to learn everything there was to know about him and what he was.

Over the months that followed Halloween, you and Bucky went on plenty of dates, taking things slow. But it wasn’t too long before you dragged him back to your apartment, needing to feel him again—all of him. Like he’d wanted, you slept in his shirt that night, and he purred happily, telling you how much it meant to him for you to smell like him. 

That night, you fell asleep curled up in Bucky’s arms the way he’d slept for so many nights when you’d thought he was only a cat. And it was the first night of many that you slept in your bed together with Bucky in his human form.

Eventually, Bucky officially moved in, and you learned what it meant to be mated to a shifter, though Bucky didn’t give you your mating bite until you’d been dating for a few years. He’d said he wanted to do things the normal way, and apparently that was normal for shifters, even though you were practically begging him to mate you by the time he obliged.

Although your relationship with Bucky began in a very strange way, you took the time together to truly get to know each other. He showed remorse for hiding from you for so long and worked to gain your trust. By the time the two of you were mated, you knew he was the one for you. 

James Bucky Barnes was the one you would’ve chosen even if you hadn’t woken up to him sleeping naked in your bed on that fateful Halloween night.

halloween fics masterlist

I love how you depicted the complexity of Tom’s emotions🙌🏼 This was so fun to read!!

Hidden thoughts

Pairing: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

Summary: You're allowed to take a deep dive into Tom's mind for the first time because he'd never admit things out loud.

Warnings: Slight angst, fluff, smut.

a/n: English is not my first language.

Tom Riddle is insatiable. For what, you don't think he even knows. Every time he comes, he demands more of you, soon there will be nothing left of you that he doesn't know inside out. But even that won't satiate him. It wouldn't satiate you, either. It's always push and pull. He's always there, lingering, and before you know it, he's coiled around you like the serpent he is, ready to suffocate you if you make a wrong move. His grip isn't painful in the least, but it's enough to bind you. He gently tugs your head back, compelling you to rest it against his shoulder. His velvety voice brushes against your ear:

-"Have you missed me today?"

-"Terribly" - you respond, as usual.

His eyes narrow, dark and unfathomable: "No need to lie to me."

You sigh: "But it's what I do best."

He spins you suddenly, turning you to face him, trapping you between his arms. His lips curl cruelly.

-"It’s not the only thing you excel at. You’re good at many things."

He brings his hand to your face, and though he gently brushes the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, there is nothing sweet about the gesture. He cups your chin, holding it firmly between his thumb and forefinger.

-"Being irritating foremost among them."

-"What is it that you want this time?"

Tom looks down at you, his gaze steady and unblinking. He tilts your head up a fraction, as if studying you from a new angle. The muscle in his jaw clenches, straining under his pale skin.

-"I want to know what’s going on inside that pretty little head of yours."

His voice is cool, but there’s a hint of mockery beneath it. Nimble fingers drift from your chin, tracing a path up the side of your neck, his nails deliberately scratching you as he does.

You bring his hands to your temples, which isn't necessary for the spell to work - he can invade anyone's mind just fine with legilimency without touching, but the weight brings you some comfort as you let the occlumency fade away. A brief look of surprise flickers across his features at your gesture, but he doesn't move his hands away. Instead, his eyes search your expression, the touch of his hands becoming a gentle caress as he sifts through the layers of your thoughts. It's an intrusion, a violation of your most intimate thoughts, but it feels almost tender.

-"Interesting...", he murmurs to himself. One of his hands moves down, tracing the outline of your lips with his index finger.

-"You’ve been practicing. You aren't allowing me any further in."

He lets go of your head and your thoughts, the brief connection severed. He slowly takes a step back, his gaze still fixed on you. Something about the way you look at him⎯unguarded, open, unbothered by his intrusion into your mind⎯stirs something unfamiliar within him. It grates at his nerves, like a stone in his shoe when he's walking. He isn't used to you being so docile.

-"You could have shut me out if you wanted to. I can feel you holding back."

You tilt your head to aggravate him more: "I could've, but I didn't."

He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. He can’t help but fixate on your expression. You’re too calm, too collected for his liking. Tom can handle defiant you, rebellious you, even violent you. But he has no idea what to do with you like this.

-"Are you doing this on purpose? Acting like..." He motions with his hand, searching for words, "...this, just to rile me up?"

You inform him: "You're more honest when you're riled up."

He walks over to you again, prowling like a stalking cat. He stops just a few inches away, towering over you.

-"You’re not playing fair."

-"Neither of us ever do, my love." - You retort immediately.

You know the endearment hits him like a punch to the gut even if he never lets it show. He leans in, bringing his face close to yours. His breath is hot against your skin.

-"We’re not so different in that regard. I suppose the question is" ⎯He takes your chin in his hand, the pad of his thumb tracing the plump curve of your lower lip. "What are you planning?"

You lean against him: "Always analyzing. Always suspicious."

-"Can you blame me, when the subject before me is such a shifty, maddening creature?"

-"The subject before you is very fond of you. She'd like to receive it in return."

His hand slides from your chin, tracing the column of your throat. He feels your pulse beat faster under his touch, a soft flutter beneath his fingers. He leans even closer, bringing his nose to your temple, his lips grazing the shell of your ear⎯a gentle whisper of a kiss there. "She’ll have to earn it, first." He drops his hand, sliding it around your waist and pulling you against him.

You slump against him: "Don't be so cruel. My mind is restless today, as you've just seen."

Tom's arms wind around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He tilts your head back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and unwavering in their intensity. "Your mind is always restless, my dear. Are you looking for comfort today?"

You nod, resigned: "I'm hoping it might help."

-"Is that all you want? Usually, it takes more than that to quieten your mind."

Your head rolls to the side. He brings his hand up, tangling his fingers in your hair and keeping your head tilted back. He continues to kiss your neck, savoring the way your pulse quickens under his lips. He nips at a sensitive spot at the base of your throat, hard enough to draw a moan from you, almost in warning. His other hand slides down, tracing along the curve of your buttocks.

-"You’re being awfully sweet today, darling."

-"Don't get used to it."

He grins against your skin, his grip on you tightening, almost bruising. He moves his mouth lower, leaving a trail of kisses along your collarbone, his hand at your backside pulling you closer still as his lips graze your chest. "I wouldn’t dream of it." He continues his ministrations, deliberately slow and unhurried. He can feel your body responding to his touch, your breathing growing shallower, faster. You start to relax.

He slowly walks you back until you feel the edge of the grand piano press against your legs. Then, with a deft, forceful move, he sweeps you onto the lid. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading your legs apart as his lips find the exposed flesh of your shoulders. "Much better."

-"On the piano?" - You can't help but inquire.

"Mhm." He nips at the sensitive skin under your ear, a dangerous thrill coursing through him at your breathless response. He pushes himself between your legs, pulling your hips flush against his crotch as his lips make a slow, deliberate trail down your neck. "See? Perfect height."

You groan. He grins against your skin and pushes your legs even further apart, his strong thighs wedging themselves between yours. He rolls his hips, slowly, agonizingly slow, his fingers digging into your hipbones as he brings his lips back to your neck again, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh there. He brings his hands around, pushing the fabric of your dress out of the way. "What do you want, dove?"

-"You." You promise yourself not to beg him, as you do every time, even though if you end up breaking it more often than not.

He pushes the fabric of your dress up around your hips, his fingers slowly, teasingly tracing the inside of your thighs.

-"You’re going to have to be more specific."

-"I need you to touch me." You stop the 'please' before it slips out out of habit. This isn't about manners, it's about surrendering. You refuse to do it in a pathetic way.

He smiles, his fingers moving higher, closer to where you need him most. He kisses your neck softly, nipping at the sensitive spot under your ear. His hand slides further up, his thumb brushing against you through the thin material of your underwear. His voice, a low, sinful whisper: "Here?" He moves his hand higher, his fingers toying with the edge of your underwear. "And here?"

You snap: "Just take off the damn thing."

He leans back, watching you. A wicked look gleams in his eyes as he suddenly grips the fabric of your underwear and tears it away from your body with a sharp, fluid motion.

-"I was going to take my time with you. But I suppose I can be persuaded."

He can’t help but let out a low grumble of desire as you guide his hand to where you want it. He pushes his hips closer to yours, keeping you pinned against the piano. He slides a finger against you, slowly at first, before adding another. He brushes his mouth against your neck, biting down hard.

-"You’re so sweet when you’re behaving. I almost wonder if I should give you what you want."

-"Oh, that's good." You can only half-listen to him at this point.

His fingers curl inside you, seeking that sweet spot he knows will drive you insane. He keeps a steady, deliberate pace, his tongue darting out to trace the edge of your ear.

-"You’re being so good, dove. Tell me more. What do you want?"

-"Faster, please."

He almost smirks to himself at the pleading tilt in your voice. He obliges, his fingers moving faster, deeper. His free hand glides up from your hip, caressing your thigh, teasing you as his lips continue their assault against your neck.

-"Gods, you’re dripping, dove. You want me that much?"

-"You know I do. No need to be so smug about it, you..."

He tuts, adding a third finger. He wants to feel you clench around him, to hear the sweet sounds you make as he teases you right to the edge. His lips find yours, his kiss demanding. He bites your bottom lip, pulling away with a sinful smirk. "You’re being such a good girl today, dove. Keep it that way. No biting, no scratching, no insults. And I suppose a reward will be in order."

You mewl gratefully. He moves his mouth back to your neck, scraping his teeth over a sensitive spot there before moving lower, towards your chest. He pushes the fabric of your dress out of the way, his lips dancing over the soft, exposed flesh. He works his fingers relentlessly, intent on bringing you to the brink.

-"You taste so good, love. So sweet."

You never mention that he switches from dove to love during such moments. He'll stop if you give an acknowledgement, you're sure of it. Just as well. He never mentions that you sometimes call him Tommy while in a haze, either.

-"...I'm close...I can't..."

He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, his lips curving into a proud smirk against your neck. It's always a little victory for him. He moves a hand up, pulling your head back, exposing your neck to his lips again. "Yes, you can, dove. Let go."

You moan and writhe on the piano before settling a little in the hazy aftermath. He slowly withdraws his fingers, his breathing ragged as he tries to retain some composure. He pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you tight against his chest. His lips find your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

-"You're making this too bloody difficult for me, love."

You're unsure what he means but offer: "I can take you."

His grip around you tightens, his hand clenching on the flesh of your hip. His lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice a low murmur: "Here? On the piano?"

You shrug: "You said it was the perfect height."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes sweeping over your body as you lie back on the piano. You look delectable like this, spread out before him, a sight he has become all too familiar with. But your sweet, cooperative behaviour is something he isn’t used to. He wants to test how far your submission would go, how much you’d let him get away with. "Turn over."

You hesitate only for a second before turning over carefully on the sleek surface. He trails a hand slowly up your spine, his fingers tracing over the expanse of your back. "Good girl." He lets his touch roam further, caressing the curve of your buttocks and the top of your thighs, before moving back up to your hips. "Lift your hips."

He grips your hips, pulling you back towards him, his front flush against your back. He brushes his lips against the nape of your neck, his cock already straining against the confinements of his trousers.

-"Are you ready for me, love?"

-"Yes."

He groans at your obedient response, the last of his self-control snapping as he hastily unbuckles his belt and removes his clothes from waist down before driving himself into you. You inhale sharply. He moans, burying his face against your neck, nuzzling at the sensitive skin there as he sets a steady pace. The sound of his breath, laboured and uneven, washes over your body. He leans down, kissing your back, his hand sliding down to the dip in your lower back, pushing you deeper into him. "Fuck, you feel so good..."

You choke on a moan. He pushes a hand in your hair again, pulling on it to tilt your head so he can bite down your shoulder, his pace growing more relentless, less controlled. He gently shushes you when you whimper. "You can take it, dove...I know you can."

You brace yourself on the piano and he lets a low sound of approval. The sight of you, spread out before him on the black glossy surface, is something he wants to remember forever. He moves his hand from your hair, bringing it to his mouth, coating his fingers in his own saliva. He moves his hand down, bringing it around you again, his tongue darting out to taste your skin once more. He slides his fingers into your mouth, his voice a low murmur against your neck: "Suck."

You close my mouth around his fingers. He lets out a ragged breath and removes his hand, finding its way to the sensitive spot between your legs. "God, I love your mouth."

In any other circumstance, you'd chuckle, but his hips moving deep along with his fingers rubbing your clit makes it impossible. His mouth moves against your neck again, his tongue following the line as it works its way up to your ear. He kisses softly behind it, his breath hot against your skin, his fingers never ceasing their movement between your legs. You try to draw it out as long as you can before you reach the breaking point, but eventually...

-"Tommy..."

He lets out a shuddering breath at the sound of his name on your lips, a sound so sweet it’s almost obscene. He moves his body and readjusts the angle, his length hitting a spot that has you almost weeping from pleasure, he clenches his jaw to rein in the desire within him.

-"What do you want, love? Say the words."

-"Let me cum...please..."

His breathing hitches at the sound of those words, the sheer need in your voice going straight through him, shooting sparks of white-hot heat to his core. He buries his face against the back of your neck, his lips tracing your skin with a desperate hunger. His fingers move faster, rougher over you, the pace and the pressure designed to bring you right to the edge again.

-"Look at you, sweet girl. So needy for me. How can I say no to that?"

You gasp in relief, body almost convulsing. You tremble as the sensations wash over you, not being able to keep myself upright anymore. He steadies you with an arm around your stomach, gently easing you back down on the piano, his body hovering above yours. "That’s it. Fuck...that’s it." He lets out a shuddering moan as he finishes, bracing himself on the piano, above you. He lets his breath even out, his body still trembling slightly as he comes down from the high he’s been riding. After a few moments, he moves and lays down next to you, resting his head on your bare stomach. He lifts a hand, tracing his fingers slowly over your skin, a touch almost tender and reverent, so different from the rough way he touches you usually.

You rest your hand on his cheek. For a while, Tom stays like that, quiet, content, the only sound the soft, even breaths he takes. Finally, he opens his eyes, his dark gaze meeting yours. He studies your face quietly, taking in every little detail. Your eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, your flushed cheeks, your messy hair, your parted lips. Tom feels the tangle of strange emotions that’s settling in his chest, constricting, almost uncomfortable, but he's somewhat gotten used to it at this point, and he’d loathe to break the moment.

His hand tightens around yours as he watches you watch him. Tom can’t help but notice the quiet, tender expression on your face. It makes him uneasy, in a way. The look in your eyes... It almost makes him want to squirm.

-"Why do you look at me like that?"

-"Like what?"

-"Like that. All soft and fond. Why?"

-"How else would I look at you." It was more of a statement, even if it was phrased as a question.

Tom's eyes narrow slightly, his frown deepening at your response. He’s still unaccustomed to the gentle, tender thing in your eyes. He’s still not used to the way his heart clenches a little when he looks at the soft smile on your lips. He hates that he welcomes the the warm, syrupy sweetness in his chest, the strange fluttering sensation the sight of you makes him feel. All these things he tried to forsake but ended up wanting more of, like the greedy, foolish weakling he was.

-"What do you mean?"

You look down at his disheveled, unguarded face, lying on your stomach. "What else do you think I'd rather look at like this?"

Another frown. He’s used to being the one to unravel you, to render you a panting mess at his mercy. He’s not sure how to handle the sweet, honest words that you’re saying. He’s not sure how to react to the flutter of his heart that your words cause, so he does the only thing he knows how to:

-"You must be in a right state of mind if you’re spouting lies."

You swallow several sharp responses and make sure to stop guarding your mind with occlumency for a moment and catch his gaze. He meets your eyes, noticing the lack of barriers in your mind. He studies your expression carefully, almost expectantly, as if looking for trickery or deception. Instead of what he’s looking for, though, all he sees is earnestness, honesty. It disarms him. His expression becomes tighter than before, and he looks away. "You mean that."

You contain a sigh. "Of course." It's not easy with him. But you know it's not easy with you either. It's not easy with either of you. Yet it's somehow never too difficult, too heavy, too draining either. It’s sweet, but it’s terrifying.

His fingers are still laced with yours, tight to the point of pain. "You…you say these odd things on purpose."

You correct him softly: "Not odd, right."

You sit up and take his face in your hands. You tap a finger on his forehead. "Open up." You gently push with legilimency.

Tom frowns up at you but obeys anyway, lowering the barriers in his mind. He can’t help the small jolt of surprise when he feels the brush of your thoughts against his own. You glide through his mind as carefully as you can, trying to calm it instead of sharply prodding as you'd do when if you needed to invade someone's thoughts.

He’s quiet, almost tense, as you move through his thoughts, unused to the feeling of someone being in his brain. Your gentle touch, like the light flutter of a bird’s feathers, slowly starts to soothe the agitation and unease that’s been gnawing at him. Against his best efforts, he leans into your touch, almost instinctively.

You try to focus on the feelings he mostly feels around you. As you move through his thoughts, you find yourself enveloped in a tangle of messy, conflicting emotions. He’s had a lifetime of practice in controlling and concealing his feelings, but with you, things get… chaotic. There’s an intoxicating mixture of desire, possessiveness, protectiveness, frustration, anger, need, and affection. A dizzying array of unfamiliar, unidentifiable feelings, all triggered by your presence in his mind. You push at the unfamiliar ones. You feel Tom resist at first, pushing back instinctively, his mind trying to slam up the barriers. When he realizes what you’re doing, though, he lets them down, his thoughts and emotions spilling across to you. You feel an unexpected rush of satisfaction from him as he realizes that you’re genuinely interested in what he’s feeling. He pushes a little of the unfamiliar feelings to the forefront, allowing you to explore deeper. Tom pushed a happy memory of you in front, of a recent Christmas. Deceiving little...You put the memory aside, going deeper.

As you go deeper, your mind is assaulted by a maelstrom of images and feelings - some fragmented, others as clear as if they were happening right now. There’s flashes of memories - you, your face, your body, your smile, your touch - but mostly, there’s intense, raw emotions. A need for you that’s almost desperate, a protectiveness that borders on obsession, an affection so sharp it’s almost painful.

You latch on the affection and go further. The raw, intense affection comes to the forefront again, powerful enough to make your heart skip a beat. As you explore deeper, you come across another, similar, yet different feeling - a kind of fondness, gentler and quieter than the former, almost as if he’s hesitant to acknowledge it. It’s there, though, in his subconscious, buried deep and tangled up with a myriad of other feelings. All just for you. You hesitate after encountering the gentle fondness, not knowing which direction to search for. What were you hoping to encounter? Love? This was probably the closest thing to love he could feel. You almost didn't want to search further, doubt creeping in that you'd come up empty.

You sense a flicker of understanding pass through the chaos in his mind. He knows you’re searching for something, and he’s almost… resigned, as he realizes what it probably is. Despite the resignation, there’s a little spark of hope, a small, unexpected ember of something he never even dared to contemplate before. The hope fades, though, replaced by the usual tangle of feelings. After a moment, you feel him push a thought gently into your mind. You catch the thought, curious. He’s being careful to keep the thought quiet so as not to distract you from your exploration of his emotions, but you catch the edge of his thought all the same. It’s a simple question - Can I show you? - as well as a reluctant feeling of uncertainty. Your agreement comes in stopping exploration and waiting where he'd lead you.

You feel something shift, and then there's a strange sensation, like you're moving through his thoughts. You’re suddenly in a memory, watching the scene unfold as if you’re watching a film. You see an image of yourself, sitting at the piano. You look content and relaxed, playing a soft, melancholy tune, completely absorbed in the music. The memory seems to be from his perspective, and there’s an inexplicable feeling of peace and comfort emanating from his thoughts as he watches you, an affectionate smile on his face.

This can't be it, you think. This moment was nothing special. For all his past resistance to it, he felt love there? Doubt seeped out of you again. There was another brief flash of thoughts, almost like communication between his conscious mind and your own - It is. This moment is important. Just watch and see. The memory continues, and you watch as you finish playing the last notes of the piece. A smile graces your lips, and it’s as if a light goes on inside him, as if the sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he’s seen. There’s affection, admiration, but mostly, there’s…love. Deep, intense love.

It's almost enough to make you lose focus and and grasp of the memory. He keeps pushing you forward, sending you through another memory, this one more recent. But it’s blurry around the edges, as if the memories have already faded a little. It’s a night you fell asleep together in his bed, tangled in each other, limbs intertwined, your head laying on his chest. You look peaceful and content as you sleep, and as he looks down at you, a surge of affection and love fills his mind, the feeling washing over you like a wave. It's overwhelming. You sense him take a moment to gather himself as he continues, sending you through another - this one is more recent, much clearer. It’s the other night, when he’d woken you up in the middle of the night, pulling you out of a nightmare. He’d held you, wrapping you up in his arms as you shivered, your head tucked under his chin. He’d whispered soothing words into your hair, reassuring you, even as you clung to him tight, your hands tangled in his shirt. He’d whispered: "I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe".

He moves you through another memory - this one from a few nights ago, when you’d sat with him in the garden, the warm night breeze rustling your hair. You’d been laughing, telling him about something you’d read in your book. You looked carefree and beautiful, your happiness and mirth palpable in the air, and as he watched you, his mind is filled with a mix of protectiveness, affection, and love. He’d been completely enthralled by the sight of you, hanging on to your every word. Your heart soars. He shows you another recent one. It’s of breakfast this morning, a mundane moment. You’re sitting across the table from him, eating quietly, your eyes drifting thoughtfully out the window, when he looks up from his food to watch you. There’s a small, fond smile on his face as his eyes rake over your features, taking in every little detail. As he looks at you like that, there’s a peaceful feeling that fills his chest, a tender, quiet sort of love, one that’s so deep and powerful, you can almost drown in it.

You feel yourself slipping away from his mind. Snapping back to reality is jarring. You realize tears have been falling down your cheeks. Almost startled, you wipe them away. Tom's face is carefully neutral, but it’s not hard to see the raw, vulnerable feeling in his gaze. He hasn’t said anything, but it’s clear that your reaction matters to him. For a moment, he just looks at you, his mind carefully shielded, giving you no indication of what he’s thinking.

You let out a breath: "I love you so much."

His breath catches. He studies your face intensely, searching for any sign of insincerity, but your eyes are clear and honest, your expression unguarded. After a moment, he nods slightly, accepting the words without arguing, though he doesn’t say the words back. Instead, he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer, his arms encircling your body as he buries his face against the crook of your neck.

Eventually, you mumble: "We should get off the piano."

With some reluctance, he pulls away, shifting back from the piano. He stands up, holding a hand out to help you off. You climb down. He steadies you as you stumble against him, your legs still feeling shaky. He can’t bring himself to let go immediately though, one hand on your waist, the other on your shoulder, as if making sure you don’t fall over. When he finally does pull away, there’s a small frown on his face. The vulnerability earlier has disappeared, replaced by a more familiar, impassive, unreadable expression.

You kiss his cheek in thanks. He’s silent as you do so, his expression still guarded, but there’s a slight, almost imperceptible tensing in his jaw as if he’s trying to keep himself from reacting. After a moment, his hand comes up to your chin, tilting your head up so you’re forced to meet his gaze. You peck him on the lips. He doesn’t react at first, staying still like a statue. It only lasts a moment, though, and then he’s wrapping an arm around your waist, drawing you against him, pulling you flush against his chest. His hand grips your jaw, the other tight at your waist, holding you close. He kisses you hungrily, passionately, almost desperately, like he’s trying to pour all his mixed feelings into the kiss. Then as if nothing has happened, he straightens up and murmurs: "We should clean up." He draws his wand and the residue of earlier activity disappears off the piano.

He watches as you put your dress back on, his eyes tracing over your bare legs, then trailing up your body to where your dress still shows evidence of your earlier passion, the hem of your skirt slightly wrinkled. After a moment, he clears his throat.

You look up: "Yes?"

He keeps his voice carefully neutral, trying not to let the desire in his eyes bleed through his words. He nods at your disheveled appearance: “You look a little unkempt, my dear.”

You scoff: "Oh, apologies, darling. Perhaps you should assist in bathing me."

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his face, obviously not expecting that response. He strides over to you, closing the distance between you in a few quick steps. "It’d be my pleasure."

You slide away from him before he can grab you and dart to the bathroom. He lets out a huff, watching as you practically run away, bemused. He considers chasing you, but then he realises you’re heading to the bathroom, and he follows you instead.

Note: I didn't mean to violate a piano but a couch would be too boring and I didn't want to condemn the Reader to crawl on the floor in this one. This is my first time publishing smut so grant me some mercy, I'm very embarrassed.

A/N: Well hello there my lovelies! I'm pretty new to this whole writing stuff (I've always been more of a passive reader) and am really just trying to have fun with it so I hope I can make you guys happy with my creations🤭 I have no set schedule for when I'll write something but I'll do my best to create some fun stuff for you to read when I get some inspiration. I don't take writing requests because I'm really just using this platform to have fun with what I feel like writing. BUT I am always open to hearing your thoughts about my existing pieces!

Remember, you are responsible for your own media consumption so read the warnings and make smart decisions😌

Please DO NOT copy or repost my work! But of course, feel free to reblog and comment to your heart's content😘

Have fun yall😏

MASTERLIST

Loki Laufeyson

His reaction to your nipple piercings (Drabble) (18+ MDNI!)

Logan Howlett

NSFW Alphabet (18+ MDNI!)

SFW Alphabet

Bucky Barnes

Jasper Hale

Severus Snape

Draco Malfoy

Headcannons (coming soon…)

This got me all warm and in my feels for Autumn🥰

The Great Outdoors

Summary: Logan takes you on a camping trip, but his survival skills are hilariously outdated. Between using a rock instead of a proper camping tool and attempting to start a fire with his claws (which ends up in a mini bonfire), you can’t stop laughing. Eventually, you both end up cuddled in the tent, sharing ghost stories that lead to goofy scares and unexpected confessions of affection.

Pairing             : Wolverine!Logan Howlett x Female!Human-reader

Genre              : Fluff

The sun was already dipping low behind the trees when Logan parked the truck. He got out like he was about to conquer the wild, while you stood there, looking at the woods and trying not to laugh at the seriousness on his face. Logan wasn’t the camping type—or at least, not the “modern” kind. He was more like the “rough it with nothing but your fists and claws” type.

This was going to be interesting.

“So, what’s the plan, Bear Grylls?” you teased, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

Logan grunted, pulling out a rolled-up tent from the back of the truck. “Survive. That’s the plan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow, so detailed. I feel so prepared.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve done this a hundred times. Just follow my lead, and we’ll be fine.”

Oh, boy.

You made your way into the clearing Logan had apparently scoped out beforehand. It wasn’t bad, actually—nice little spot near a river, surrounded by trees that rustled softly in the evening breeze. As soon as you set your stuff down, Logan got to work... sort of.

He started with the tent. You watched him as he unfolded it, frowning like the damn thing had personally offended him. “These damn things get more complicated every year,” he muttered, trying to shove a pole into one of the sleeves.

“Need some help?” you asked, biting your lip to keep from laughing as he wrestled with it.

“Nah, I got it,” he grumbled, jamming the pole so hard it almost snapped.

Five minutes later, the tent was half-collapsed, one corner flapping in the wind, and Logan was cursing under his breath.

“I think it’s supposed to stand up, Logan.”

He shot you a look, then glanced back at the tent. “It’s fine. I’m just, uh... testing its durability.”

You let out a snort, shaking your head. “Right. Maybe you should just let me handle that.”

“I’m a grown-ass man,” he muttered, glaring at the tent like it had insulted his mother.

“Yeah, and you’re losing a fight to a piece of nylon.”

After another moment of watching him struggle, you stepped in and started putting the thing together while Logan, not exactly one for sitting still, decided to gather firewood. He disappeared into the woods with nothing but his claws, because why bring a hatchet when you’re Logan?

By the time he came back, arms full of sticks and logs, the tent was up and looking perfect. You leaned against it, smirking as he dropped the wood into a pile.

“See?” you said, gesturing to the tent. “That’s how it’s done.”

Logan grunted, clearly not impressed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see you start a fire.”

You crossed your arms. “Watch and learn, old man.”

He grinned, that dangerous little glint in his eye. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

Logan, being Logan, didn’t just gather some twigs and light them with a match like a normal person. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, he pulled out his claws and crouched next to the fire pit, sparks flying as he struck them against a rock.

“Logan, that’s not how—”

Whoosh!

The pile of wood lit up like someone had dumped gasoline on it. Flames shot up higher than you thought possible, and you stumbled back, laughing your ass off while Logan jumped up, cursing.

“Goddammit!” He swiped his claws through the air, trying to beat the flames down. “I meant to do that.”

“Oh, sure,” you choked out between laughs, wiping at your eyes. “That’s the perfect height for roasting marshmallows, right?”

Logan glared at the mini-bonfire for a second, then at you. “Next time, you can light the damn thing.”

You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound of it bouncing around the trees. Logan finally cracked a smile, though he tried to hide it behind a gruff mutter.

After some careful maneuvering (read: Logan finally letting you fix the fire), you both settled down for the evening. The fire was low, crackling softly, the night air cool around you. Stars were starting to peek through the darkening sky, and the only sounds were the soft hum of the forest and Logan chewing on beef jerky.

You leaned back against a log, holding your hands out to the fire. “So, what now? Gonna show me your impressive ghost story collection?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, gnawing on his jerky like a wild animal. “Ghost stories? What are we, twelve?”

“Come on,” you teased. “Everyone knows camping isn’t complete without ghost stories. It’s like... the law.”

He scoffed but leaned back, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Alright. You want a ghost story? I’ll give you one.”

“Oh, this oughta be good.”

Logan cleared his throat dramatically. “So... once upon a time... there was this girl. Thought she was real tough. Real smart.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this about me?”

“Shhh, I’m tellin’ a story here,” Logan said, smirking. “Anyway, she thought she could survive out in the wild with just a little ol’ tent and her wit. But one night, she heard a rustling in the trees... something... watching her.”

You leaned in, playing along, even though you knew exactly where this was going. “Oh, yeah? What was it?”

Logan’s eyes widened theatrically. “A bear! Big, ugly thing. Twice her size. It came into her camp, sniffin’ around, and you know what she did?”

You shook your head, grinning. “What?”

“Nothing. She just froze. The bear ate all her snacks, tore up her tent, and left her sittin’ there in her own piss.”

You burst out laughing. “Wow, Logan. Truly terrifying. 10/10. I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks.”

Logan grinned, leaning closer. “I got more. You’ll be beggin’ for mercy by the end of the night.”

You pushed his shoulder lightly. “You’re such an ass.”

As the night deepened and the fire began to die down, you both retreated into the tent. It was surprisingly cozy inside, the faint warmth of the fire lingering outside while you snuggled into your sleeping bag. Logan stretched out beside you, his body taking up way too much space, but you didn’t mind.

“Comfy?” you asked, glancing at him as he wiggled around.

“Like a fuckin’ sardine,” he muttered, trying to adjust in the small space. “Who the hell makes these tents so damn small?”

“They’re meant for normal-sized people, not... whatever the hell you are,” you said with a smirk.

Logan snorted. “Mutant privilege. I need bigger accommodations.”

You both lay there for a few minutes, the quiet settling in around you. Logan’s breathing was steady, his body warm next to yours, and despite his earlier grumblings, you could tell he was content. This whole camping thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

“Alright,” you said suddenly, turning to face him. “I’ve got a ghost story.”

Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, so you went on.

“There’s this guy, right? Big, tough, hairy—like, really hairy. The kinda guy you wouldn’t wanna meet in a dark alley.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but you kept going.

“And one night, he decides to go camping with this totally amazing girl—smart, funny, great taste in camping snacks—”

“Wow, I wonder who this is about,” Logan deadpanned.

“Shhh,” you said, stifling a laugh. “But the thing is... the guy? He’s got a secret. See, he acts all tough, like nothing scares him, but deep down? He’s terrified of one thing.”

Logan looked over at you, eyes narrowing. “What?”

You grinned, leaning in close. “Commitment.”

Logan blinked, then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, smiling. “But you know I’m right.”

He didn’t deny it, just stretched out a hand to pull you closer, his arm wrapping around you with an ease that made your heart flutter a little too fast.

“I’m scared of plenty of things,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “Just not the same kinda things as you.”

“Like what?” you asked, curious now.

Logan looked at you, his eyes serious for once. “Losing people. People I care about. That’s what scares me.”

The confession was quiet, unexpected, and it hit harder than you’d thought. You swallowed, unsure of what to say, but Logan just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, pulling you in tighter.

“Guess that makes you a real badass,” you whispered after a moment, your voice barely breaking the stillness of the tent.

“Damn right,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now shut up and go to sleep before I start tellin’ real scary stories.”

You smiled against his chest, warmth spreading through you as the sound of the river and the soft crackling of the dying fire lulled you to sleep. And maybe, just maybe, you’d both survived the great outdoors after all.

best friend's brother! tom finally gets you alone

NAVIGATION // home. tag. moodboard. more.

author's note: the demons...they're getting loud again. i'm actually so feral for possessive and obsessive tom. I fear I might make this my whole personality now.

obsession. 

tom riddle was, in every sense of the word, obsessive. the fixation and compulsion he poured into the things he loved had always been a marker of his character. tom was not the type of person to casually partake in something; for the eldest riddle brother, the best things in life were worth being consumed by. 

and he was. 

utterly and irrevocably consumed by you. 

y/n, mattheo’s sweet and innocent best friend. the one whose pretty eyes and lovely smile haunted his every waking moment. the one whose honeyed voice played in his head like a melody and enticed him like a siren’s song. the one whose gentle touch sent his heart racing until he felt as though the damned thing was going to burst out of his bloody chest. 

you had no idea what you did to him, but you would soon enough because tom had a plan. for weeks, he had been plotting and scheming. trying to find the right time to finally get you all to himself. 

fortunately for him, the opportunity arose one fateful evening when mattheo left his phone unattended in the living room. it was so easy, almost too easy, to guess his brother’s password and open up his most recent text thread with you. 

mattheo: come over tonight? 

tom watched as three dots appeared on the screen, indicating that you were currently typing a response. 

y/n: will tom be there?

now that was interesting. perhaps you were asking because you wanted him to be there. wanted him as much as he wanted you. 

mattheo: yes. why do you ask?

y/n: I just don't want to be a bother. I know tom likes to study on tuesdays and me coming over would probably disrupt that.

tom couldn’t help but smile. such a thoughtful, caring girl. he couldn’t wait to ruin you. 

mattheo: tom will be fine. so, are you in or not?  i'll grab your favorite snacks. 

y/n: you had me at snacks.

half an hour later, you were standing in the doorway of the riddle home, dressed in one of those pretty little dresses that tom had imagined ripping off of your body a million times. as the door swung open, those innocent eyes widened at the sight of him. you flushed when tom met your gaze, a light pink hue dusting your cheeks. 

"oh. hi, tom. um, is mattheo here? he asked me to come over." 

tom casually leaned against the frame, giving you a once over that only deepened your flush. "my brother just stepped out, but he should be back soon." 

"o—okay. he's probably out getting snacks." 

tom watched as you lingered in the doorway, anxiously fidgeting with the hem of your dress. he thought it was adorable that you were still nervous around him after all this time. biting back a smile, tom opened the door to his home a little wider. 

"are you coming in?" 

“hm?” you asked absentmindedly. “oh. yeah. yes, i’m coming. not like that. I mean, obviously. shit. ignore me please.” 

tom raised a brow, but said nothing as he barely gave you enough of a gap to squeeze through the door. he smirked to himself as you maneuvered your way inside, perky breasts brushing against his solid chest. tom could smell the sweet scent of your strawberry shampoo as you passed through. he wanted to drown himself in it. you timidly avoided his gaze, choosing instead to follow him into the kitchen in silence.

“would you like something to drink?” 

you nodded. “yes, please, i’ll take a —”

before you could finish your sentence, tom handed you a cold can of vanilla cherry soda. your favorite. you thanked him with a shy smile before following him upstairs. instinctively, you turned in the direction of mattheo’s room, but tom gripped your wrist and kept you in place. 

“you can wait in my room if you’d like. mattheo might be a while. he reeked of weed when he left."

you chuckled. “it does take matty forever to pick out snacks when he’s high.” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other before glancing up at tom through your lashes. “are you sure you don’t mind? I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“i’m sure,” tom confirmed. “I could use the company.” 

with that, you followed tom into his room. unlike mattheo’s, tom’s room was neat and organized. everything was perfect and pristine, much like the man standing before you. tom busied himself by putting away the books and notes on his desk while you fiddled with your fingers, not quite knowing what to do with yourself. 

“sit on the bed,” tom commanded. “make yourself comfortable.” 

“okay.” you replied in a small, breathy voice. 

carefully, you settled at the edge of his bed and crossed your legs. you drummed your fingers against your thigh, pondering how strange this situation was. in all your years of knowing tom, you had never once set foot in his room. at most, you caught glimpses of it when you passed by on your way to mattheo’s room. 

everything was so foreign and interesting. that was the desk where tom does all his studying. that was the closet where he keeps all of his clothes. that was the night stand where he places his glasses on before he goes to sleep. 

that was the bed that he laid in every night. your mind started to wander through all the things that tom had done in this bed. maybe by himself. maybe with someone else. the intrusive thoughts fired off one by one, leaving you flustered. does he soak the sheets when he gets himself off? does he tie his partners to the bed post when he eats them out? does he push their faces into the pillows as he rails them from behind? 

you were so engrossed in your dirty and filthy fantasies that you nearly jumped out of your skin when tom rested a hand on your thigh. 

“hm,” tom hummed. “you’re so jumpy, love.” 

you held your breath as he leaned closer, his face mere inches away from yours. the tension between you ebbed before he carefully took the soda can in your hand and placed it neatly on his nightstand. tom smirked when he noticed the hitch in your breath at his close proximity.

“do I make you nervous, doll?” 

“yes,” you answered truthfully. there was no point in lying. it was written all over your face. “you’re just so…intimidating.” 

“am I?” tom drawled as he slid in beside you, scooting in closer until his thigh was pressed against yours. even through his neatly pressed trousers, you could still feel the heat of his skin on yours. “maybe we just need to get to know each other better.” 

you bit your lip. “i’d like that, tom.” 

“good,” tom drawled. “let’s start with why you think you’d be a bother to me. mattheo told me you were hesitant to come over earlier.” 

you flushed as you stared at your shoes, the curtain of your hair shielding you from tom’s intense gaze. “I know you like your peace and quiet, which mattheo and I probably constantly interrupt. i’m sorry if we’re ever being annoying.” 

“you don’t have to worry about that. you could never bother me,” tom stated in a silky, flirty voice. “the only thing I find annoying is that you’re always with my brother. I just can’t seem to get you alone, can I?” 

you shivered as tom’s gaze flickered down to your lips. “well, we’re alone now.” 

“indeed we are.” you held your breath as tom leaned in closer, the bed dipping under his weight. “you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this. just you and me, without my brother to interrupt. I think about it all the time.” 

tom watched your pupils dilate, reacting to his admission. “what do you think about?” 

“I think about all the things I’d do to you. I think about the way you’d feel, the way you’d sound. if you’d scream or moan or whimper for me.” you shuddered at the sinful confession, rubbing your thighs together as heat rushed to your core. tom’s green gaze felt like a brand against your skin as a predatory look flashed through his handsome face. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” 

before you could react, tom’s mouth was on yours. the kiss was neither soft nor gentle, but instead hungry and possessive. the magnitude of his desire took you by surprise. you had always thought that tom viewed you as nothing more than mattheo’s pesky friend, the one that came over unannounced and wreaked havoc in his life, but apparently you couldn’t have been more wrong. 

tom kissed you like a man starved. he poured all of himself into the action, tangling his fingers through your hair, yanking your head backwards so he could kiss you deeper. you could barely keep up with the way he was devouring you, his tongue dominating yours while you moaned softly into his mouth. 

a gasp escaped your lips as tom picked you up and placed you on his lap. you were dizzy with desire as you straddled him, whimpering when tom bucked his hips against yours which caused his erection to rub against your soaked core. never in a million years would you have imagined tom to be this dirty and filthy as he grabbed and groped and gorged himself on you. 

your breathy moans filled the room as tom slid his right hand underneath your dress and squeezed your thigh before palming you through your panties. you melted into his touch, moaning his name softly while he growled in response. as he slid the lace aside, tom kissed your neck and teased your slit with his fingers. 

“you’re soaked, doll.” tom said with a dark chuckle. “do I make you wet, hm?” 

“yes,” you breathed, eyes rolling back as tom spread your slick ever so slowly. 

he seemed to take this as encouragement, taking his time teasing you, rubbing your clit and spreading your folds until you were reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess. 

“tom, please…”

“so needy,” tom murmured. “what is it that you want, love?” 

“I want…” you bit your lip as tom stroked your pussy. “I want your fingers. I want them inside of me. please, tom.” 

“aw, doll, you sound so pretty when you beg,” tom cooed. “don’t worry, I couldn't resist you even if I tried.” 

without warning, tom plunged his fingers into your pussy. you groaned at the stretch, face heating from how vulgar the scene unfolding before you truly was. tom watched with rapt attention as you squirmed and panted, drinking in every little moan and whimper like a fine wine. his fingers felt like magic as they curled and scissored and flicked inside your walls. the other hand that wasn’t playing with your pussy rested on your hip, gripping tightly as you grinded against tom. 

“that’s it, doll. ride my fingers just like that.” 

tom was mesmerized at the sight of you using him to get yourself off. mattheo’s sweet and innocent best friend was no longer sweet and innocent as tom fingered and ruined you like the perfect little slut that you were. his perfect little slut.

“are you going to be a good girl and cum for me?” 

tears streamed down your cheeks as you rode tom’s fingers like your life depended on it. your mascara and lipstick were both smeared, but you didn’t care as you chased after your orgasm. you gave tom a weak nod, half out of your mind with pleasure. 

tom gripped your chin and forced you to look at him. “answer me, doll.” 

“y — yes. i’m going to…oh god, tom!” you writhed as tom rubbed your clit with the heel of his palm, pushing you over the edge. 

the glimmer in your eyes right before you came unleashed something within tom. the flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes; the parted lips and strained scream, it was enough to drive him insane. he wanted to see you make that face over and over again. 

“you look so pretty when you cum, doll.” tom murmured as he bit down on your neck, staking his claim on your skin. “you’re fucking exquisite.” 

amusement danced in his gaze as you shied away from the attention, cheeks flushed from the praise. tom locked eyes with you before sticking his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean in the most obscene and erotic way you had ever witnessed. 

“don’t get all shy now, love. it’s your cum i’m licking off my fingers and i’ll be damned if you ever feel nervous around me again.” 

you chuckled in disbelief. the tom riddle in your head was supposed to be prim and proper, but the real tom was salacious and vulgar; a version of him that was better than what you could have ever imagined. still, despite the heated exchange, tom was surprisingly tender as he helped clean you up. you blushed furiously as he pulled your dress down and kissed your cheek. 

the timing couldn’t have been more perfect because soon after you were situated, the two of you heard footsteps in the hall. you barely had time to compose yourself before mattheo came barging into the room. 

“tom, have you seen my phone?” mattheo paused in surprise when he found you staring back at him. “oh, hi y/n. what are you doing here?” 

“you asked me to come over and hang out, remember?” 

“did I?” mattheo wondered aloud. “I was pretty baked earlier. guess I must have texted you then. well, i’m free now if you want to watch a movie.” 

tom smirked as you shot a bewildered glance at him. “oh, yeah sure.” 

“by the way, what are you doing in tom’s room? is he boring you to death about his coin collection again?” 

you blushed furiously. “no, uh, we were just…tom and I were…” 

“we were discussing the finer points of human anatomy,” tom lied smoothly. his smirk was still perfectly in place as he glanced over at you. “it was a rather…stimulating conversation. was it not, doll?” 

the tips of your ears were bright red as you nodded in place of a response, because you couldn’t trust yourself to speak at the moment.

mattheo rolled his eyes. “well, if you’re done being a weirdo, y/n and I will be in the basement.” 

you fiddled with the hem of your dress, not quite able to meet tom’s eyes. “um, well, I guess I’ll see you later?” 

tom winked behind his brother’s back. “you know where to find me, doll.”