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here-for-the-captain · 1 month ago

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research purposes

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, honestly just sex, Virgin!Bucky / experienced partner, mutual masturbation, oral sex (f & m receiving), edging, praise, degradation, first time, creampie, piv, Friends to lovers / mutual pining / “we said it was just research”, porn w like barely any plot

word count: 14k

Summary: What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.

notes – not proofread. Inspired by yearning, so many brilliant dating app! Bucky stories, and paired with a side of this ask.

taglist: @suniix @kittieboo @its-in-the-woods @loganficsonly @mcusbarbie @luannastylinsonlupin

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

It started, as many regrettable things did in Bucky Barnes’ life lately, with Sam Wilson saying, “You’ve got to get back out there, man.”

Bucky tried. He really did. Downloaded the apps. Filled out the profile. Chose a picture where he didn’t look too serious, even managed a half-smile that didn’t scream “former assassin” or “haunted 110-year-old war relic.” He answered questions like what his ideal Sunday looked like and whether pineapple belonged on pizza (he didn’t have a strong opinion, but apparently that wasn’t allowed). He swiped. He messaged. He went on one and a half dates. Half, because the second one ended ten minutes in, after the woman asked if his arm “did anything special.”

By the time he showed up at your apartment with a six-pack and that tight-jawed, frustrated look he wore when he was about to punch a vending machine, you knew he’d hit his limit.

“So how’s the wild world of online dating?” you asked, opening the door and stepping aside to let him in.

He didn’t answer at first—just dropped onto your couch like gravity had personally betrayed him and cracked open a bottle. He looked good, of course. He always did. Gray henley hugging his arms a little too well, dark jeans, combat boots still laced tight. His hair was half-tied, a few strands falling loose around his jaw like they were staged there for effect.

You were too busy noticing all of that to catch the expression on his face until he muttered, almost mournfully, “I think I hate people.”

You laughed. “Bad date?”

He stared at you. “She asked if I’d choke her with my metal arm. Then when I said no, she asked if it at least vibrates.”

You choked on your sip of water, sputtered, wiped your mouth on your sleeve. “Wait—seriously?”

“She said it before we even got appetizers.”

You were still laughing as you curled up on the opposite side of the couch, folding your legs beneath you. “Alright, that’s… impressively bold.”

“She said she had a list of things she wanted to ‘check off’ with me. Like I was a theme park ride.”

The smile faded from your face at that. You leaned in. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

He nodded, jaw ticking. “Sam says I need to loosen up. That it’s the modern dating world. That people don’t care if it’s fake or shallow. They just wanna—” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “You know.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Hook up?”

“Yeah.” He stared at the label on his bottle. “I guess I don’t know how to do that. Feels like there’s supposed to be… something more. Connection. Trust.”

You bit your lip. “Well, for the record, I think Sam’s full of shit.”

That got a huff of amusement from him. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Please. I’m his favorite. He’ll forgive me.” You nudged his leg with your foot. “So what now? You gonna become a monk?”

He glanced at you sideways. Then, reluctantly, he said, “I’ve been watching videos.”

You blinked. “Like… YouTube tutorials?”

He didn’t answer.

You raised your brows. “Oh. Those videos.”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug and a not-quite-innocent sip of beer.

“Okay,” you said slowly, “and how’s that going for you?”

“It’s…” He paused, searching. “Confusing.”

You snorted. “Porn? Confusing?”

He turned toward you fully, propping his elbow on the back of the couch. “Yeah. I mean… it all looks so—fake. Screaming, weird positions, no one ever talks, and half the time I can’t tell if the woman’s even enjoying it. It’s just a lot. And none of it tells me what I want to know.”

You blinked. “Which is?”

He looked at you like it was obvious. “What feels good. What’s real. How to actually be good at it.”

The air shifted. You weren’t sure how, but it did. Subtle. Quiet. Like a thread had been pulled too tight between the two of you.

You held his gaze for a long beat. “Okay… so… what are you gonna do about that?”

He blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, reaching for the remote, “you want to learn what’s real, right? What people actually like?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Then let’s learn. Together.”

His brows shot up. “Together?”

You gave him your most innocent look. “I’ll be your accountability partner. We pick a video a week. One kink or theme. We watch it. I’ll tell you what’s bullshit and what’s not.”

He stared.

“Purely educational,” you added, sipping your water like you weren’t offering to be his personal porn translator.

Bucky leaned back, blinking slowly, like he was trying to compute what universe he’d fallen into. Then his lips curled—just a little.

“You’re serious?”

You shrugged again. “You want to know, don’t you?”

He hesitated. Then nodded once.

“Alright then,” you said, grinning. “Welcome to Sex Ed: Uncensored.”

It took you twenty minutes to find a video you were willing to watch with Bucky Barnes next week in your living room.

Not because you were shy—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because everything online was either too much or not enough. Too aggressive. Too fake. Too loud. Too perfectly lit and waxed and moaning like they were being paid by the decibel. You weren’t exactly trying to pick something that would make your best friend come in his jeans, but you also weren’t going to sit through twenty minutes of plot setup involving a plumber.

Eventually, you settled on something soft—two people on a couch, candles, a slow kiss that led to more. It was fake, of course. You could tell by the girl’s perfectly timed gasps and the guy’s overconfident thrusts. But the lighting was decent, the sounds weren’t ridiculous, and you figured it was a good baseline.

“Okay,” you said, clicking play and tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “First lesson. None of this is real.”

Bucky had been quiet since you sat down. Still in his usual jeans and long-sleeve henley, arm slung casually over the back of the couch—but the way he was sitting wasn’t casual at all. He was too still. Too focused. Eyes sharp as if he was scanning a mission brief instead of a blowjob.

You’d positioned yourself one cushion away, just enough space to feel safe, but close enough to catch his body heat when he shifted.

“So what am I supposed to be looking for?” he asked, voice low.

You kept your gaze on the screen. “You’re looking at acting. Rhythm. Eye contact. Whether they seem connected or if it’s just going through the motions.”

“And this is…” He paused, watching the woman gasp as the guy kissed her collarbone. “Fake?”

You hummed. “Mm. Her reactions are too symmetrical. She doesn’t lose track of her breathing. It’s performative.”

He glanced at you. “You notice all that?”

You looked back. “Don’t you?”

His lips quirked, like he wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite make himself. “I’m… noticing more now.”

God help you.

A beat passed. On screen, the guy started fingering the woman slowly—too slowly. Her moans were building like clockwork, breathy and controlled.

You scoffed. “Yeah, no one does that with a straight face. She sounds like she’s warming up for choir practice.”

That got a real laugh from him. A soft one, caught low in his chest, but real. You felt it bloom down your spine like warmth.

The video shifted. Hands moved lower. Mouths opened wider. Bucky swallowed hard and adjusted his posture. Not dramatically. Not enough that you could call it out. But you saw the tension in his neck, the way his metal fingers twitched slightly against the cushion.

“How often do you watch this stuff?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “Lately? Every few days.”

You nodded, pretending that didn’t give you a visual you’d never recover from.

“And how often does it… actually do anything for you?”

Now he looked at you. Really looked.

“Not as much as I expected,” he said. “Feels… disconnected. Like watching someone else eat and pretending you’re full.”

You blinked.

That was so Bucky. So raw. So heartbreakingly honest.

“You ever think that maybe porn isn’t supposed to teach you anything?” you asked. “That it’s more like junk food? Fun in the moment, but not really nourishing?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. But I still wanna know what’s real. What… feels good. For a partner. For me. All of it.”

You hesitated. There it was again—that softness under his shell. That quiet ache to understand things he’d never had the time, safety, or permission to experience. And the knowledge that, despite being old enough to remember ration stamps and first kisses on soda shop porches, he still hadn’t done this.

He was 110. And still a virgin.

You felt the space between you shrink. Not physically—your bodies hadn’t moved. But something else had. Some invisible distance you’d been relying on to keep you safe. Gone.

“You’ll learn,” you said, quieter now. “I’ll help you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure if this was a favor… or a warning.

On screen, the woman cried out in a perfect, pitched moan. You both glanced at the video, then each other.

You reached for the remote and hit pause.

“Lesson two,” you said, turning to face him fully. “That noise? Totally fake. If a woman ever sounded like that with you, she’s probably trying to make you feel better about doing it wrong.”

He raised a brow. “So what does it sound like when it’s real?”

Your mouth went dry. “Depends on the woman.”

He nodded. “What about you?”

The air left your lungs like a sucker punch. Your heart stuttered. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t even smirking. He was asking because he wanted to know. Because he wanted to understand you. You didn’t mean to say what came next. You didn’t think, didn’t weigh it, didn’t breathe.

“You’ll find out.”

It slipped out too easily. Too real. And the moment it hung between you, heavy and charged, you wanted to snatch it back.

Because this wasn’t supposed to be that. This was supposed to be educational. Controlled. A safe little system of research and review. It wasn’t supposed to be about how you’ve been thinking about his hands since the first night he showed up at your door, frustrated and flushed. It wasn’t supposed to be about the crush you’ve been shoving down so long it’s turned into muscle memory. It wasn’t supposed to be personal.

But now he’s looking at you like it is.

Both of you flushed. Silent.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know he was holding. Then his mouth parts—just a little—and you know something’s about to happen.

So you talk first.

“I mean—just… in general,” you add quickly, waving it off, backpedaling so fast it burns. “Like, hypothetically. Not me. Just… some woman. If you’re with someone.”

He doesn’t answer. His lips twitch like he almost smiles, but he’s too smart to call you on it. “Sure,” he says finally, voice low. “Hypothetically.”

You both turn back to the screen but you don’t hit play again and you definitely don’t stop thinking about it.

Bucky was already flushed when you sat down beside him—pink at the tips of his ears, jaw tight like he was bracing for impact. He always held himself so still when he was nervous, like motion might give something away. Tonight, though, there was no hiding anything. You’d picked the kink ahead of time—praise and degradation—and you could see in his face the way he was wrestling with it. Not just the mechanics of it, not just what it meant, but what it would feel like to say those things. To hear them. To mean them. He was dressed soft again—gray cotton shirt, loose at the collar, sleeves pushed to the elbows—and he kept his metal hand clenched, fidgeting with the hem like it might anchor him to the couch.

The video started slow: a woman straddling a man’s lap, murmuring something low into his ear before she began to move. Her moans were ragged, not perfectly timed. Real. Her face flushed and slightly damp. It was a good pick. Realistic. And clearly too much, because Bucky had gone stiff beside you, watching with quiet, fixed intensity that made your skin heat just from proximity.

“Is this…” he asked after a few minutes, voice low, “what praise kink means?”

You nodded, keeping your voice even. “Kind of. It’s about affirmation. Telling someone they’re good. That they’re wanted. That they’re doing well. It makes people feel… safe. Desired.”

He shifted. “Do you like that?”

Your pulse stuttered. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

His eyes flicked to yours, then back to the screen. “Do you like being called a good girl?”

The question was clinical. Curious. But coming from his mouth, it hit like a pulse between your legs.

You swallowed. “Depends on who’s saying it.”

His mouth twitched. You didn’t look at him, but you felt his gaze skate sideways toward you.

He was quiet for another long stretch while the video played. The man in it murmured that’s it, good girl, and you saw Bucky tense beside you again. Not uncomfortably. Just… aware.

Then he asked, quieter this time, “What about… the other side of it?”

You glanced over. “You mean degradation?”

He nodded.

You hesitated. “It’s not always mean or rough. It’s about power. Giving someone permission to say things they’d never say otherwise. Because it’s still about trust.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “Do you like it rough?”

You blinked.

God, he had no idea what he was doing to you.

Your legs pressed tighter together. “Sometimes. Depends on the partner. Depends on the mood.”

He nodded again, thoughtful, like he was cataloging it. Like he was filing that knowledge away somewhere quiet and dangerous.

“Do you like being called a slut?”

The question hit your bloodstream like heat. You inhaled sharply.

His gaze shot to you instantly, worried. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to be—“

“No,” you said quickly, your voice a little too high, “it’s okay. I expect you to be honest. Be curious.”

You were both too still now. The woman on screen was moaning—loud, unraveled, praising the man beneath her for how good he made her feel—and you realized you hadn’t looked at the video in minutes. Bucky wasn’t watching it either. He was watching you.

There was something in his expression—uncertainty, yes, but also something hotter beneath it. Not lust, exactly. Something more dangerous. Desire tethered to restraint. And that was worse somehow. That he wanted this. That he wanted you. And that he was trying so hard not to.

You could feel your pulse in places you didn’t want to admit. He didn’t know what he was doing to you—but maybe he did. Maybe he was starting to.

Your mouth felt dry, but you forced yourself to answer. Not clinically. Not playfully. Just… honestly.

“Yes,” you said, and you felt yourself flush from the chest up. “Yeah. I do. Especially with someone I trust.”

That silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable. Not ashamed. Just full. Full of everything unsaid. Everything hinted at.

Bucky’s lips parted—just slightly. And even though he didn’t say anything, you watched his throat move as he swallowed. Hard.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Good to know.”

You turned back to the screen, but you didn’t see any of it. The words you’d just said were still hanging between you. Too loud. Too intimate.

And you? You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d say it. How it would sound with his voice, low and raspy. How it would feel to be his slut—not for the world, not for performance, but privately, reverently, like it was something only he got to call you. Something earned. Something trusted.

You didn’t say any of that.

You just shifted on the couch and prayed he couldn’t see the way your thighs pressed together.

You realized your breathing had gone shallow.

You weren’t supposed to be this affected. You weren’t supposed to let his questions unravel you. But he was so gentle when he asked, so serious, like this was something sacred. Not for performance. Not for ego. Just for knowing.

“I don’t know what I like yet,” he admitted softly, turning back to the screen. “I just know I want to make someone feel good. Make them feel safe. Or wanted. Or ruined. If that’s what they want.”

You closed your eyes.

You can’t do this, your mind screamed. He’s your best friend. He’s never even had sex. He trusts you.

But none of that stopped the ache in your core. None of that stopped the little noise you made in your throat when he said “ruined” like a prayer. None of that stopped the moment when your knees bumped together and neither of you moved away.

By the end of the video, you were flushed and trembling, brain fogged with heat and guilt. You stood too quickly, pretending to stretch, gathering your things to hide the tremble in your fingers.

“It’s late,” you said, voice carefully neutral. “You mind if I crash here?”

He shook his head, almost too fast. “No. No, of course not.”

He grabbed a pillow for you, set it on the couch, handed you a blanket without meeting your eyes.

But when he turned to leave the room, he paused in the hallway. “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder. “For… helping.”

You nodded, but your throat was too tight to answer.

The apartment was silent.

Not peaceful. This silence was the heavy kind. The kind that hangs in the corners of rooms that are pretending not to feel full. The kind that creeps in between breaths and settles on skin. You lay there beneath Bucky’s extra throw blanket on the couch, eyes wide open in the dark, one hand resting over your stomach like that might calm the storm gathering beneath it. But nothing helped. Not the stillness. Not the shadows. Not even the deep, anchoring breath you took as you stared at the ceiling and tried to think about anything else.

You couldn’t.

Not after the things he asked. Not after the way he looked at you.

Do you like being called a slut?

You did. God, you did—especially from someone you trusted. From someone who said it not to demean you but to own you, ruin you, reverently. You never said that out loud before. Not to anyone. But you’d said it to him. Your best friend. The man whose voice was still echoing in your core from the way he asked about what made you feel good, like he was begging for a map.

It wasn’t supposed to be this intimate. You weren’t supposed to be this affected.

But then… faintly… you heard it.

A sharp inhale. Controlled. Clenched. Followed by a pause so long and so fragile it almost broke.

Then—your name.

Low. Ragged. Not a whisper. A confession.

It knocked the breath from your lungs.

Not imagined. Not a dream. He was on the other side of the wall, in his bed, hand likely wrapped around his cock, and he’d said your name.

It echoed down your spine like something forbidden. Sacred.

You froze, hand clutched in the blanket against your chest. Every hair on your arms stood up. Your whole body went still—except the way your thighs pressed together instinctively, shamefully, greedily.

Then you heard it again.

Your name—drawn out this time. A little more desperate. A little more undone. Then a gasp. A hitched groan that sounded like surrender.

You couldn’t stop yourself.

Your hand slipped beneath the blanket, down past the waistband of your sleep shorts with practiced ease. You were already wet. Already aching. One brush of your fingers confirmed what you’d known since he asked about calling you good girl—you weren’t going to make it through this night without breaking.

Your other hand pressed against your mouth to muffle the sound—your gasp, your breath, the way your hips tilted up into your own touch like you were chasing something that had a name now.

“Bucky.”

You whispered it before you could stop yourself. Once, softly.

Then again—lower. Breathier. Pathetic.

He groaned again through the wall, and you felt it—like a tether between your rooms, between your hands. You matched his rhythm. Or maybe he matched yours. Maybe you were already too close to tell where he ended and you began.

Your fingers moved faster, and all you could see was the way he’d looked at you earlier, how careful he’d been with his words, how hungry he was for knowledge—for connection. And you wanted him to know. You wanted him to hear. You wanted him to know that he made you feel like this without ever laying a hand on you.

And when you came, hand still stuffed between your legs, teeth sunk into your palm to keep from crying out—you let his name tumble out again. Quiet, reverent. Almost like prayer.

“Bucky.”

The silence that followed was sharp. Not awkward or guilty. Just still. The kind of stillness that meant something had changed. Something you couldn’t take back.

You pulled your hand away. Laid it flat over your chest, feeling your heart pound beneath your skin like it was trying to escape.

And you lay there, flushed and alone and lit up from the inside, knowing that in the morning, you’d both pretend none of it happened.

But it had.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

You didn’t speak of it in the morning.

He made coffee. You smiled. He offered you the good mug without asking. You pretended not to notice the faint flush still on his neck.

And he pretended not to look at your mouth for too long.

You weren't going to call him.

You’d told yourself—firmly, out loud—that you would just go home, shower, sleep it off, and pretend you hadn’t come with his name on your lips the night before. But the moment you crossed your apartment threshold, you felt that phantom echo again. That little ache, that pulse that lived behind your ribs now. And it wasn’t just the memory of touching yourself. It was the memory of him, moaning into the quiet, saying your name like it was a secret.

But when the phone rang, and his name popped up, you didn’t hesitate. You answered mid-ring.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual.

There was silence on the other end—then a breath. Low, quiet, measured.

“Hey,” he said. Your stomach flipped. “I wasn’t gonna call,” he added quickly. “I didn’t want it to be weird. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about… last night.”

The words hung there. Fragile. Teetering.

You sat down on your bed, the phone pressed tight to your ear. “Me neither.”

More silence.

“Did you…” He cleared his throat. “You heard me.” It wasn’t a question so you didn’t bother denying it.

“I heard you.”

He drew in a low breath before saying, “I heard you too.”

You let your eyes fall shut, the weight of it washing over you. It should have been embarrassing. It should have made you want to hide under a blanket and pretend you’d never offered to be his sex-ed Sherpa. But instead, it felt like something broken open. Something tender and a little terrifying.

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” he admitted, voice lower now. Not ashamed. Just honest. “I don’t even know why I said your name. It just… slipped out. I was thinking about your voice. The way you talk during those videos. The way you sound when you laugh.”

You let out a quiet breath, your thighs instinctively pressing together.

“Bucky…”

“You can hang up if you want,” he said. “I’ll get it. I know this isn’t what we signed up for. But if you don’t—”

“I don’t,” you said, a little too fast. Then softer, “I don’t want to hang up.”

You heard his inhale. Sharper. Like relief. Like release.

“What do you want, then?” he asked. His voice had changed—just slightly. Thicker. More need than shame.

“I want…” You swallowed. “I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, strained and breathless.

“You,” he said, instantly. “Just you. Always you. The way you looked at me last night. The way your voice got quiet when I asked if you liked being called a slut. The way you said yes.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“I didn’t know if I could say that,” he continued, voice a little rougher now, lower. “But the second I did… I couldn’t stop picturing it. You, looking up at me like that. Trusting me to say it. To mean it.”

You reached for the waistband of your sleep shorts. Your fingers slid beneath, already aching for pressure. “Are you touching yourself now?”

“No,” he said, like a confession. “But I want to.”

“Then do it.”

There was a soft rustle, a shift of fabric, the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

You slipped your hand lower, fingers parting yourself slowly, deliberately.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he said, voice a whisper now. “I want to follow.”

“I’m already wet,” you said, just to see what it would do to him. The soft groan he let out in response? It wrecked you.

“I’m circling my clit,” you whispered. “Slow. Just enough to tease. I don’t want to rush it.”

He exhaled, shaky. “God. Okay. I’m—yeah. I’m doing the same. Slow strokes, I mean. Just enough to feel it.”

The sounds of your breaths tangled between you. Soft. Building. You’d never done this with anyone before—not like this. Not with someone you trusted with your life. Not with someone who sounded like they needed you.

“Are you squeezing tighter now?” you asked. “I would be. If I were touching you.”

“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck. Keep talking.”

“I’d let you call me that,” you murmured. “Call me your good girl. Or your slut. If you wanted.”

“You’d let me ruin you,” he said, wrecked.

“Yes.”

You matched each other—pace for pace, breath for breath. You whispered his name. He moaned yours. You didn’t speak in full sentences anymore, just gasps, curses, desperate little fragments of want.

When it hit you, it rolled through your body like a wave—so intense you had to muffle yourself in your pillow to keep from crying out.

“Oh fuck—” he groaned, voice breaking on your name. “Oh my God—”

The silence afterward was dizzying. You both panted quietly, nothing but the faint rustle of sheets and ragged breath on the line.

Then finally, he spoke.

“So… that was okay?” His voice was low, still catching at the edges like he wasn’t sure he’d just lived through that.

You smiled faintly, still breathless. “Yeah. That was okay.”

“Even when I said your name?”

“Especially then.” Silenced hummed on the line, charged but steady.

“So… that’s allowed?” he asked, almost careful. “Thinking about each other? While we’re…”

“Yes,” you said gently. “That’s allowed.”

“Okay.” A pause. Then, quieter, he added, “Just making sure. I want to get it right.”

You softened. “You are.”

“Do we stop now?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Or… do we do this again?”

You tilted your head against the pillow, heart fluttering. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, breath a little uneven. “But only if you tell me you want to.”

You inhaled slowly. “Then we’ll do it again.”

Another silence settled. Not uncertain. Just full of what you weren’t naming.

“Next time,” he added, voice even softer now, “just tell me what to do. I’ll listen. I’ll follow.”

You smiled into the dark. “Good,” you whispered. “Then we’ll keep going.”

Neither of you said goodbye. You just stayed on the line. Breathing together.

Still research. Still practice.

But your body already knew the truth: You were learning each other and you didn’t want it to stop.

He picked the kink this time.

You didn’t expect that. Bucky had texted you two days earlier with a quiet, simple message—“I want to learn about edging. Saw it in someone’s bio and thought it was about mountain climbing or something.” And maybe it shouldn’t have made your thighs press together instantly, but it did. Because it wasn’t just the kink—it was the tone. The intent. The way, that in your mind, it hinted at something deeper: control, patience, the precision of restraint. The idea that maybe he wanted to be the one drawing it out. Delaying you. Watching you squirm.

So when you showed up at his apartment that evening, there was already a low simmer under your skin.

You sat on the couch beside him—closer this time. No empty cushion between you. Just his thigh near yours, body warm and solid. You told yourself it was fine. You’d shared a bed during missions before, leaned on him when you were tired, patched up his cuts and bruises more times than you could count. But this? This was different. This was sitting too close with a very specific purpose: to talk about what it would feel like to keep each other trembling on the edge of release.

The video started.

You’d found one together—mutual agreement. It wasn’t crude, wasn’t wild. It was slow. A man’s voice coaxing a partner through waves of pleasure. Holding her down gently, mouth at her ear, whispering that she wasn’t allowed to come yet. That she was doing so well. That he wanted to watch her fall apart, over and over, without giving in. It was rhythmic. Breathless. Intimate.

And it hit you like a storm.

You didn’t show it, not really. You crossed your legs. Sat straighter. Said something dry about the lighting being good. But Bucky wasn’t stupid. He’d learned how to read people like maps long before you ever met him. You could feel his attention on you—just the edge of it, not enough to call out, but enough to make your skin hum.

“You like this,” he said after a minute, voice low, almost curious. “Not the video—the feeling.”

You didn’t answer at first. Just kept your eyes on the screen and shrugged.

“It’s about power,” you said eventually. “Letting someone else hold you at the edge. Trusting them to bring you back. It’s frustrating, but when it’s done right, it’s…” You exhaled slowly. “Really, really good.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift. His left hand flexed on his thigh, metal fingers twitching slightly like he was resisting the urge to reach for something. Or someone.

“I think I’d like giving that,” he said quietly. “Being the one in control.”

You turned your head to look at him. He didn’t flinch under your gaze. Didn’t look away. And for a moment, the air between you felt electric.

You licked your lips. “Wanna try?”

A flicker of something moved across his face—surprise, heat, resolve. “Yeah,” he said. “Just talk. Nothing physical.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

And then, just like that, the game began. You leaned back into the couch, tilted your head, and let your voice dip low.

“If you had me like that,” you said, eyes locked on his, “you’d have to start slow. Tease me. Touch everything but the places I need. Make me beg for it.”

His breathing shifted. You saw it. Barely—just the lift of his chest, the way his jaw flexed like he was biting back a sound.

“I’d pull your hips down,” he said, voice steady, but you could hear the effort behind it—like he was trying not to bite the words, to keep control. “Set you right on my thigh. Bare. So I could feel how wet you are. Make you grind on me. Slow.”

You inhaled through your nose, sharp, chest rising. Your fingers twitched against your thigh. “You’d hold me there?” you asked, your voice lower now. Wrecked and trying to hide it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Palms flat on your waist. Just enough pressure to keep you from going anywhere. I’d let you move, but not how you want to. I’d watch your face every time you got close.”

You swallowed hard. Your whole body had gone tight. Your pulse thundered in places it shouldn’t. The couch felt too warm. The space between you practically hummed.

“Then what?” you managed.

“Then,” he said slowly, his eyes dragging down your body before flicking back to your mouth, “I’d stop. Right before you came. Just to see what you’d do.”

That made something throb low in your belly.

“Cruel,” you breathed.

His voice dropped an octave, going rough and sure. “But you’d take it.”

Your breath hitched—barely—and his gaze dragged down. He caught the twitch in your legs, the way you subtly clenched your thighs. Noticing. Calculating.

And then he said, “You like when I talk like that.”

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t, not when he could see you shaking like a leaf. With his super soldier senses he could probably smell how wet you are.

He huffed a quiet laugh—more breath than sound, but the way he looked at you afterward nearly lit your skin on fire. “I like making you squirm,” he said, soft and certain. “Think I like this more than I thought.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Figured you would,” you whispered, voice thin. “You’re a control guy.”

His smile turned boyish. “What gave me away?”

“Buck, I’ve seen you on missions.”

“Good,” he murmured, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes on you. “Because I’ve got a lot of ideas I haven’t tried yet.”

You were soaked. Burning. And completely untouched. And it wasn’t fair. You were supposed to be teaching him.

So maybe that’s why you breathed out— “your turn,” before you could stop yourself.

His brow twitched. And you leaned in—just a little, just enough to watch his mouth part— and spoke. “I’d get on my knees in front of you,” you said softly. “Pull your sweats down just enough. Wrap my hand around your cock—slow, not tight. Just enough to tease.”

His breath came faster now, his shoulders squared.

“Then I’d use my mouth. Just on the tip. I’d hold your thighs down so you couldn’t move, Buck. Keep you right at the edge. Warm and wet and perfect. And every time you got close?”

You smiled faintly. “I’d stop. And start again. Until you begged.”

He shifted. His hand dragged across his thigh like he didn’t trust it to stay still.

“You’d beg, wouldn’t you?”

He nodded once, jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You watched the way his hips subtly shifted. The fabric was stretched tight now, and there was no hiding it—he was hard. Really hard. And there was a small dark spot on the front of his sweats— he was hot and heavy and leaking. And he wasn’t even pretending to be unaffected anymore.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. His gaze burned. “You’re not playing fair,” he said.

“You started it,” you replied, trying not to sound as breathless as you felt.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then lower. And lower. “You gonna let me walk out of here like this?” he asked, voice thick and ruined.

“What, you want extra credit now?” you murmured, letting your eyes trail down his body, trying desperately to play it cooler than you felt. “You’ll survive.”

He exhaled through his nose, short and sharp, a quiet fuck under his breath. His hands fisted in the fabric of his own sweatpants like he needed an anchor.

“It’s past midnight,” he said, voice uneven.

“So?”

“You should stay.”

Your brows lifted.

“No funny business,” he added quickly, trying to sound casual and failing completely.

You gave him a small smile. “No funny business,” you echoed, rising carefully from the couch. Your legs felt boneless.

“Guest room’s made up,” he offered, already standing. Already flustered again. “Sheets are clean.”

“You don’t have to sell it.”

He chuckled. Just barely. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You stepped past him, and the space between your bodies crackled. His knuckles twitched at his sides. He looked like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t.

“Good night,” you said.

“Night.”

You closed the door to the guest room behind you, leaned against it with a shaky exhale. Then your shorts came off. Your fingers found slick skin in seconds.

You were already so close. Didn’t even have to try. When you came, hand between your thighs, you had to bite the pillow to stay quiet. You failed, miserably, when you heard your own voice cry out his name into the darkness of the room.

And then you heard it through the thin wall. Rhythmic. Urgent.

Bucky.

You didn’t hear your name this time. Not at first. Just the quiet thud of his head hitting the headboard. The stuttering breaths of a man trying not to lose control.

And failing.

Especially when you finally heard your name leave his lips in a strangled noise, like he attempted to swallow it as it came out.

It was the hottest thing you’d ever heard.

This week started with the video. Like normal.

You’d picked it out carefully—slow, sensual, deliberate. It wasn’t graphic in the traditional sense. No pounding, no aggressive music or slapping bodies. Just hands. The camera focused entirely on touch. Palms, knuckles, wrists. Grip and glide. Pressure and pulse. A soft exhale timed perfectly with the way one thumb circled.

You sat side by side on the couch again, but closer than usual. Your thighs touched once or twice—accidental brushes you didn’t acknowledge. The air between you had weight. Heavy. Quiet. You’d been riding that edge for days now. Ever since the phone call. Ever since the second night you both whispered each other’s names into the dark and came alone but together.

Now, you were watching the slow pump of someone else’s hand on someone else’s cock, and you could feel him breathing beside you. Tight and shallow. His forearms rested on his thighs, tense and coiled like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. His eyes were locked on the screen, unblinking.

You reached over and grabbed his hand.

He startled—just slightly—and looked at you. You didn’t say anything. Just took his fingers in yours, curled them loose in your palm, and adjusted the position of his thumb.

“Grip,” you said quietly, like it was part of a lesson. “Not too tight. Let them feel it. Use your whole hand, not just your fingers.”

Bucky didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either. You demonstrated the rhythm on his own hand, using slow strokes up his fingers. His breath caught when your thumb brushed over the sensitive pad of his index finger. His pupils were blown wide.

“See?” you said, like you weren’t affected. Like you hadn’t been clenching your thighs since the video started. “Pressure matters more than speed.”

You looked up.

And that’s when he said it.

“I just…” He stopped, exhaled hard through his nose. “I just want to learn how to make my partner feel good. How to touch for pleasure. Teach me how.”

It was earnest. Desperate, even. You could hear the frustration behind it—the way it burned in his throat, how long he’d been carrying it. A century of want. Of not knowing. Of feeling behind and broken and left out.

And you snapped.

“No,” you said, sharply. Too sharp. You didn’t want to picture it— him doing any of this with anyone other than you. You didn’t want anyone hearing the way he sounded when he came. That was yours. Only yours.

His expression shifted in an instant. Shock. Panic. He blinked, mouth parting like he’d made a mistake, like he was about to apologize.

“I won’t teach you how to touch just anyone,” you said again, softer now. Your chest heaved. The words spilled out, unplanned and unstoppable. “I’ll teach you how to touch me.”

Everything stopped. The silence rang. His lashes flickered. His lips parted again. He stared at you like you’d just rerouted the entire axis of his world.

Then it happened.

You shifted forward, still holding his hand. Slowly, deliberately, you guided it to your thigh. His palm trembled against the fabric of your sleep shorts. You moved it higher. He followed. His fingers flexed gently against the inside of your leg, uncertain but eager.

“Here,” you whispered. “Start here.”

Your own hand moved to his waistband. You paused, asking permission with your eyes. He nodded once—tight and sharp—and you slipped your hand under the band of his sweats.

He was already hard. Thick and warm and twitching at the first touch.

His breath stuttered. “Fuck,” he whispered.

You stroked him slowly, just like you’d taught, and he mirrored you. His fingers slid beneath the edge of your shorts, finding the heat between your thighs, tentative at first, but gaining confidence as he listened to your breath, your reactions.

You gasped when he finally found your clit. Moaned when he rubbed in a slow, steady circle.

“Like that?” he asked.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Just like that. Keep going.”

His fingers moved with purpose now—no longer timid, but reverent. Focused. He watched you like you were holy. Like every twitch and sigh from your lips was gospel.

He used what he’d learned.

Praise came first.

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice wrecked as he watched your lips fall open, your head tip back, your thighs part wider under his touch. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

You gasped—your hips twitching in his palm, your hand trembling where it wrapped around the base of his cock. He was hard and twitching, the head flushed and glossy. Every time you moved your hand, his breath hitched. He was watching you now, not the video. Just you. Like he’d never seen anything more perfect.

Then came the edge of something filthier—rougher.

“I bet you’d let me keep you like this all night,” he said lowly, lips brushing your ear. “Dripping and needy, my fingers inside you… right on the edge.”

Your whole body clenched.

You wanted to be embarrassed by the sound that came out of you, but you couldn’t be. Not with his hand moving exactly like that—circling, then pressing, then gliding lower again.

“I would,” you whispered. “God, I would.”

He exhaled sharply—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. Like it had been ripped from your lungs and stuffed directly into his bloodstream. And still, he moved his fingers with care, never rushing. Never losing focus.

And then he stopped.

Your breath caught. You whined.

He pulled back from your clit and just… waited. Watching you. Letting you feel it. That thick ache. That throb of denial.

“Bucky—” you gasped.

His voice dropped to a growl, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Beg.”

You didn’t think. You just felt.

“Please,” you whispered, then louder, desperate now. “Please, Bucky. Please don’t stop. I’m so close. I need—fuck, I need you.”

That did it.

He surged forward, free hand grabbing your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His forehead pressed to yours—intimate, grounding—and his fingers resumed their rhythm, faster now, more purposeful. Matching the movement of your hand on him. Your strokes faltered as your body began to lock up, your orgasm barreling through you like lightning.

“That’s it,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

You shattered.

You cried out his name—bitten, ragged, full of something deeper than release. Your thighs trembled, your hips jerked, and he didn’t stop. He kept you there, coasting the edge, until the aftershocks made your legs shake.

He came seconds later.

His breath caught, head thrown back slightly, a broken groan tumbling from his lips as your name spilled out, reverent and ruined. You felt the hot pulse of it in your hand, his whole body tensing under your touch, his face contorting like it was too much. Too good.

For a long moment, the only sounds were breathing—ragged, desperate, overlapping.

Then silence.

Not awkward silence.

Just… stunned.

You stayed there, curled against each other. His forehead dropped to yours again. Your cheeks were wet with sweat, your lips parted in disbelief. His thumb brushed your thigh, trembling just a little.

“Sweetheart,” he said, so soft it barely made it past his lips.

You didn’t respond at first. You couldn’t. You were floating. Reeling.

Then your hand found his cheek—warm, stubbled, a little damp with sweat—and you leaned in.

You kissed him.

Just once.

Gentle. Slow. Barely more than a press of lips. But it was everything. A thank-you. A confession. A surrender.

A first.

His lips parted against yours like he’d been waiting. Like he knew it was coming but still wasn’t prepared. One of his hands stayed tangled between your thighs, the other splayed wide across your back. He didn’t pull you in. He just held you there. Still. Reverent. Breathing your breath.

When you pulled back, he looked at you like the sky had split open.

You looked away. Not because you regretted it but because if you looked too long, you might do it again.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Eventually, he stood. He helped you sit up, helped you fix your shirt. His fingers brushed your waist as he smoothed it down, then lingered like he didn’t know what to do with them now. You gave him a soft smile—something shy, something real—and that seemed to ground him.

“I’ll, um,” he cleared his throat. “I’ll clean up in the kitchen.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

You didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

Just that same look. That same shift in the air between you. Like something invisible had clicked out of place and couldn’t be put back.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

You looked up at him, hand still resting where his thigh had been. You nodded once. “Yeah. You?”

His mouth curved, half-laugh, half-breathless. “Yeah.”

But you both knew good wasn’t the right word. Neither was okay. You were just… different now.

When you finally parted ways for the night, there was no cheek kiss. No shoulder touch. No playful nudge.

You didn’t need it.

The weight of his first kiss was still on your lips.

And in the silence that followed, alone in your room, you lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Every nerve in your body hummed. You felt marked. Not by his hand or his mouth. But by the moment. The shift.

This wasn’t about sex education anymore. Not really.

You’d passed the point of no return and you both knew it. You couldn’t go back to the way it was. Not when you’d kissed him like it meant something. Because it did.

And that kiss?

That was the beginning of the end.

It started with a video. Like always. But this time, it wasn’t something clinical. It wasn’t a kink they picked to test or dissect or rate.

You’d chosen it deliberately.

The lighting was soft, the camera slow. The man in the video didn’t rush—he worshipped. Kissing down her thighs, trailing his mouth over her skin like she was something sacred. There were no moans played up for show. Just the real ones. Low, breathy, building.

And the way he looked at her.

Like he meant it.

You watched Bucky out of the corner of your eye. He was silent. Still. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed to the screen. He wasn’t flushed like he sometimes got, wasn’t squirming or awkward. He was—entranced. Quiet in that way he got when he was processing. Focused.

His hand flexed slightly on his thigh.

The man on screen spread her open gently, murmuring praise you could barely hear, and Bucky’s breathing changed. Not sharp. Not needy. But reverent. Craving.

Then he spoke, almost too soft to hear. “Can I try?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, pulse thudding. “Are you sure?”

His gaze met yours, clear and solemn. “I’ve been sure since before we started lessons.”

A breath escaped your lips, shaky and disbelieving. Then you stood, wordlessly, and walked to the bed. Your legs felt weak, stomach tight with anticipation. You lay back, heart pounding, and looked up at him.

He followed. Slowly. Carefully. Climbing onto the mattress like he was stepping into something holy.

And then he touched you.

Hands on your knees first, spreading you open with deliberate slowness. Not for the show of it. Not to tease. But to see. To look at you and learn. You felt your face heat under the intensity of it, but you didn’t hide. You couldn’t.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathed.

He lowered his head and then you forgot how to breathe.

His mouth was gentle. Exploring. Warm, slow kisses to the inside of your thighs. Then higher. And higher. The tip of his nose brushed sensitive skin, and you whimpered, arching slightly. Still, he didn’t rush. Carefully he peeled your panties off your legs before diving back between your thighs.

He was careful—too careful, hesitating as he drew his tongue in slow, uncertain passes over your cunt, like he wasn’t sure how much pressure was enough. His breath hitched every time you reacted—a twitch, a gasp, the flutter of your thighs. He paused between each touch, waiting for cues, reading your face like he was memorizing a map in real time.

You were patient. You didn’t rush him.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, soft and encouraging. “Right there, baby. Just like that…”

It helped.

He settled into a rhythm, but you felt the shift—when uncertainty bled into curiosity, then melted into something deeper. His mouth moved more confidently now. Not fast. Not greedy. But deliberate. He listened to your body more than your voice—the stutter of your breath when he flattened his tongue, the way your hips rolled up when he added just the tiniest bit of suction.

Then you whimpered a soft, involuntary, “Bucky.”

His metal hand pressed to your stomach. He didn’t grab. He didn’t pin. He just held—fingers splayed wide, palm cool and steady, anchoring you to the mattress like he felt the way your body was trying to lift off.

The weight of him there—solid, grounding—sent heat spiraling through you.

His tongue moved lower. Then up again. Back to that spot. You cried out, back arching, and his hand flexed.

“Too much?” he asked, voice muffled.

“No,” you breathed. “No, it’s—fuck, Bucky, it’s good.”

He groaned softly against you, like the praise hit something deep in his chest. He tried a little more pressure, then adjusted. Then again. Each time more precise. More sure.

Your legs started to tremble. Your head fell back against the pillows.

“Does this…” he exhaled, voice cracking, “…feel good?”

You nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes—!”

“Do you—” he swallowed, “—do you want more?”

You moaned instead of answering. He took that as a yes. Then his hand tightened against your stomach, holding you down as his mouth moved faster—his tongue flicking, circling, catching the exact rhythm of your breaths like he was made for this.

When your thighs began to shake, he murmured it again, reverent, desperate for confirmation, “Tell me what you like…”

“Right there,” you gasped. “Please, right there—”

And he stayed there. Exactly there. Steady. Controlled. His jaw working, his breath hot against you, the stubble on his chin dragging across sensitive skin.

He was learning you. Not theory. Not performance. Not porn.

You.

And with every second, every ripple of pressure, every gentle tug—he learned faster. Better.

Your orgasm was already building. You could feel it—tight in your belly, creeping outward, electric in your fingertips.

It started as a hum in your belly. A low flicker of heat, something delicate and distant. But with each pass of his tongue, each gentle suck, each perfectly-timed swirl—it grew. You could feel it building, slowly and surely, like a storm rolling toward shore.

Bucky moaned softly against you, and the vibration sent sparks down your spine.

The sound he made—it wasn’t cocky or smug. It was hungry. Reverent. Like he was savoring you, getting drunk on every taste, every twitch of your hips.

He was flushed to the ears. One hand braced on the bed, but the other—God, that metal hand—splayed heavy and firm against your lower belly, the weight of it grounding you, holding you still while your body bucked and shivered.

You whimpered, fingers fisting the sheets. “Right there, baby,” you gasped, voice frayed and high. “Don’t stop—right fucking there—!”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He knew now. He felt it in your thighs clenching around his shoulders, in the way your breath stuttered with every flick of his tongue.

Your head fell back. Your mouth opened. And still, you couldn’t catch your breath. Pressure built and built and built. Every part of you throbbed—tight and trembling, raw and soaked.

And then he sucked right on your clit.

Just a little. Just enough.

Right as his hand pressed you down, hips arching involuntarily, and his mouth moved against you like he needed this, like he’d die if he didn’t make you come.

You shattered.

The orgasm crashed through you so fast and so hard you cried out—his name punched out of your throat like a sob, wild and broken and true.

You weren’t just coming. You were unraveling.

Your body seized, curled forward, the muscles in your stomach locking so tight you thought you might split apart. Your thighs trembled around his head, and still, he held you—gentle but firm, steady as the world tilted.

And when you finally dropped back to the bed, boneless and panting, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

He just rested there, face tucked against your thigh, cheek warm and damp, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

When he did finally lift his head, his hair was a mess—dark and tangled from your fingers. His face was flushed. His lips were pink and wet and slightly swollen.

His pupils were blown.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, glancing up at you, and you saw it—that faint flicker of uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure if he’d done okay.

Your heart clenched.

You blinked through the haze, trying to catch your breath, then murmured, “Sorry… that took a while.”

His brow furrowed, like he couldn’t believe you were apologizing. Then his thumb dragged slow across his lower lip.

“I could do that all day,” he said, voice hoarse and quiet. “Every damn day.”

Your breath hitched. The room pulsed with heat. Your body was still shaking. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t find the words.

So instead, your hand found his jaw—gently—and you pulled him up and kissed him. Not enough to say thank you, but enough for it to be a promise.

You were still catching your breath from the kiss, body trembling, the taste of him on your lips and the echo of his voice in your ears.

But even now—flushed, sweaty, sated—you wanted more. You slid your hand toward him, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Your turn,” you said softly, meeting his eyes.

He stilled. Blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Silence stretched between you, charged and hot.

Then he swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

You sat up, hand gliding over his chest, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I don’t care.”

His breath hitched as you pushed gently on his shoulders, coaxing him to lie back.

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice thin, breathless with nerves and heat. “I’ve never—no one’s ever—if your mouth’s on me, I’m gonna—fuck, sweetheart, I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You smiled as you leaned down, lips brushing just under his ear. “So what? You just made me see stars with your mouth. You think I’m gonna care how fast you come?”

You kissed his jaw. His neck. His collarbone. He was breathing harder already, and you hadn’t even touched him yet.

“I want this,” you whispered. “Let me.”

His hips jerked slightly at the sound of your voice. A deep flush crept up his neck, but he nodded—just once.

So you went slow. Worshipful.

You kissed down his chest, paused to rake your tongue across the sharp plane of his abdomen, just to hear him suck in a breath. When you got to the waistband of his sweats, you looked up. He was staring at you like you were holy.

You slid them down, and his cock sprang free—already flushed, already hard, already leaking.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Bucky groaned and tried to cover his face with his forearm, but you batted it away gently.

“Don’t hide,” you murmured. “Let me see you.”

And then you wrapped your hand around him.

His breath caught.

You stroked him slow, deliberate. Your thumb swiped over the head, spreading the moisture. His thighs tensed. His hands fisted in the sheets.

You used your tongue, flat, to trail from his navel, down his happy trail, all the way down to the base of his cock. Your eyes held his the whole way.

And then your mouth was on him.

Soft and slow. You licked a stripe from base to tip, savoring the salty taste, the way he twitched under your touch. Your lips closed around his head before you took him deeper, inch by inch.

“Jesus—fuck,” he moaned, voice breaking. “Oh my God—baby, wait—wait—”

But you didn’t.

You knew what he wanted. What he needed. You were relentless. Tongue dragging with every bob, hand stroking slow and steady where your lips couldn’t reach. With your free hand, you gently reached up to squeeze his balls.

He was falling apart. Every sound he made went straight to your core. Ragged breaths. Shaky curses. The way he kept moaning your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Feels so good,” he gasped. “You—fuck, you feel so good—your mouth—”

You hummed in response, and he nearly came right then.

His metal hand found your shoulder, gripped tight—not pulling you off, just holding on. Like he couldn’t stay grounded otherwise. His other hand threaded through your hair, gentle but desperate, tugging on you.

“Gonna come,” he choked. “Can’t—fuck, please—”

And still, you didn’t stop.

You wanted it.

You needed to feel him lose control.

And he did—moments later, with a loud, wrecked moan, his hips jerking helplessly, your name on his lips as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed every drop.

Only when he stopped shaking did you lift your head. He looked wrecked. Eyes dazed. Hair wild. Chest heaving. A thin sheen of sweat along his collarbone.

You crawled up beside him, kissing his shoulder, then his jaw. He turned toward you, blinking slowly. Like he was still coming back to his body.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded. Just once. Then again. “I think I blacked out a little,” he whispered.

You laughed softly, brushing his hair back. “That good, huh?”

He smiled, dazed. “You have no fucking idea.”

You kissed his temple and settled against him. No one spoke. But the silence was full of warmth. Affection.

You lay there together, tangled in each other’s limbs, bare and warm and still coming down.

This week it started with a look.

You were curled up on opposite ends of the couch again, the laptop balanced on the pillow between you, playing a video neither of you could name a single actor from.

The setup was tender. Slow. No moaning, no dirty talk—just chemistry. Just eye contact and soft touches and the kind of sex that looked like falling in love.

It should’ve been safe. But you were both too quiet. Too aware.

His arm was slung along the back of the couch. Not quite around you. But close.

You shifted.

He noticed.

So when his fingers brushed your shoulder, feather-light and testing, you didn’t flinch. When you leaned into it—just a little—his breath caught.

The video played on. But neither of you were watching.

The weight in the room changed. It grew thicker. Warmer. Hungrier.

Your gaze drifted to his mouth at the same moment he looked at yours. A shared breath. A slow inhale.

Then you moved at the same time.

The laptop slid off the pillow with a soft thud, forgotten on the cushions. His hand came to your jaw. Yours curled into his t-shirt. And when your mouths met, it was slow. Long. Desperate.

You kissed like you were starving. Like you’d been pretending for too long, breathing in each other’s air but never tasting. Like every second you’d spent not doing this had been a mistake.

Bucky’s mouth opened under yours with a shaky breath, his lips soft and tentative—then eager. It was clumsy at first, but honest. Hungry. Your teeth caught on his bottom lip and he made a quiet, wrecked sound like it had been pulled from the deepest part of him.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer. His arm curled around your back, pulling you half into his lap, and your thighs parted instinctively to straddle him, heat against heat. His other hand came up, hovering like he didn’t know where to touch first—then settling at your waist, fingers splayed.

His chest rose and fell beneath you like he was struggling to keep up. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Your noses bumped. Your lips slid. You kissed again, deeper now. Slower. Wetter. Hot breath tangled between you, your heart pounding so loud you thought it might be audible.

Your hips shifted. Just once. Just enough to feel him, hard beneath the softness of old sweatpants. He groaned against your mouth, muffled, strangled—pure instinct.

Still clothed. Still safe.

But soaked through with want.

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging friction where you both needed it most. His hands spasmed at your waist, gripping you like he might fall apart.

“Jesus,” he whispered, forehead tipping against yours. His voice cracked on the exhale. “Fuck.”

His reaction made your mouth go dry.

You kept moving, gently—rocking forward until the seam of your leggings rubbed just right, gasping softly into his neck. Your body hummed from the pressure, the contact. From the way he held you like he’d never let go.

His metal hand curved over your hip, the coolness of it a contrast to the heat building between your legs. It anchored you. Grounded you. But he still trembled under your touch.

“Baby—fuck, baby—” His voice was falling apart.

You moaned when your nose brushed his jaw, lips dragging across his pulse point. He jolted like it shocked him. Every motion stoked the fire. Every breath was a tether.

Your hand slipped under his shirt—just to touch. Just to feel the heat of his skin. His abs jumped beneath your palm like you’d punched through him. He cursed again, softer this time, like he was talking to himself.

And still—you didn’t stop.

Your thighs clenched around his. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter with every pass of friction, every twitch of his hips beneath you. The couch creaked under your movements, but neither of you cared.

It wasn’t fucking. It wasn’t even naked. But it was everything.

You both came apart like it was the end of the world. You bit your lip and pressed your face into his neck as your body seized, heat flooding through your veins like liquid light. His grip crushed around your waist, and he moaned into your hair, shaking, panting, burying the sound of your name like a secret he couldn’t bear to say too loud.

Your bodies stilled. Your breathing slowed. And then came the silence.

Not awkward. Not heavy. Just still.

You stayed in his lap, legs on either side of him, foreheads pressed together like you didn’t dare break the moment. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt at his chest, and his thumb rubbed slow circles against your spine, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

His voice broke the quiet, rough and low. “This is more than research, isn’t it?”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly to meet his eyes.

They were open—truly open—for the first time. Vulnerable. Unarmored. Like he was showing you a part of him no one had ever touched.

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned forward and kissed him again. Slow. Gentle. Full of promise.

You didn’t need words for the truth of it because you were too far gone and both of you knew it.

After, you lay curled together, limbs tangled, skin still humming with aftershock. He brushed his thumb over your knuckles while your ear rested against his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you both.

The world was still out there. Waiting.

But for now, for just a little while longer—

This was enough.

It was mutual.

That was the part that stung the most. You didn’t even fight about it. No dramatic declarations or slammed doors. Just a shared look—exhausted, hungry, terrified—and the quiet, aching truth of what you both knew:

You needed space. Just a little. Just to breathe.

You left first. Packed your laptop into your bag and told him you’d be working from home for a few days. No reason, no excuses, and still, he walked you to the door. His hand hovered at your lower back like muscle memory, then dropped.

You didn’t kiss him goodbye. You didn’t touch at all. But the air between you crackled like you had.

The first night alone was easy.

You cleaned your kitchen. Ordered food you didn’t finish. Slept with your vibrator still in the nightstand drawer. Easy.

The second night, he texted you: Made stew. Brought some to Sam. Not the same without you stealing all the bread.

You didn’t respond until morning: Next time, leave some bread for me and I’ll consider a truce.

He hearted it. Then nothing.

Two days, you’d later find out. A simple recon op with Joaquín. He didn’t even tell you he was leaving. You stared at your phone more than you’d admit.

But on the third night, you cracked.

He came home, and you—without planning it, without thinking it through—showed up at his place just before dark.

You wore jeans. A hoodie. Hair up. Like you were trying to convince yourself this was normal. This was fine.

“I brought wine,” you said.

He looked at the bottle. Then at you. His eyes softened in that way that made your chest ache.

“Come in,” he murmured, stepping aside.

You sat on opposite ends of the couch. Some indie movie played in the background, low and forgettable. You passed a bowl of popcorn back and forth without brushing fingers. Talked about the mission. About Sam’s latest attempt at matchmaking.

“Apparently, he tried to set me up with a barista,” Bucky said, sipping his wine. “Didn’t go well.”

“Oh yeah?” You smiled tightly, chest fracturing. You gripped your wine glass hard enough that you worried it might shatter. “Why not?”

“She asked if I was emotionally available in the first five minutes. I panicked and told her I still have WWII ration cards.”

You snorted. Then quieted. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Emotionally available.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

You blinked. “Trying?”

He hesitated for just a second—then gave the smallest shrug. “To give this space. To do what we said. To slow down.”

Your heart ached. “Yeah,” you murmured, looking down at your glass. “Me too.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice low. Honest. “I’m not trying with anyone else, you know.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t want to,” he added, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “I don’t care what Sam says or what’s out there on those stupid apps. It’s not—I don’t want this with anyone else. Just you.”

You looked up slowly.

The way he was watching you—open, reverent, a little raw—it made your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. The silence that followed wasn’t angry. Or awkward. It just was.

Weighted and wanting.

And maybe that was worse. Because now you knew—this wasn’t just tension. This was restraint. For you. Only for you.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him. At the flush rising up his neck. The slight tremble in his fingers, betraying how hard he was trying to stay still. He was giving you space, even now. Letting you decide what came next.

You set your glass down gently on the table. Then stood.

His eyes tracked every movement as you walked around the couch. He stayed seated, like if he moved too fast, he might spook you. But when you reached out, he met you halfway.

The kiss was quiet. A question, not an answer. You leaned down, hands on either side of his face, brushing your lips over his with aching care.

Bucky’s hands slid to your waist, thumbs curling into the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t help it. His breath hitched, but he didn’t deepen the kiss. Not yet. He let you lead.

When you pulled back, your voice came out low, steady. “Can I stay?”

His throat bobbed. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Not just to sleep.”

He looked up at you, something wild and open blooming in his eyes. His fingers flexed against your waist. “I know,” he said softly. “I want that too.”

You held his gaze a beat longer, then nodded. “Okay.”

That was all it took.

He stood slowly, hands still on you, never losing contact as he backed toward the hallway. You followed without a word, your heartbeat pounding louder with every step. The house was dim, warm. Familiar. But everything felt different now.

In the bedroom, he turned to face you. His breath came heavier now. The tension in his shoulders made him look bigger in the low light—dangerous, if you didn’t know him. But you did. Every piece. Every inch.

He waited again.

So you stepped in first.

Your fingers found the hem of his hoodie and lifted. He raised his arms, let you strip him down. Underneath, he was flushed already. Breathing shallow. You slid your hands up his chest, over warm skin and scarred muscle, until they rested on his shoulders.

He kissed you then. And this time, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy.

It was months of tension and wanting and not touching, poured into one slow-burning fire.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt like he’d been dreaming of it—like this had played on loop in his mind, and now he was finally allowed to follow the script. He undressed you carefully, reverently, like each layer meant something.

And when he finally had you beneath him, sheets tangled around your legs, breath warm on your mouth, he stilled again.

“I don’t want to rush,” he murmured, thumb stroking over your cheek.

“You’re not,” you whispered, curling your fingers around his jaw. “You’re okay.”

You sat up slowly, guiding him back to sit on the edge of the bed, and climbed into his lap, straddling him with your knees bracketing his thighs.

He sucked in a breath—sharp and ragged—as your hips lowered just enough to brush against the thick outline in his sweats.

You kissed him again. Deeply, deliberately. Tongue sliding slow against his, hands cupping his face, then threading into his hair. He groaned into your mouth like it startled him, like he couldn’t believe how good it already felt.

“I want to touch you,” you whispered, breaking the kiss.

“You can,” he rasped. “Anything you want. Just—please.”

You tugged at his shirt next. He lifted his arms and let you pull it off. His chest was flushed, already damp with heat, rising and falling with each breath. You kissed his collarbone. The center of his chest. Every scar and freckle you could reach. His hand found your hip, steadying himself like he needed the anchor.

Then yours dipped lower. Fingers brushing the waistband of his sweats.

“Can I?”

He nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. Please. Just…”

You slid your hand beneath the fabric. Found him hot and heavy, already leaking, and he gasped—hips twitching involuntarily.

“God,” he whispered. “That’s—I’m not gonna last long if you keep—”

“Shh,” you murmured, stroking him gently, watching his face twist with pleasure. “I don’t care. Let me take care of you.”

Your thumb swept over his tip, smearing the precum, and his whole body tensed.

When he buried his face against your chest, you smiled softly and kept going.

You rocked against him slowly, still clothed from the waist down, dragging friction between your thighs while your hand stroked him in long, languid pulls.

His mouth found your breast. Tentative at first, then more certain as your fingers curled in his hair, guiding him. He licked, kissed, sucked carefully—like he wanted to worship, not rush.

The drag of his lips, the heat of his breath—it sent a low moan vibrating through your throat.

“Fuck, Bucky—”

“I love how you say my name like that,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Say it again.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his. “Bucky.”

He groaned. “I’m losing it, sweetheart. You gotta slow down.”

You didn’t.

You pulled back instead, just enough to get his pants off, then shimmied out of your own. He stared—truly stared—like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

His hand reached out, fingertips barely skimming over your stomach, then lower. You guided him again. You always would. You showed him what felt good. What made you gasp.

And when his fingers slipped between your legs, stroking slow and curious, he swore under his breath.

“You’re so wet already,” he said, voice full of awe. “Is that… all for me?”

“All for you,” you whispered. “You make me feel like this.”

His jaw clenched, like the words physically hit him.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he murmured, slipping one metal finger in, then two, curling them just right as his thumb brushed your clit. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need you.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.

He slowed. Looked up. And that’s when he said it, quiet and raw, “Can I be inside you?”

Your whole body ached at the question. You nodded. Whispered, “Yes,” once. Then again. “Yes, yes.”

Your fingers slid into his hair as you kissed him—slow and soft and sacred—and shifted to guide him where you needed him most.

And everything else—everything—fell away. He lined himself up, and for just a moment his forehead dropped to your shoulder. His breath shook against your skin.

“I’m gonna try to go slow,” he whispered. “But I don’t know if I can.”

You nodded, curling your fingers into the back of his neck, your own chest rising and falling fast. “It’s okay. I want this. I want you.”

He nudged forward, just the tip, and both of you gasped—quiet and sharp. His eyes fluttered shut. “Jesus Christ.”

You ran your hands over his back, the heat of his skin and the tension in his shoulders electric beneath your palms. “You’re okay,” you whispered. “You’re okay.”

He pulled in a shaky breath. Pressed in another inch. Then another. Inch by slow, deliberate inch, like every fraction of movement might split him open.

“Fuck,” he moaned, jaw clenched. “You feel… fuck, you feel incredible.”

You cradled his face, brushed your thumb over the high flush of his cheekbone. “So do you.”

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, almost apologetic.

“You will,” you promised. “You’re gonna make me come first.”

His breath caught again, and something in his expression—awed, reverent, a little wrecked—made your chest squeeze.

When he started to move, it was slow and measured. Like he was learning you by feel. His metal hand came up to lace your fingers together, anchoring you. His flesh hand cradled your hip, guiding each slow, rolling thrust.

The sound of skin on skin was drowned by breath—panting, catching, whispering.

“You okay?” he murmured, kissing your jaw again.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “More than okay.”

He let out a soft, broken laugh. “Can’t believe it’s you.”

“You’re doing so good for me, Bucky.”

That made him falter. Just a beat. His hips stuttered, and a choked sound escaped him—half laughter, half moan.

You kissed him again. Whispered into his mouth, “You feel so good. I want you to feel good too.”

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted to feel,” he whispered back.

You tightened your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him. His rhythm shifted—slightly deeper now, still slow, still aching with need.

His brow furrowed. “Should I—fuck, should I pull out?” The question came out ragged, almost unsure. His voice strained, desperate to do the right thing. “We didn’t use—shit—I didn’t think, I should’ve—”

“No,” you whispered, cupping his face. “I want this. I want to feel you. Bare. Inside me.”

His eyes widened, lips parted. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, kissing him deeply, deliberately, pouring everything you had into the contact. “It’s okay. I want to feel that closeness with you.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. Pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut as he groaned into your mouth. “Okay. Okay.”

His pace stayed slow, but the drag of him inside you—full, deep, constant—started to build something in your belly. Something molten. Something tender and impossible to contain.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered. “So soft. Like heaven.”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I wanna make you come. I need to feel you come around me.”

You were already there—right there—teetering on the edge with your whole body tight and trembling, like a bowstring drawn to its limit. Bucky felt it. You knew he did. His grip on your hand tightened, metal fingers curling firm but reverent between yours, holding you in place like he was bracing for impact.

His mouth brushed your temple, warm breath ghosting over your skin, and his voice—wrecked, breathless—barely made it out, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.

That was all it took.

Your back arched beneath him as the first wave slammed through you, your cry breaking loose and catching in the crook of his neck. Your thighs shook around his waist, legs locking tighter, heels digging into the backs of his legs like you could anchor yourself in his body.

Your walls clenched around him—pulsing, fluttering—every nerve ending firing at once. You felt yourself unravel, piece by piece, breathless and wrecked and real, trembling under the weight of it.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it,” Bucky choked out, still rocking into you with careful, reverent thrusts, his voice shredded. “You feel so good when you come. Never going to get enough of this feeling. My good girl. ”

Your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him close, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin, the rough rasp of his stubble against your cheek, the shaky press of his body against yours.

And still, your body kept moving—small, involuntary spasms chasing the aftershocks, hips twitching beneath his as your release dragged out long and sharp.

You didn’t remember saying his name, not aloud—but you must have, because he was murmuring to you, over and over again.

“I got you,” he whispered into your skin. “You’re okay. I got you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You felt it in the way his hips stuttered, in the shudder that tore through his body as your second (and unintentional) climax pulsed around him, milking him, dragging him toward the edge.

His breath hitched—sharp, ragged. His face buried in the crook of your neck as a low, wrecked sound spilled from him, barely held back.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck—baby, I’m—”

One thrust. Another. His hands gripped you like he was losing gravity, one flattened against your lower back, the other still tangled with yours, shaking.

And then he came apart.

He drove deep—deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs—and held there, buried fully inside you as the first hot rush of his release hit.

He moaned—long, guttural, unguarded. The kind of sound pulled from the very center of him, like he’d never made it before, like it scared him how much it shook.

You felt every twitch, every pulse, the way he filled you in slow, desperate waves. It was raw. Intimate. Beautiful.

His body trembled as he held you close, face pressed to your shoulder like he could disappear into you. His arms wrapped around you tighter, almost too tight, like the only thing keeping him grounded was the feel of your skin.

You whispered his name—soft, calming—and threaded your fingers into his hair, soothing the back of his neck, anchoring him.

His voice cracked as he breathed out, still buried inside you, “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I won’t,” you murmured, lips at his temple. “I’ve got you.”

And you did.

You stayed wrapped up in him, skin to skin, heart to heart, the heat of his release still seeping into you as his breath slowly calmed against your chest.

You stay like that until morning.

The light was soft when you woke—gray-blue and filtered through his bedroom curtains, barely brushing the edge of the sheets. It didn’t matter what time it was. There was no urgency in the room. No pressure. Just warmth. Just him.

You were still tangled together beneath the covers. One of your legs thrown over his, your arm draped across his chest. His hand was resting on the small of your back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes into your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you, even in sleep.

He was already awake.

You could tell by the way his fingers stilled when you shifted. The way he pulled you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

Your face nuzzled into the warm skin of his collarbone. “Hey,” you whispered.

“Hey,” he murmured back, voice still husky from sleep. “You okay?”

“Mmhmm.” You smiled against his skin. “You?”

You felt the curve of his lips before you saw it. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. There was no need. He was running the tips of his fingers up and down your arm, light as breath, tracing the shape of your forearm, the line of your shoulder. Memorizing. Like he was still learning you. Like he never wanted to forget.

Then he said it—quietly, like it was something that had been waiting to come out for a long time. “I used to think I missed my chance. At something like this.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His eyes were on your mouth, then your eyes, then your mouth again. He wasn’t smiling, not quite. But there was something open in his expression. Honest. A little afraid.

“But now I know,” he said, barely more than a whisper, “I wasn’t too late. I was just waiting for you.”

Your heart thudded, full and aching. You leaned in, kissed him—slow and soft, no heat, no hurry. Just yes. Just always. Just this. When you pulled back, your voice cracked a little.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” you admitted.

His eyes fluttered shut like the words physically hit him. When he looked at you again, it wasn’t with surprise.

It was with awe.

He kissed you back this time—both hands cupping your face now, thumbs brushing your cheeks. The kiss deepened without turning frantic. It just… was. Everything you hadn’t said before. Everything you would, eventually.

But not now. Now, you stayed in bed with him, sheets tangled at your waists, morning light painting your bodies in soft silver. You had nowhere to be.

And even if the world outside called? You weren’t answering. Not today.

You were lying sideways across his bed two weeks later, feet dangling off the edge, still in your socks. Bucky sat on the floor, back against the wall, head tilted toward you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your smile.

Outside, the city hummed—low and distant. The kind of warm early evening where windows stayed cracked, letting in the smell of rain-soaked pavement and something fried from the corner bodega.

“You realize this is dating, right?” you said, propping your head on your palm.

He raised an eyebrow. “We’re in sweatpants. You stole half my lunch. I haven’t left this apartment all day.”

“And?”

He smirked. “Best date I’ve ever had.”

Your toes nudged his shoulder, gentle and smug. “Knew it.”

He caught your ankle with one hand, dragging his palm slowly down your calf, and said, almost shyly, like it was still new on his tongue, “I like having you here.”

The air shifted a little. Warmed.

You sat up slightly, reaching for his wrist, fingers curling over the cool edge of his metal arm. “I like being here.”

His mouth twitched. “Good. Because I’m not exactly seeing other people.”

You laughed. “You sound like you’re about to hand me a job offer.”

“I’m serious,” he said, a little gruff now, eyes dropping to where your hands met. “I don’t want this with anyone else. It’s not—I just want to be with you.”

Something in your chest thudded. “I know,” you said quietly. “Me neither.”

The quiet that followed was different this time. Not heavy. Not uncertain. Just full. Soft.

His thumb rubbed your ankle once, absently. “I think I still have a lot to learn, though.”

Your lips curved. “Like what?”

Bucky glanced up at you through his lashes, mouth curling in something that was almost a challenge. “Couple things,” he said, casual. “Hand stuff. Mouth stuff. That thing you did last week—”

“Bucky.”

“What?” he asked, deadpan. “I’m being a good student.”

You laughed, throwing your head back. “God, you’re impossible.”

He pushed up off the floor and crawled onto the bed, over you—slow and heavy and familiar. His knee nudged yours apart slightly, and he settled between your thighs like it was second nature.

“I’m yours,” he said, voice lower now, his smile softening. “As long as you’ll have me.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. “Because I think I missed a few chapters. Gonna need private tutoring.”

“Private, huh?”

He nodded solemnly. “Very hands-on.”

You kissed him then—slow, lingering, lazy.

And later, when you were wrapped up together under a thin blanket and the windows stayed open and neither of you could remember when the movie ended, Bucky whispered, “I keep thinking this is the part where it ends.”

You shifted closer, tucking your head beneath his chin. “It’s not,” you said. “It’s the part where it gets even better.”

And he believed you.

Because for the first time in a very long time, Bucky Barnes was learning something new:

What it felt like to be loved.

377 notes · View notes

here-for-the-captain · 1 month ago

Text

🥰🥰🥰🥰 Squeee! Now we need a wedding one!!!!

Winter's Child

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and your daughter live across the hall from Bucky. However, one night when your daughter won't settle, you turn to him for help.

Disclaimer: A lot of fluff, angst, hurt/comfort vibes. This is also a long fic. Bucky is not a step-dad but a dad who steps up. Brief mentions of abandonment, heavy on the Found Family, cute fluffy date moments between Reader and Bucky. Yelena and Kate being a duo, slight swearing. Not fully proof read.

You were at your wits end. At least, you thought you were until a handwritten letter slipped under your door at nine am on the dot a week ago.

A noise complaint.

You were a single, new mom of one. And instead of helping, three of your neighbours – two of whom had children of their own – decided to file a noise complaint against you.

First, it was sleepless nights with a newborn. Then it was three weeks of convincing male doctors that your baby was, in fact, sick and it wasn’t you just being dramatic. And now…it was teething.

You’d barely had a minute to yourself in several months. Family helped you where they could, but one night was all they would do in terms of babysitting.

You had five piles of laundry that either needed washing, drying, folding or putting away. Your apartment was over-run with household chores that needed doing, you felt like you were on auto-pilot as you moved through your home.

And every time you’d just get your baby to sleep, someone upstairs decided that it was time for yet another rearrangement of furniture because it didn’t fit the ‘movement’ of his vibe.

“What?” You were practically crying yourself. “What is it? I’ve tried everything. Please, just tell me what to do. Please.”

Nothing was working. You didn’t want another noise complaint in fear of someone suggesting you should move out. It took years for you to find a safe place that was within walking distance of a good school.

Obviously, you’d planned the whole ‘having a baby’ thing happening differently than being single and alone the whole time. But it was the quiet moments, the moments where your baby laughed and smiled that made your heart lighten a little.

But at two am, exhausted and desperate – that was not one of those moments.

You’d never know why – you could only ever guess - but an idea popped into your head. And you could only pray it would work.

Bucky had just closed his front door when someone knocked on it. It was hurried and for a moment, he felt for his side-arm.

But when the knock was followed by a baby’s cry, he lowered his hand. By the time he opened the door, he was greeted with you - his neighbour.

“I’m so sorry, I really really am-”

You looked like Hell. Bucky had been on a ten day mission in Serbia and had the crap kicked out of him twice – and somehow you looked worse.

“But she won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want another noise complaint or to be kicked out. I know this is really rude and I am sorry but, please. Is there-”

Bucky stepped forward and scooped the baby from your arms for a moment. He held her up, letting her little legs dangle in the air for a moment whilst he checked her over.

It was like he’d performed some kind of miracle.

Your baby had stopped crying.

Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye. It looked like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, only to come crashing back down.

“How do you do that?”

Bucky shrugged with a small smile as he cradled your baby in his arms. “I had kid sisters growing up. Ma was always run off her feet.”

“I’m really sorry about this, Bucky.”

He just shook his head. “Don’t be. You said you got a noise complaint?”

You nodded, leaning against the wall beside his door. “A week ago. Someone slipped it under my door. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to sign it, I’ve not exactly been a quiet neighbour these last few months.”

Bucky shook his head. “You’re doing your best. Ignore the noise complaint. If you get any more, give them to me, I’ll get it sorted.”

“No, you don’t-”

“If they’d bothered to help, then someone might be able to say they're just in their complaint. But they haven’t. So nothing is right about it. Want me to put her down?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

As Bucky walked inside your apartment, cradling your sleeping daughter in his arms, you couldn’t help but feel guilty. You were her mom. You should be able to do it without having to knock on your neighbour’s door in the middle of the night.

And you knew it wasn’t the first time he’d helped you, either.

At six months pregnant when she was kicking you like she was about to be the next World’s Greatest Football player, you had to pause outside your door, leaving your grocery bags on the floor for a moment.

Bucky had just left his apartment when he saw you. In your small exchange, which most of your conversations were, you helped him press his hand to your stomach.

It was one big kick.

“Kid, you’ve gotta be nice to your mom,” Bucky had warned.

The kicks stopped.

Bucky had also helped when your baby was five months old. You were carrying her on your hip whilst balancing the baby bag and two bags of groceries. Bucky had just, again, left his apartment when he asked if you needed any help.

“Can you hold her for a second?”

Bucky took her without question and the soft babbles had turned into quiet solitude as she laid her head on his shoulder. Bucky also took one of the grocery bags from you as you searched for your door key.

Once you’d thrown everything inside the door, you took your baby back who, within the space of sixty seconds, had grown rather attached to your neighbour.

Which was also clear in the way her little fists held onto his shirt as he carefully lowered her into her crib.

“I’m really sorry about this.”

Bucky shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m happy to help.”

If Bucky was being honest, he was more than happy to help. When he’d first moved in, a lot of the tenants in the building had avoided him. A few even complained about him living there considering he was an ex-assassin. And he couldn’t blame them. He still blamed himself sometimes.

But you were one of the few that didn’t treat him like that. You treated him like he was just an average human living across the hall from you. So, helping you and your daughter where you asked him to – it gave him another sense of normalcy.

Something he found to be very rare in his line of work.

“You know, if you ever need help, all you have to do is ask.” Bucky told you as you walked him to the door.

You shook your head. “I already feel bad asking you to help me get her to sleep.”

Bucky turned on his heel and looked at you. “You don’t have to feel bad about that. You’re a mom trying to do it all. You’re allowed to ask for help, Y/n.”

That still didn’t stop the guilt, though.

You’d opted to have the baby on your own. There had been other options, but they just simply were options you didn’t want to take. You’d chosen to do it on your own, which meant continuing to do it on your own.

“Thank you, Bucky. For everything you’ve done so far.”

You bid him goodnight, feeling the continuing guilt settle in your stomach but gratitude wash over your home. Your baby was fast asleep, and for the first time in months, you got a full night’s sleep.

When you woke up, you checked on your daughter to find her still fast asleep. So, you took the time you had to finish cleaning your apartment.

You were folding the third pile of clean laundry when someone knocked on your door. When you answered it, you stalled for a moment.

“Bucky, what are you-”

“I know you’re not gonna ask unless you’re out of options, so I’m giving you an option to take,” he told you. “When you need help, or need a break, call me.”

He handed you a post-it note with his phone number on.

“Bucky, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. And I want you to.” Bucky pressed. “You’re one of the few people outside of my job that treats me like a person. And, just because you’re a mom, doesn’t mean you should constantly be treated like one. You’re a person, too, Y/n. You deserve the help.”

You were completely shocked. Bucky was…an Avenger. He was someone who helped save the world, twice. But he was offering to help you and your baby.

You lowered the post-it note. “Would you have any idea how to fix a kitchen cupboard?”

Bucky smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over him that you were actually asking.

He nodded, “Let me get my tools.”

Your brows furrowed. “You have tools?”

He laughed, “I have tools.”

What you thought was just going to be an afternoon turned into two years of frequent help – even when you never asked – and a growing friendship.

The routine of helping you and your daughter also helped Bucky. It helped ground him after a tough mission. One that, if he went home alone, would be playing over in his mind until the nightmares all mixed into one.

Even the team noticed the change in Bucky. He seemed lighter, happier and calmer. But the only one who knew the truth behind the change was Sam. Mainly because he’d seen the photo on Bucky’s desk at work.

A picture of himself, you and a toddler who was holding the camera.

“You should invite them over for dinner,” Sam told him one afternoon.

“You think so?”

Sam nodded, taking the beer from Bucky. “Yeah, why not? She’s been your neighbour for years. I know you’ve had a crush on her, for like, ever.”

“I don’t have a crush-”

“You’ve got a crush.” Sam told him. “And, it’s about time we meet your future wife.”

“Sam.”

Sam just laughed. “Oh, come on, man. You know I’m right. I’ve seen the way you look at your phone when she calls you. I’ve also seen the look on your face when you find out it’s her daughter wanting to update you about her day. What a two year old has going on in her life, other than apple sauce packets, is beyond me.”

“She went on her first playdate and helped someone make friends. It was a big day for her.”

“Ha, see! Buck – accept it or deny it, they’re your family. Which makes them ours, too.”

Bucky sighed. “I’ll ask, but if she says no-”

“Then we’ll let it slide.”

Bucky pulled his phone from his pocket. “And you’ll make sure Kate doesn’t stalk her online.”

Sam held up his hands. “You have my word.”

Thankfully for everyone involved, you agreed. A week later, you were unbuckling your daughter from her car seat whilst she tried to scramble away and towards the crowd of Avengers who were laughing and chatting over a barbeque.

That was when a small pair of lungs squealed at the top of their voice, “Bucky!”

Your daughter was running, ignoring your call of being careful before she fell, towards her favourite person. And you had to admit, aside from your daughter, he was yours, too.

You watched as Bucky stopped his conversation with Sam Wilson and turned to jog towards your daughter. By the time they reached each other, Bucky lifted her into the air as she squealed with more happiness.

“Hey, firecracker. How was pre-school?”

“Good!”

Resting her on his arm, Bucky talked to her and waited for you to reach him. “Really? You gonna tell me about it?”

You smiled, “Only if you want your ears to fall off.”

Bucky chuckled. “Didn’t need them anyway.”

You stopped just short of him and he led the way over to the table that was still being set up. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to everybody.”

You’d had anxiety for a week over agreeing to the BBQ. What would they think? Would they hate you? Would it be awkward?

But after twenty minutes, everything felt…normal. You helped a very chatting Kate Bishop and a calmer Laura Bishop set the table for the multitude of Avengers and kids that were attending the BBQ.

People hugged, laughed, asked as many questions as they could – most of them coming from your daughter who, despite attaching herself to Bucky for most of the day, wanted to know everything she could about everyone she was with.

And they answered every one of her questions.

By the time the stars were peeking out behind the few clouds that remained in the sky, your daughter waddled her way over to you from where Kate had let her back onto her feet, and you picked her up.

As you finished your conversation with Natasha, you started packing away what you could with a sleeping child on your shoulder when Tony appeared.

“Why don’t you stay? You should stay. We’ve got plenty of room and the roads can be dangerous, really, at night. You should stay.”

You tried to shake your head, but Natasha stood. “Just say yes before he says he found a fault with your car.”

“That’s a generous offer, Mr Stark-”

“Tony, please. And don’t sweat it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

You don’t remember agreeing but somewhere between Tony showing you inside to the compound and a sudden new message alert that a scan of your car had resulted in a few, rather dangerous faults being found, you were putting your daughter to be at the Avengers Compound.

And then you were being led back into the living area where everyone was sitting around the coffee table talking. And the only available spot left was right beside Bucky.

He sat you beside him with ease. Too much ease to be normal between friends. Not that you were complaining. There was safety with Bucky, in a way you couldn’t describe.

Of course, when you felt his fingers trace up and down your arm lightly, you felt your cheeks heat. But you still felt safe. Not so nervous where you felt like running in the opposite direction, but nervous enough to enjoy being with him.

And after an hour or so, Yelena walked back inside with a little hand holding onto her finger.

“Someone wanted to join the party,” Yelena said as she led your daughter over to you where she climbed into yours, and technically, Bucky’s lap.

Bucky smoothed down the back of her hair as she rubbed her eyes.

“Don’t you want to go to sleep, honey?”

She shook her head, and pouted. “No. Not without you and Bucky.”

Bucky smiled softly, “C’mere, kiddo.”

Leaning over, your daughter settled herself between you and Bucky before leaning her head against his side.

“Okay, that is way too cute,” Kate said as she pulled out her phone and snapped a few pictures.

As conversations started up again, your daughter fell into a deep sleep against Bucky. Something you almost did yourself until you managed to gain enough energy to lift yourself from the sofa and carry your child back to bed.

Bucky followed you, his palm warm on your lower back as he led you down the dimly lit hallways.

However, by the time you woke up in the morning and went to check on your daughter, you found her bed empty. But just as the anxiety that you tried to keep calm spiked in your chest, a voice spoke inside the room.

“Your daughter is currently interrogating Mr Wilson on his preference of breakfast cereal.”

You relaxed a little. “Of course, she is.”

You were slow to round the corner into the kitchen, wanting to watch your daughter for a few moments. Bucky was right in her nickname; firecracker. She was like some kind of professional quizzer.

It amazed you some days, at how head-strong she was for such a young age. But you wouldn’t change her for the world.

Slowly, you lean against the kitchen counter beside your daughter, listening to her explain to Sam about how cheerios were better than eggs, Sam softly arguing back.

Little did you know, her arguing with Sam would become a frequent image in your own home.

It seemed, for as much as your daughter had fallen in love with the Avengers, they had fallen in love with her and each one of her questions. You started to see Sam at Bucky’s apartment more often, Yelena and Kate would show up at the park when you’d take your daughter out for the day, your daughter’s preschool also started to get a little more funding here and there throughout her school year.

And on the days where Bucky would offer to pick her up from school when your work ran over, they would turn into sleepover nights at the Compound since you couldn’t pry your daughter from their arms no matter how hard you tried.

Eventually, you started to feel like family to them. They loved your daughter like one of their own, and she loved them right back. If anyone at school said that Captain America was less cool than Iron Man, or that Kate wasn’t the better Hawkeye or that anyone on the team wasn’t as cool as your daughter thought they were; she would defend them to her last breath.

But the one she defended most passionately was Bucky. How he wasn’t scary but actually really kind and funny, even if he was grumpy sometimes. And how his metal arm was like having a normal one – he could still feel everything the same. Almost.

She even drew him in all of her pictures when it came to her art class. Which, one day, turned into a list of questions which she just so happened to ask out loud one morning when Bucky had just made her breakfast.

“Are you like my dad?”

Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing to look at your daughter. But her gaze was focused on her breakfast and the picture she’d made at school the day before.

“Why do you ask, honey?” You asked her softly, leaning down beside her.

“Because Jeremy said I couldn’t have a ‘Bucky’. I had a mommy, so I needed a daddy, too.”

You felt your heart sink a little in your chest. “Honey…”

You didn’t quite know what to say. Her biological dad hadn’t been in the picture since he’d seen the positive pregnancy test on your bathroom counter.

“Jeremy was wrong.”

“He was?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Look around you, baby girl. I know you don’t exactly have a daddy, but you do have people that love you.”

That was when your daughter looked around to the other people in the kitchen for reassurance. They all agreed that Jeremy was wrong.

“Truth is, honey, maybe not everyone has a daddy, but not everyone has a ‘Bucky’ either.”

Steve smiled, “And that makes you extra special, kid.”

Your daughter smiled before turning around in her stool and hopping down before walking over to Bucky who picked her up instantly.

She hugged him around his neck. “I love you.”

Bucky was on the edge of tears. “Love you, too, firecracker.”

Later that night, Bucky put her to bed whilst you finished up in the kitchen. You’d offered to make dinner but since half of them got called out on a mission and Bucky was already being used as a human pillow for your four year old, Kate took his place on the mission.

So, you’d packed the dinner into different take-away containers and stocked them into the fridge and freezer, along with a couple of post-it notes on how long to reheat.

You were wiping down the counters when Bucky walked back inside.

“She okay?”

“Out like a light,” Bucky smiled. “Mind if I ask you something?”

You nodded. “Always.”

“Earlier…when she asked me…what happened to her dad?”

You stopped cleaning for a moment before you took a breath.

Bucky had lived across the hall from you for a while, even before you were pregnant. But he’d never seen someone in your life long enough to consider they would be your partner.

“We’d been dating for a couple months, but since he lived closer to my workplace, I stayed at his house more often than he did mine. His house was also closer to his work, so it meant we could spend longer together in bed. Pretty sure it was one of those mornings when I got caught…” You took your time, and Bucky let you.

If you had told him you didn’t want to talk about it, he would have backed off and waited. You didn’t have to tell him anything, but he was glad you were.

“But, as we hit the three month mark, I started getting a weird feeling. More than I ever have before. Woman’s intuition told me he wasn’t exactly staying loyal. But it felt like more than that, so…I took a test. The minute he saw the two lines he told me he was seeing someone else and that he didn’t want to know about me or the baby, ever. I’ve never heard from him since.”

Bucky couldn’t feel his blood boil. First, a guy who was with you…he let you go. He strayed, cheated and let you go. And then, he abandoned you when you would have needed him the most, and finally…he didn’t even want to meet you or your little firecracker.

“Well, that’s technically a lie. I heard from some cheap-shot lawyer of his after I sent him some pictures of his daughter’s birth. Just one of her in a hospital onesie and a little hat that one of the nurses had knitted for her. She was so little,” you smiled as you thought back to those first moments where you held her and heard her cry.

“What did the lawyer say?”

“That he was giving up all parental rights. He wanted to make sure, as far as the law knew, he didn’t have a daughter.”

“He’s…something I would say if there wasn’t a four year old sleeping down the hallway.”

You chuckled. It was nice to know someone was just as angry, if not more so, at the thought of someone not wanting to know your daughter.

“I guess I was kind of lucky in a way, though.”

Bucky looked up at you from the counter.

“If he did want to know her, she might not have had you. I might not have…I probably would have moved closer, for the baby’s sake.”

Bucky let the breath go from his lungs. “God, I can’t imagine not having you both in my life.”

You smiled, “Luckily, you don’t have to. We’re both lucky to have you, Bucky. And I’m glad we do.”

Bucky smiled back at you, his heart rate increasing just that little bit more. He managed to look away before you caught the flush in his cheeks.

A few months later, you were at home finishing up your third load of washing for the week when someone knocked at your door.

“Kate? Yelena?”

Kate’s expression held nothing but relief as she turned around and faced the door when you answered. “Oh, thank god.”

“What’s going on?” You asked them as they walked into your home. Yelena was carrying several different garment bags whilst Kate carried two more and dragged a small make-up trolly behind her.

“We need your help.”

“What on earth for?”

You closed the door, balancing the laundry basket on your hip as they turned around to face you.

“We need you to attend Pepper’s gala tonight.”

“What- Why?”

Kate looked at Yelena who nodded.

“Because you do.”

“Girls, I’m gonna need a better explanation than that.”

Yelena rolled her eyes as she dropped the bags onto the sofa. “God, you’re such a mom.”

“Yelena.”

Yelena just fixed her hair. “We need you to be someone’s date.”

“Can I ask who this someone is?”

“It’s-”

“No.” Yelena cut Kate off. “You can’t know because it’s a surprise. So, enough questions. Give me that.”

Yelena took the laundry basket from you and pushed you along down the hallway. Meanwhile, she pulled out the worn hair tie from your hair.

“Yeah, you need to get washed first. Use your fancy stuff.”

“Yelena-”

“Go, now. Please.”

You gave a small huff as you got into the bathroom. “Fine. But only because you said please.”

Yelena smiled before she shut the door. “Thank you.”

By the time you’d finished your everything shower, along with the fancier shampoo you tended to save for dates and nights out – a shampoo that’s only use was before parent-teacher meetings, or any place you had to look like you hadn’t been up half the night reading parenting books.

You were rushed into your guest bedroom where Yelena sat you down at the vanity desk. Meanwhile, Kate was lying with your daughter on the bed, looking through different eyeshadow colours, naming them all.

“Katie knows a lot of colours, momma.”

Kate smiled. “I really do. Hey, you know what this one is called?”

Your daughter shook her head.

“Aquamarine.”

“Aq…aquaamarr-”

“Aquamarine,” Kate repeated a little slower and your daughter copied.

An hour and many more unanswered questions later, Yelena had finished your hair whilst Kate was helping you apply your make-up.

You had been planning a quiet night in. More than likely, it would have ended with you watching the last half an hour of a Disney movie alone whilst your daughter snored herself to sleep on the sofa.

“Okay, dress time.”

Kate stood and opened up each garment bag. “Which one?” She asked your daughter.

“Don’t I get to pick?”

“You don’t know the plan, momma.” Your almost five year old, told you.

“There’s a plan?”

Kate shrugged. “There’s always a plan.”

It took a total of seven minutes and a game of ‘left or right’ to decide on your dress. A floor length gown with a high slit up one leg. There was a soft shimmer to the fabric like you’d been spritzed with body glitter beforehand.

All three girls gasped as you stepped out from behind your dressing divider.

“Wow, momma,” your daughter seemed mesmerised. “You look beautiful like the stars.”

You smiled, “Thank you, babygirl.” Then you turned to the two elders. “Will you answer my questions now?”

They smiled, like they knew something you didn’t. But before you could get your answers, someone knocked on the door.

“I’ll get it!” Your daughter sprung from the bed, quickly followed by Yelena.

“You really do look beautiful, Y/n.”

You smiled. “Kate, what’s going on?”

She just smiled back. “You’ll see.”

As you tightened your shoes a little, you heard your daughter call out for you.

“You can come out now, momma!”

And as you did, it was like your breath had been taken from you.

By your door, Bucky was standing wearing a tux. You’d always known he was handsome, but there was just something about a man in a tux…

You felt yourself smile as you walked closer. “I thought you were away-”

“I know, I was. But…I managed to finish early. You look…” Bucky was lost for words. Or maybe he had too many.

Stunning, gorgeous, beautiful, breathtaking…

“She looks beautiful like stars,” your daughter jumped in. And he had to agree.

“You’re right, firecracker. You look beautiful like stars.”

You blushed and smiled. “Thank you.”

Then Yelena jumped in. “Right, off you go.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry,” she pushed you both towards the door as Kate opened it. “We’ll make sure the little firecracker gets to bed before you’re home. She’ll be safe. She’s with two avengers.”

You knew that was true. But, you also knew there was a chance they wouldn’t be safe. Yelena was a trained spy, but Kate? Kate would crack under the pressure of your little girl's thousand and ten questions questionnaire.

Before you knew it, you were being waltzed inside of the venue that had been rented out by Pepper’s company for the charity gala. All the while, holding onto Bucky’s hand and arm.

“This is a lot of people,” you whispered to him.

“We only have to show our faces for an hour. Two max. Then we can ditch.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a ditcher,” you told him, a little surprise in your voice.

He chuckled. “No. Ma would have killed me for skipping school, not that I ever did. I actually enjoyed it. It was fun when Steve wasn’t getting his ass kicked. But, for things like this? It’s not my favourite thing in the world.”

You shrugged. You couldn’t blame him. It was lovely; getting ready, witnessing Bucky in a tux for the first time, feeling a little less guilty about leaving your daughter for the night. But there were a lot of people. People who you didn’t know. And you doubted Bucky knew, either.

“But it’s better having you here with me.”

You whipped your gaze away from the crystal chandeliers, to your date. You covered the butterflies in your stomach with a soft smile.

Before you could say anything, someone called your name. And then Bucky’s.

It was Pepper.

She introduced you both to different people before she was called away by someone else.

Although it was a lot, it was easier having Bucky by your side. It was rare his hand ever left yours. At one point, his fingers had intertwined with yours and there was no way you were going to cut that off.

By the second turn of the venue, looking at the items that were going to be auctioned off for charity, you and Bucky tried to sneak away from the crowd for a while. Only, you were caught in a conversation with a couple who – despite their fortune and education – didn’t know when to end a conversation.

Half way through their very boring conversation, a thought passed through your head. Bucky could have fucked you right there and then, and they still would have carried on the conversation.

But you pushed that thought away as quickly as it came. Although, it did try to resurface every ten minutes, when Bucky’s other hand would warm your lower back, your other hip or, briefly, the top of the slit in your dress.

“We really should be going.”

You and Bucky managed to escape. But only for ten minutes. Because the couple were coming back.

“Shit,” you swore under your breath. But Bucky beat you to it. “Fuck-”

You were pulled down a small corridor that led to the back of another room filled with items up for auction, before being pulled into the smaller, darkened alcove in the wall.

The couple passed you both right by, without being noticed.

In the confined space, you and Bucky stayed as quiet as you could. Your hands were on his chest, letting you know that you weren’t alone with the rapid heartbeat in your ears. Though, his was a little calmer than your own.

His own hands remained fixed on your hips, holding you steady on your feet. For a split second, he shifted and his knee brushed your inner thigh.

You bit your lip and closed your eyes.

Then you felt his hands lightly trace up your body. Your breath hitched.

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asked you, his voice in a soft whisper by the shell of your ear.

You nodded and answered quietly. “It’s fine.”

With Bucky’s gaze on you, you started to realise just how small the alcove was. The scent of his cologne was intricately lodging itself into your mind – any time you’d smell that scent, you’d been pulled right back into the alcove.

Then, with a breathy chuckle, he smiled. “Want to get out of here?”

No.

“Think the coast is clear?”

Please don’t be.

Bucky peered around the corner before he turned back and nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Let’s stay.

With Bucky’s hand in yours, he swiftly got you both out of the venue unnoticed. It wasn’t until you were half way down the block, and Bucky was laying his jacket over your shoulders, that you realised you’d forgotten your coat.

“But, you’ll get cold.”

Bucky just smiled. “I’ve got the serum. I can’t get cold, doll.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he assured you.

And for a while, you both just talked. About the night, about the couple that couldn’t seem to take a hint and the fact Bucky had come back early.

And then he asked you to dance.

“There’s no music.”

“We don’t need music. Come on.”

The street was completely empty. A couple of street lamps lit the way, and every once in a while, a taxi would drive down the main road ahead. But other than that, it was just you and Bucky.

“Is this what you used to do?” You asked him after a few moments. “Take a girl out, ask her to dance under the streetlights with you. Bet you were a real heartbreaker.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Maybe. Just a little. But if this was a date, I would have done this-” Bucky softly dipped you in his arms. “By now.”

He was slow to bring you back to your feet, your forehead against his, your lungs in need of some air despite already being outside.

His palm burned a little on your back. You just wished it would make a permanent mark.

“Does that make this a date now?”

“I don’t know. I’d like it to be,” he admitted to you, honestly. “If I asked you on one, officially, would you say yes?”

“I wouldn’t want to lose you, Bucky.”

“I promise you won’t. If it goes badly, we can laugh about it later. Just, say yes?”

It took you a short moment, but you nodded. “Okay. Yes.”

Bucky walked you back home. And by the time you opened up your door, you walked in to find Kate, Yelena and your daughter all fast asleep on the sofa, the bright colours of the Disney Princess film flashing across their faces.

“Do you want to get her out of the tangle?” You asked Bucky. “I would but I’m afraid to get a fist to my face.”

Bucky chuckled, softly closing the door as he nodded. Even he knew how it was when trying to wake Kate up. She was a fighter until she opened her eyes and realised who was trying to get her up.

Bucky got your daughter out with ease and carried her to bed, leaving you to deal with the two sleeping Avengers.

Meanwhile, down the hall as he laid her in her bed, she woke up briefly.

“Did you ask her?”

Bucky brushed the baby hairs that had fallen from the braids in her hair. He smiled, “Yeah, I did.”

“Did she say yes?”

He nodded. “She said yes.”

She gave a tired cheer before he kissed her head and tucked her in. “Get some sleep, kiddo.”

The moment she rolled over, she was snoring. And just as Bucky passed the guest bedroom, he could hear two more sets of snoring coming from inside.

You crept out of the room and softly clicked the door shut. From there, you and Bucky took your time walking back to the front door.

“About this date-”

“We don’t have to rush anything,” he told you. “If you don’t feel comfortable-”

You smiled. “I was just gonna ask if you’re free on Sunday.”

Bucky was a little surprised but smiled. “I’m free on Sunday. I’ll pick you up at ten?”

It was definitely the earliest date you’d been on.

“There’s a place I want to show you.”

You nodded, “Okay.”

After picking you up on his motorcycle, Bucky drove an hour out of the city to a small town. The entire main street was taken over by a farmer’s market. There were smaller stalls with different homemade items.

You and Bucky ended up picking up a few things for a make-shift picnic in the park before he took you to the local watering hole where a live band was playing and people’s shoes were scuffing the wooden floor from dancing.

“How did you find this place?”

“Barton told me about it.” Bucky told you. “Him and Laura passed through it once before, so I decided to come and check it out. I’ve wanted to show you ever since, but each time I came to tell you, something came up at work so I wouldn’t have been here to show you.”

“But now you are.”

“Now I am,” he told you before he took your hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re dancing.”

It was a small two-step, nothing major. But for you, it felt like everything. Being in his arms again – you knew there would never be another place where you would feel this safe. Feeling his hand in yours, seeing the blush creep up on his cheeks each time you looked at him.

Slowly, the rest of the room disappeared. The music from the band became nothing more than background noise and the only person you could see was Bucky.

And when you closed your eyes, and felt his lips against yours, the only thing you could feel was him.

The light breeze that wafted past the barn doors disappeared, the air of apple pie and ice cold lemonade disappeared from your skin.

The only thing that soaked its way into your bones was the feeling of him. His hand in yours, his other at your opposite hip, holding you flush against him, his belt buckle making a small impression behind the fabric of your outfit.

It was more than you ever dreamt of.

The Talk came two weeks later. The one that neither you and Bucky had mentioned, but had to be done. Because it wasn’t just both of you in the relationship, if you were going to continue.

Your daughter was involved, too.

“She loves you, Bucky.”

“And I’ll never want to see her hurt, either,” he finished. “I never want to hurt either of you, ever.”

“I know.”

“So, we take it slow,” he offered. “But I think we should involve her, too. You come as a package deal, and I don’t want to ignore that.”

You gave him a small smile. There had been plenty of one-stop dates who had ignored that fact, plenty who had wanted you to come as a single package.

Bucky was the first.

So, a few weeks later, when a knock came to your door, your daughter beat you to the door and opened it to find Bucky.

“Bucky!”

Your daughter ran for his legs and wrapped her arms around them before she let go and he bent down.

“Why are you here?”

Bucky looked from your daughter, up to you with a half cocked smile. “I’m here to give you these.”

Behind his back, Bucky pulled out two bouquets of flowers. One was a little bigger than the second.

He presented the smaller bunch to your daughter before he stood to his full height and handed you the bigger section.

“And these are for you.”

“Thank you.”

Bucky crouched back down to your daughter. “And I was hoping that you and your mom would want to come with me for the day.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Okay!” Your daughter turned around and ran back inside.

“Careful, honey. Put your flowers in the kitchen, I’ll put them in some water!”

“Okay!” She yelled back before going to her bedroom to get her shoes.

With the coast clear, Bucky leaned in and pressed three light kisses to your lips.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

Bucky closed the door as he entered and you walked into your kitchen to run the tap for some water.

“So, where are we going?”

He smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

“From me, too?”

He nodded.

Two minutes later, your daughter came running back down the hall. Bucky managed to scoop her up before she tripped down the small step.

“Got my shoes!”

“Firecracker?”

“Yes?”

“Your shoes are on the wrong feet, honey,” he told her. She looked down, very confused.

Bucky popped her on the kitchen island before offering to fix them. Swinging her feet, she nodded.

As you placed the flowers inside of a vase, finding a smaller one for your daughter’s; you watched as Bucky taught her a trick to always remember her left and right before he reached into one of the cupboard draws and pulled out a small sheet of stickers.

“When the star touches, then you know they’re on the right feet.”

“So cool.”

A little under an hour later, your daughter was on Bucky’s shoulders, looking with amazement at all the artifacts in the museum. You could see her little brain working overtime to find out all the answers to every question she had, knowing she was going to be telling Kate and Yelena all about it in a few days time.

After lunch and the second half of the tour, you heard your daughter gasp before she took your hand and dragged you down the hall.

Secretly having been holding Bucky’s hand, you pulled him with you.

“Slow down, honey. Where are we going?”

“Come on, you gotta see! Come on!”

By the time you both found yourself in the exhibit room, you looked around and realised why she had seemed so excited.

The entire thing was dedicated to Captain America.

“Look, momma. It’s Steve!”

You picked your daughter up and carried her over. “That’s right, honey.”

“Look, Bucky. It’s you.”

Bucky smiled. “That’s me.”

“Why is it not got colours?”

Bucky chuckled. “Because it’s from the 1940s.”

Your daughter watched, puzzled, as a small clip of Bucky and Steve laughing played on the big screen.

“That’s over 90 years ago.”

“Wow, that’s old.”

You and Bucky chuckled lightly, just before your daughter wiggled her way out of your arms. The moment her feet were planted on the floor, she ran over to the small window where people were standing on the scale.

The picture didn’t even move.

“Come here, firecracker.” Bucky scooped your daughter up in his arms and planted himself on the scale. The picture changed and you watched as your daughter looked at herself in uniform.

However, for a glimpse, you caught Bucky’s face in the reflection.

You’d seen plenty of pictures, news segments, documentaries and home videos of Bucky both in and out of uniform, back in the 40s. But there was just something in that moment that it hit you-

Bucky had lived that life. He’d seen that world. If you had met him on the streets of Brooklyn over ninety years ago, you would have been watching him getting shipped out to England.

“Okay, where to next?”

“Hmm, over there! Come on, momma!”

The little voice, filled to the brim with excitement, broke you out of your trance long enough for you to follow after them.

However, hours later; long after Bucky had carried your daughter from her car seat and up the steps and into your apartment. You surprised him.

He was in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil as you got dressed into your home clothes. But, when you returned and he felt his heart light up at seeing you as you, he was shocked.

You hugged him.

He held back the laugh in his chest. “What’s this for?”

“Just because,” you told him.

Then you kissed him.

“And that?”

“That was because I love you.”

Bucky faulted for a moment. He didn’t want to come off too excited in case he’d heard wrong.

“You love me?”

You nodded. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time, but seeing you today…it just hit me. And I wanted to tell you.”

Then he smiled, keeping his hands on your hips as he pulled you closer. “I’m glad, because I’m in love with you, too.”

A smile broke onto your face before it was kissed away by him, his hands pulling you flush against his body.

It had taken years for you to realise, and even longer to work up the courage to tell him.

Who knew all it took was a family trip to the museum?

Thankfully, those family trips started to become more frequent. As did the solo and family dates you, Bucky and your daughter went on.

But, for Bucky, nothing beat the date night you and he had after the parent-teacher meeting you both attended just a little under a year of dating.

It was in that meeting that the teacher gushed over how far your daughter had come in the last year, how incredible her artwork was and how they were looking at moving her up a couple of reading grades.

Although Bucky wasn’t there to create your daughter, or there to cut the cord. She was like him in so many ways, it was scary.

The pouting face when she was tired, the overly cute aggressive face she gave when she was getting competitive. And then there was her love for school. Steve had shown you some of Bucky’s old school reports.

Your daughter was starting to get the same.

Maybe Bucky wasn’t your daughter’s father by birth, but he was her dad in every way that counted. He dried the tears, cleaned the grazed knees, carried her sleeping frame to bed.

And after that parent-teacher meeting, it was going to become official.

He had proposed and you said yes.

And when your daughter had found out the next morning when you and Bucky went to pick her up from the compound, where Sam and Yelena had been put on babysitting duty, she cried.

“Can I call you my daddy now?”

Through your own happy tears, you watched Bucky’s own fall. He was hugging your daughter just as tight as she was holding onto him.

“I’d love nothing more, firecracker.”

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here-for-the-captain · 2 months ago

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The Broken Bed Frame

Pairing: fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

Prompt: Y/N and Bucky are secretly seeing each other and after a steamy night, Bucky tells the Thunderbolts he needs a new bed. They have a lot of questions.

----

The hum of the air conditioning in Avengers Tower was the only sound as Y/N lay tangled in sweat-slick sheets, one arm draped lazily across Bucky’s chest. His skin was warm beneath her palm, rising and falling with steady breaths, and his vibranium arm was still looped protectively around her waist, fingertips brushing the curve of her hip.

The room smelled like sex and victory. Mostly sex.

A lopsided grin tugged at Y/N’s lips as she stared at the crack in the ceiling. “So,” she murmured. “Wanna explain to everyone else why you’re going to be searching for a new bed frame tomorrow?”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, deep and smug. “I’ll just say I rolled over too hard.”

“With me on top of you?”

“With enthusiasm.”

The broken bedframe groaned again as Y/N shifted, prompting another shared laugh before she leaned up to kiss him. The kiss was slow, unhurried, and a lazy reward for a long day of pretending they weren’t screwing each other stupid behind everyone’s backs.

----

The next morning the Thunderbolts were gathered in the common room of Avengers Tower, everyone in various stages of coffee-dependency. Yelena was sprawled on one couch, flipping through a magazine. Ava nursed her espresso slowly. Alexei was in a squat competition with himself. And John Walker was recapping his latest run like anyone cared.

Bucky strolled in late, hair damp from a shower, black Henley snug against his chest. He looked too pleased with himself, which immediately set off silent alarm bells for Y/N, who sat on the armrest near Ava, sipping from her mug.

“Morning,” he greeted, grabbing a mug.

“Someone’s cheerful,” Yelena noted, raising a brow.

“I’d be cheerful too if I slept for ten hours straight,” Ava added, blowing on her coffee.

Bucky shrugged casually. “Would’ve been longer if the bed hadn’t given out in the middle of the night.”

Y/N choked on her coffee.

A beat of silence followed.

“The what did what?” John asked, confused.

Bucky sipped, totally unfazed. “Broke right in half.”

Yelena sat up straight, eyes gleaming. “Wait—you broke a bed?”

“What were you doing?” Ava asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I thought you slept alone?” John frowned.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered, slowly turning to Y/N, whose face had gone suspiciously blank. “You okay? Did you—were you there?”

Y/N cleared her throat, forcing a neutral tone. “I’m sorry, I—you broke your bed?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Yeah. Thing just couldn’t handle the… pressure.”

Alexei barked a laugh. “You did the sex too hard, didn’t you?”

“Who was in the bed?” Ava asked, now entirely invested.

“Please tell me it was you,” Yelena said to Y/N with a wicked grin. “That’s the only explanation that would make this amazing.”

John frowned. “Wait, what is happening?”

Y/N blinked. “I mean—what makes you think I was—?”

“She was,” Bucky interrupted, with the casual grace of someone announcing the weather.

Everyone’s heads whipped toward them.

“Wait, what?” John choked. “You two are—”

“Oh finally,” Ava muttered.

“Called it,” Yelena smirked, pulling a crumpled twenty from her back pocket and tossing it at Ava. “Told you they were sneaking around.”

“I thought they were just flirting weird,” John said, looking mildly horrified.

Y/N rubbed her face, groaning into her palm. “We were very stealthy.”

“You’re terrible at being stealthy,” Yelena said. “You disappeared during the last mission debrief and came back looking like you were glowing.”

Alexei raised his mug. “To broken beds and better orgasms.”

“Cheers,” Bucky said smugly, raising his coffee.

Y/N just sighed and gave in, nudging Bucky with her foot. “You’re lucky I like you, Barnes.”

He leaned back, totally unbothered, and grinned. “You liked me a lot last night.”

Yelena howled with laughter. Ava groaned. John looked like he needed brain bleach. And Alexei muttered something about “young people these days” as he dropped into a squat.

---

The teasing didn’t stop for the rest of the day.

Every room Y/N walked into, someone had something to say.

“You walking okay?” Ava asked sweetly as they passed in the hallway. “Need me to ice your knees?”

“Tell Bucky to reinforce the furniture next time,” Yelena said over lunch. “Or maybe don’t do gymnastics in the bedroom. Just a thought.”

Even Alexei, unbothered and casually nosy, had offered them both protein bars “for recovery.”

By the time dinner rolled around, Y/N had all but sworn to fake a mission request just to escape the tower for 48 hours.

She found herself in the kitchen late that night, post-shower, hair damp and knotted into a bun, wearing an oversized hoodie—his hoodie—and absolutely not hiding from anyone. Definitely not.

She was spooning Nutella straight from the jar when Bucky strolled in, shirtless, in gray sweatpants. The smug look hadn’t left his face since the Great Bedframe Confession of earlier.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning against the counter like he hadn’t just blown up their secret and set it on fire.

“You,” she pointed the spoon at him, “have zero impulse control.”

His smirk deepened. “Did you want me to lie?”

“I wanted you to not volunteer the fact that we broke a bed having sex. There’s nuance, Barnes.”

He stepped closer, one hand bracing beside her on the counter. “You think they weren’t going to figure it out eventually? They had bets going. Yelena kept making heart-eyes every time we so much as breathed near each other.”

“She also asked me if you bark during sex,” Y/N deadpanned.

Bucky blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I don’t know, she said you give off ‘feral Golden Retriever’ energy.”

His lips twitched, struggling not to laugh. “I mean, I am loyal…”

She smacked his chest with the spoon.

He caught her wrist mid-swing, tugging her forward until she was pressed against him, sticky chocolate forgotten. His mouth brushed the shell of her ear. “You didn’t seem too worried about being quiet last night.”

Her breath hitched. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You love me,” he said with that damn cocky grin.

“Shut up.”

“Say it.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, then leaned in to murmur, “Fine. I love you, but I swear to God, Bucky, if you make anymore comments about furniture during a team meeting—”

“I’ll behave,” he promised, totally unconvincing.

----

Everyone was gathered again, breakfast spread across the table. Yelena was peeling an orange with a knife like a threat. John was mid-rant about proper chain-of-command. Ava was sipping her coffee with the detached energy of a woman who had emotionally clocked out months ago.

Y/N strolled in with Bucky trailing behind her.

Yelena’s eyes flicked to them, quickly noticing the smug smile on both their faces.

She raised a brow. “So, did you break another bed last night or just the kitchen table this time?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Alexei spit out his orange juice from across the room.

John stood up. “I’m going back to my room. This is so inappropriate—”

“Someone’s jealous,” Bucky muttered.

“Of what?” John barked. “Your lack of boundaries?”

Ava sipped her coffee. “No, he's definitely jealous of the sex.”

Yelena held up a second crumpled twenty. “New bet: who’s next to hook up in this tower?”

Alexei grinned. “I volunteer.”

Y/N just laughed, reached over, and stole a piece of toast from Bucky’s plate. He didn’t stop her—he was too busy watching her with that look. The one that said mine without ever having to say a word.

Broken beds be damned.

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here-for-the-captain · 2 months ago

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Happy Father’s Day, Ari, Steve, and Bucky🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰. Love these series - I feel WHOLE❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Muse: The Cleo Era

Muse: Epilogue | Muse Masterlist

Summary: You and Ari will be parents. Here's the first part of the journey.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model!Reader

A/N: Y'all are getting this Muse Monday on a Tuesday this week. lol. This is in answer to these asks and I got deep so this is just the first part of Muse and Ari as parents. This is it! I already have another ask (thanks, Nonnie) so there will be more. Thank you to those of you who just get these two like I do. You know my heart. 🥹 Muse has been a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this is it. 🥲 This AU is the nexus, not only connected to the Peach and Knock You Down verses, but also the Minx verse. I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, this fic focuses on pregnancy, and all that comes with it, birth, and the period after birth. A marriage. Mothers and mothers in law. Frumoasa and Peach and their children! Also, pregnancy cravings, pregnancy sex, body insecurity, pregnancy kink, Ari is obsessed, lots of oral (f receiving), SIZE KINK, tit worship, raw p in v.

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

---------

You didn’t notice at first.

Not with the whirlwind of the wedding and reception behind you, the press requests piling up, and the fall issue of Muse turning into a logistical beast.

Not to mention Ari bouncing between MoMA and Red Sea like he had clones.

You were both deliriously happy and utterly exhausted, too distracted to count days.

And too busy to notice your period hadn’t come.

It wasn’t until a shoot at the botanical garden, when the smell of roses made you nauseous and the heat left you dizzy, that it hit you.

You were late.

Really late.

You tried to brush it off.

Stress. Fatigue.

But the next morning, gagging over your toothpaste, you knew.

You didn’t say anything to Ari.

You threw a hoodie over your pajamas, bought a test from the bodega, and locked yourself in the bathroom at 6:30 a.m. while he slept.

The wait was short.

Two pink lines. Immediately, no question.

You sat on the edge of the tub, staring at it like it might blink first.

You were pregnant. Actually pregnant. Six, maybe seven weeks if the math in your head was right.

It may have even happened after the reception when you whispered that you went off the pill into your husband’s ear and he made good on every sacred filthy promise he’d made in response.

You had made her. Or him. Together.

Your eyes welled up. Your stomach turned again, but you smiled through it.

The floor creaked outside the door.

“Muse?” Ari’s voice was sleepy. “You okay?”

You opened the door slowly, test clutched in your hand. Ari blinked at you, shirtless, hair messy, and pajama pants low on his hips.

“What’s that?”

He stared at the stick. And then, like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes, he understood.

“You’re serious?” he asked, voice cracking.

You nodded.

“I think it happened the night of the reception. Maybe the elevator. Maybe the counter. Possibly the bed.”

A beat, then he laughed.

That laugh.

Full of disbelief and awe and all the things he couldn’t say fast enough.

He pulled you into his arms so hard you squeaked, then dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to your stomach like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact second.

“We made a person,” he whispered. “A fucking person. On purpose.”

You laughed, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I probably should’ve realized sooner. I thought I was just tired.”

“You’re growing a human,” he said, kissing your belly.

“Of course you’re tired.”

“Hi, baby,” he murmured. “I hope you are just like your mom. Beautiful, strong as hell and full of attitude.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a tear from your cheek.

“This baby is going to own you.”

—

Three days later, Ari found you in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge like it had insulted your honor.

“You look like you’re about to fight someone,” he said carefully.

“There’s no fruit,” you said flatly.

A beat.

“There’s literally so much fruit,” he replied, opening the fridge like he needed to double-check.

You pointed dramatically.

“There are apples. Strawberries. Grapes. But no peaches. I want a peach, Ari. I want a cold, juicy, stupidly ripe peach and there are NONE.”

He blinked. And then, he moved, no hesitation. Just grabbed his keys, his wallet, and kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be back in fifteen,” he murmured, already halfway out the door.

When he returned, he had two brown paper bags and a look that screamed husband of the year.

“There were no fresh peaches at Whole Foods. So I hit up the bodega, then the farmer’s market on 12th.”

He laid out the goods like sacred offerings: yellow peaches, white peaches, canned in syrup, peach nectar, dried peaches.

You blinked. Then burst into tears.

“Oh my god. Who does that?

He pulled you into his chest.

“Husbands of hormonal goddesses,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

“Eat, baby. I got you.”

You ate three in a row over the sink, moaning through every bite.

Ari watched you like you were an art exhibit.

“I’ve never been more attracted to you,” he muttered.

You licked juice off your wrist, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting.

“Oh? You like the feral fruit goblin look?”

“I like the pregnant-with-my-baby look,” he said. “A lot.”

When you were done eating, Ari carried you to the shower and made love to you slowly, reverently, the scent of peaches still clinging to your skin.

——

At eight weeks, your skin broke out and your favorite perfume made you gag. The smell of espresso turned your stomach, a personal betrayal. You were bloated, irritable, exhausted, and more in love with Ari than ever.

When you cried over a dropped croissant, Ari didn’t laugh.

He just held you and whispered, “I’ve got you,” before coming back with four more.

He quietly took over your calendar and showed up to every OB appointment like it was a gala. At your first ultrasound, he didn’t blink, just stared at the grainy little smudge on the screen like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

“That’s ours,” he whispered, awestruck.

You were bone-deep tired. Sex was still good, just less frequent. That didn’t stop Ari from pressing his mouth to your neck every night and whispering that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Then, around nine weeks, came a new craving.

You stood in front of the mirror in nothing but a bralette and the softest boyshorts, staring at your body like it belonged to someone else. Your belly hadn’t changed much, but your breasts were heavier, sore, almost unfairly full.

Your skin felt like it was buzzing. Not itchy. Not uncomfortable.

Just…strange.

You as Ari stood in the doorway, eyes dropping, then widening at the vision of you.

He closed the door behind him, already crossing the room.

“You okay?”

“No,” you whispered. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

He raised a brow, cautiously playful.

“That bad, huh?”

You reached for him, grabbing his shirt.

“It’s like, my skin’s too tight. Everything aches. But not in a bad way. I just…”

You leaned into him, mouth at his neck.

“I need something. I need…you.”

His breath hitched.

“You sure?”

You nodded, already pressing kisses under his jaw.

“I’m climbing the walls, Ari. I’ve been thinking about it all day. About you. Your mouth. Your hands. Your cock.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“That’s a dangerous way to talk to your husband, sweetheart.”

“It’s the only way I know how to talk to you right now,” you panted. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice darkening instantly. “Come here.”

He didn’t make it to the bed. He backed you against the dresser, yanked your panties down, and kissed a path to your chest, pulling one aching nipple into his mouth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you gasped, hips canting forward. “I need it. Need you.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. Just dropped to his knees and buried his face between your thighs, licking you like he’d missed it, even though he hadn’t. His tongue was hot and sure, curling deep, circling your clit until you were shaking, one hand in his hair and the other braced on the dresser.

You came with a gasp, loudly, thighs trembling around his ears.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Need you inside me.”

Ari stood and kissed you hard, then turned you around and bent you gently over the dresser, one large hand splayed on your lower back, the other stroking himself behind you.

“I love when you get like this,” he groaned. “Desperate. Greedy. So fucking hot.”

You felt the wide head of his cock press against your soaked entrance and pushed back, moaning as he slid into you slowly, fully, and deeply.

“Fuck. Tight,” he hissed. “You feel different. Even hotter. Damn.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Harder.”

And he did. He gave it to you deep, slow, and then fast and filthy, one hand gripping your hip, the other reaching around to rub your clit just the way you liked.

You came again before he did, your body clenching hard around him, milking him until he spilled inside you with a groan and a whispered “God, I love you.”

“They’re going to be wild,” you mumbled, still breathless.

“They’re going to be ours,” Ari whispered, kissing your spine.

He carried you to bed and tucked you against his chest, and whispered soft things into your hair until you melted. You thought he’d sleep. But when you stirred he shifted beside you.

“You awake?” he murmured, voice rumbling against your cheek.

“Mmm… kinda. What time is it?”

“Late enough,” he said. “You hungry?”

“For food or for sex?”

He laughed softly.

“You up for round two?”

You tilted your face up toward him. He was already looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like every time he saw you, it hit him all over again.

You smiled.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He rolled you onto your back.

“You’re glowing already,” he murmured, dragging his mouth over you. “Like your body knows it’s doing something holy.”

“You’re obsessed,” you breathed as your fingers threaded through his hair.

“I am,” he whispered, kissing your belly. “You’re carrying my baby. Of course I’m obsessed.”

You felt yourself throb with the sound of his voice alone, and he slid between your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“But I’m not just obsessed with this,” he said, his mouth hovering over your pussy.

“I’m obsessed with you. With how you taste, how you sound, how you fall apart when I…”

You gasped as he licked a long, slow stripe up your center.

“...do that.”

Your fingers gripped the sheets.

He licked you again. And again. He was both filthy and reverent. His tongue teased your clit, circled it, sucked softly before pulling back to kiss your hip. You moaned, already close, your thighs trembling around his head.

He didn’t stop, sliding one finger inside you, and curling it just right, while his mouth stayed latched to your clit. He worked you slowly, building the pressure until you were whimpering his name, eyes glassy, voice ragged.

“Ari! I’m gonna…”

“Let go,” he rasped against your skin. “Let me take care of my wife.”

That did it. You came hard, with a cry that echoed off the walls, your hips jerking up as your body clenched around his hand. He didn’t stop until your legs shook and your voice gave out.

Then, he kissed his way back up your body, murmuring between every kiss.

“So good for me. So fucking sweet. I’ll never get enough.”

When you kissed him, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he sank into you in one deep, slow thrust.

This time was different. This was languid, molten, and deliberate.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“I love you,” you breathed back, clinging to him.

He came with a low moan, buried deep inside you.

You didn’t know how long you lay like that, wrapped up in him, warm and safe, heart racing in sync.

But you knew one thing.

You’d never been loved like this.

—-

By week 14, the nausea lifted like fog.

Your first real meal in days was Greek yogurt with honey, pistachios, and two-and-a-half nectarines. You sat at the table and sobbed through the entire thing. Ari sat beside you with a spoon in hand, feeding you bites like you were royalty.

He bought a crate of nectarines the next day.

Your skin became ethereal.

Your energy returned.

And the sex was outstanding.

By week 17, your bump started to show.

Ari stared while you brushed your teeth, then dropped to his knees and kissed your belly like it was sacred.

He spent the entire week painting one wall of the nursery, over and over, until it was the right shade of “sunlight through fog.”

At twenty weeks, the anatomy scan made everything real. The tech said she was healthy and “active.”

You watched her squirm on the screen and felt a flutter so soft you almost missed it. Ari sketched your face.

He’d started again after hearing Steve was an artist. He hadn’t done it since college. He said he never wanted to forget how you looked when you realized she was real.

Your dreams got weird. Gold-leafed babies, talking dolphins, a house made of socks. You mumbled them into Ari’s neck at 3 a.m., and he wrote them in a notebook by the bed.

One night, after a dream where the baby was late to a Vogue shoot, he rubbed your back and whispered, “She gets that from you.”

Your hips ached and your cravings changed weekly. One week, it was grilled cheese at 2 a.m., every night. The next, sour cherry popsicles. You ate one topless on the balcony and Ari almost dropped his drink.

The third trimester arrived and you couldn’t see your feet. Your ankles swelled if you stood too long and you wore Ari’s T-shirts inside out almost exclusively.

The baby kicked with force now, especially when Ari read aloud, which he did every night. She kicked hardest when he read Toni Morrison.

You swore she was trying to communicate.

Modeling stopped, but Muse didn’t. You ruled from a throne of pillows, compression socks, and croissants. Ari brought smoothies, kissed your belly, and whispered to the baby like she could answer.

The nesting hit like a fever.

You cleaned out the coat closet at 2 a.m. one night and reorganized every spice alphabetically. Ari didn’t stop you, just brought a chair when your back hurt.

You bought two bassinets, five swaddles, and an antique wooden sheep that cost more than your first car.

When Ari asked why, you said, “She’ll know it’s art.”

At thirty-six weeks, you only slept in short bursts because the pressure in your hips was brutal. You got Braxton Hicks, which you thought were real one night.

Ari threw the hospital bag in the car. Turned out it was nothing. He didn’t sleep for two days just in case.

You woke up crying one night after a dream where the baby looked up at you and said, “Thank you.”

Ari cried with you, then spooned you until sunrise.

At 39 weeks, you stopped wearing waistbands. You waddled and peed constantly yet Ari couldn’t stop touching you.

He whispered into your shoulder every night, “We’re so close.”

Your due date came and went; she didn’t. Until one morning, forty weeks and one day, you woke just after 3 a.m.

At first, you thought it was a dream. Then you shifted and felt it: a wet warmth soaking into the sheets. A slow, low cramp stole your breath as you gasped, sat up, and touched your belly.

Ari bolted upright beside you.

“Was that…?”

You nodded. Grinning. Eyes wide.

“It’s time.”

—---

The contractions started slowly; they were manageable.

You even joked through the first couple, sitting on a towel in the passenger seat while Ari broke the speed limit down the West Side Highway at four in the morning.

Ari was not calm. He kept glancing at you like you might break open in the front seat.

“You okay?” he kept asking.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I think so.”

“You sure it’s not Braxton Hicks again?”

You glared.

“That was one time.”

“I still haven’t recovered.”

You huffed a laugh just as another wave slammed into you. You moaned and clutched the edge of the seat.

Ari reached over blindly, offering his hand without taking his eyes off the road.

You squeezed. And he didn’t flinch. He never did with you.

At the hospital, walking took effort. You paused every few steps, panting. Ari let you brace against him, murmuring, “I’ve got you,” over and over like a mantra.

Inside, everything blurred. Monitors. Nurses. Antiseptic. Wristbands. The contractions sharpened. Ari stayed right there, one hand in yours, the other brushing sweat from your brow.

Twelve hours in, things got real.

You were dilated enough to scream but not enough to push. Your back felt like it was splitting. Your stomach twisted with every wave.

Your eyes welled with tears and you weren’t sure if it was pain or fear or hormones.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Ari whispered.

You shook your head.

“She’s never coming out. She’s going to live in there forever. I’m going to be the first woman to carry a full-grown adult.”

“She’ll be gorgeous,” Ari said softly. “But Baby, she’s coming. You’re doing so well. You’re strong. You’re already her whole world.”

Another contraction rolled through you like a storm. You screamed and gripped his shirt so hard the seams popped.

“I hate you!” you cried.

He nodded solemnly. “That’s fair.”

“I mean it.”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Copy that.”

You leaned into his chest and sobbed.

“I’m so scared.”

His hands cradled your face.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

At sixteen hours, everything shifted. You dilated. They called the doctor. The nurse raised the bed. The lights got brighter.

And suddenly, it was time.

You were drenched in sweat. Crying without realizing it, and gripping Ari’s hand like a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, Muse,” he said, voice low and steady, even as his own eyes glistened. “Bring her home.”

The doctor’s voice cut through the noise.

“Next contraction, push,” the doctor said.

You nodded, jaw clenched, legs trembling.

And you pushed. Until your throat was raw. Until you saw stars.

And then, you heard her.

A sharp, keening cry. One that broke your heart and healed it at the same time.

You collapsed against the pillows, laughing and sobbing as the world tilted.

And then there she was, tiny and screaming her arrival.

Ari cut the cord with trembling hands. You watched him through tears as they placed her on your chest. Skin to skin. Warm and fragile and real. She blinked up at you, impossibly new. Lips parted. Fists curled. Her little chest was pumping.

You stared down at her and whispered, “Hey.”

She made a soft, searching sound and Ari sank to his knees beside you, head pressed to your shoulder. He was crying openly now.

“You did it,” he whispered. “You brought her home.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s ours.”

And for one long, breathless moment, the world disappeared.

—--

The room was quiet, lights dimmed, and the soft beep of the monitor the only sound. You ached in every limb, but your arms were full of everything that mattered.

She lay against your chest, skin to skin under a blanket, mouth parted in a perfect pout as she suckled in her sleep. Her heartbeat fluttered against you, fast and rabbit-quick.

Ari sat halfway on the bed, one hand tracing her spine, the other resting on your thigh like he couldn’t stop touching both of you at once.

“She smells like some kind of heaven,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly, dizzy with exhaustion and love.

“You’re just high on pheromones and baby shampoo.”

His smile flickered, eyes never leaving her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever believed in God until right now.”

A nurse stepped in to check vitals, and Ari gently lifted her from your chest. She curled into him instinctively, as if she’d always known the shape of his arms.

You watched him.

Big, strong hands holding her so gently, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. His whole body curved around her like a fortress.

The nurse smiled as she left.

“That one’s wrapped,” she said, nodding toward Ari.

You nodded too, your eyes misting.

—-

You hadn’t officially told anyone her name. Not even the nurses.

Not even your mother.

The hospital placard on the little bassinet beside your bed still read blank beside F: 6lb 7oz” and “June 21st, 8:32 PM.

Ari had insisted on waiting.

“It should come from you,” he said, fingers brushing the IV line taped to your hand.

“You carried her. You fought for her. You get to say it first.”

You looked at the bassinet, where she slept swaddled, lashes impossibly long, nose like a button. Then back at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Say it.”

So you did. You whispered the name you’d once typed half-asleep into a shared notes file, inspired by a shoot in Morocco and a poem tucked into a forgotten book.

Cleo Noor Levinson

Ari closed his eyes like it was a spell. Cleo, one of the nine Muses, and Noor, meaning light.

Ari closed his eyes like he’d been waiting to hear it his whole life. Cleo, one of the nine muses. Noor, meaning light.

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “I knew that would be it.”

“You did?”

He rose, picked up the dry-erase marker, and wrote it on the placard with the focus of a man signing a masterpiece.

And just like that, she had a name.

—--

Ari took leave the moment you were discharged.

No emails. No delegation. Just a single call to the board and a quiet, “I’ll be off for the foreseeable future.”

The man who once ran international exhibits down to the minute now lived in newborn rhythms, feedings, cries, the rise and fall of her breath against his chest.

“I’ve already got the only masterpiece I need,” he said one night, her tiny form tucked inside his hoodie.

You weren’t alone for a second.

Your mother arrived first with a suitcase and surgical efficiency. She reorganized your freezer, folded onesies, made gumbo, and commented on your curtains.

Ari’s mother followed, bearing folk remedies and weepy prayers. She sobbed the first time she held the baby, then tucked hand-knit booties under the bassinet like protective charms.

Trixie, your editor, breezed in wearing a leather trench and designer sunglasses, holding a tray of gourmet lactation cookies.

“I don’t know what your hormones are doing, babe, but if we shoot the maternity line in August, I’ll cry.”

You hadn’t slept in 48 hours. There was milk in your hair.

But you nodded, dazed, and said, “Sure.”

When Peach showed up, the door swung open with the wind, her four-month-old baby boy strapped to her chest, a pack of diapers under one arm and a bottle of prosecco under the other.

“You had a baby! I had a baby! Let’s compare battle wounds,” she cheered, already halfway in.

Peach’s baby, Kit Rogers, drooled into her blouse while she handed you nipple balm and kissed your cheek.

“This one spits up like he’s in a frat. Need help latching? I’ve got techniques.”

You blinked. “I’m…okay?”

“Let me know when you’re not.”

Then came Mrs. Barnes, glowing and exhausted, her two-year-old Luca trailing behind her, sticky-handed and singing a made-up song about blueberries. She was seven months pregnant again and still the most effortlessly elegant person in any room.

“I brought muffins,” she said. “And my toddler, who may try to feed your baby a raisin. Good luck.”

Within minutes, your apartment was full of babies, strollers, toys, lactation snacks, and the low-grade chaos of maternal love.

Then came the newborn photo shoot. It was Trixie’s idea, but Ari made it perfect.

“You’ll want to remember this,” he said as he helped you oil your skin and slip into a soft robe.

The photographer, a quiet friend, barely spoke. The windows were wide open. Morning light poured in.

Ari was bare chested and impossibly handsome, the kind of man you still couldn’t believe was yours.

You held Cleo in your arms, skin to skin, her curls damp and soft against your chest. Ari stood behind you, arms wrapped around both of you, his face at your temple, his body shielding yours.

At one point, he took her into his arms and you watched through the lens as he kissed her tiny forehead, the barest whisper of breath against her soft abundance of curls.

“That’s the one,” the photographer said.

It wasn’t posed. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was love.

—--

You’d delayed your six-week postpartum visit more than once, until your mother took matters into her own hands. She was at your door when you returned from third rescheduled appointment and practically shoved you out the door as you side eyed Ari.

"You two need a night. She’ll be fine. Go," she said, already bouncing the baby with one hand and waving with the other.

You looked at Ari like you might cry. He looked back like he might carry you to the car.

Ari had booked the hotel. Just one night a short drive away with robes, white sheets, and a view of the skyline you used to chase.

You felt like cancelling, but Ari reminded you of the doctor’s words: You’re healing beautifully. You’re clear to resume sexual activity whenever you feel ready.

And you’d clutched Ari’s hand, breath caught in your throat, unsure if ready was even a thing anymore or just an abstract concept.

—-

You stood in the middle of the hotel room, unsure what to do with your hands. Ari was already kicking off his shoes, eyes trained on you.

“I can order room service,” he offered gently. “Or we can just sleep.”

You nodded, then turned to face him.

“I missed you.”

His eyes softened instantly.

“I’m right here.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” you admitted softly.

He stepped behind you, just close enough to warm the back of your neck with his breath.

“I do.”

He eased off your shirt, his shirt, then your nursing tank, stopping at your bra.

“May I?”

You nodded.

He eased the bra straps down your arms, unclasped it gently, and let it fall. Your breasts were full, heavier now, darker at the nipples. You didn’t dare look at him. But he let out a breath like he’d been punched.

“Goddamn,” he whispered.

You crossed your arms instinctively, but he caught your wrists and kissed each one.

“Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you.”

When he knelt, it startled you.

You looked down at him, this man, your husband on his knees for you. He slid your leggings and underwear down, kissed your knee, your thigh, the faint silver lines at your hips.

"These are mine," he murmured. "My favorite art."

“My body’s different.”

“It’s yours.” He looked up at you.

“She grew here. Right here. This body made her. This body fed her. Carried her. Protected her.”

He pressed a kiss just below your navel.

“I worship this body,” he said. “I will never stop.”

Your throat tightened. You reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

He stood then, shedding his own clothes piece by piece as he stepped toward you, letting you take in the long line of his torso, the soft trail of hair, the muscles still carved from habit and stress and devotion.

He wasn’t trying to be seductive. He didn’t need to.

You’d never wanted anyone more in your life. But…

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “Of it hurting. Of it… not feeling the same.”

He cupped your cheek and kissed your forehead.

“Then we’ll go slow. And if it doesn’t feel good, we stop.”

You nodded.

When he guided you back to the bed,you laid down and he hovered above you, eyes drinking in every sign that your body had been through something world changing.

“You’re so damn beautiful.”

His mouth found your throat first. Then your collarbone.

He kissed the heavier swell of your breasts, then ran his tongue slowly over your nipple before closing his mouth around it, sucking just enough to make your back arch. Your fingers gripped his shoulders.

“Still so sensitive,” he hummed, moving to the other breast. “I love how you respond to me.”

Then, he went down.

He kissed every stretch mark. Every inch of softened skin. Pressed his cheek to your belly and exhaled.

“I will never get over this body.”

And then his mouth was between your legs, and you forgot how to breathe.

He licked you with slow, purposeful strokes, his thumbs parting you gently. He wasn’t trying to make you come. Not yet. He was just reacquainting himself with you, but you came anyway, overwhelmed and sobbing.

“I’m yours,” he said, again and again, against your body. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, hard and heavy and slick.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you inside me.”

He froze. Then nodded. Then he braced his thick head at your entrance, and slid in slowly. You gasped, biting your lip, feeling the stretch.

Your body remembering.

Relearning.

Accommodating him again.

When he was fully inside, he stilled.

“You okay?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

“You feel so good. ‘M so full.”

He moved, just a little, and you whimpered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead to yours. “So tight. You’re still made for me.”

You held him close and rocked your hips, needing more. Wanting all of it. All of him.

When he started to thrust in earnest, you clung to him, hips meeting with slow, rhythmic intensity. You weren’t quiet, and neither was he; you sobbed into his shoulder, and he grunted into your neck.

He kissed your temple and murmured, “I missed you.”

“I missed us,” you whispered back.

You came again, more gently this time, your body fluttering around him.

Ari didn’t last much longer.

He buried his face in your hair as he spilled inside you calling your name.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more now than I ever knew I could,” Ari replied.

—--

You drifted for a while. And then his hands started to explore your body again.

“Ari,” you breathed.

“I know,” he whispered, his mouth already at your neck.

“But I need you again.”

This time, he didn’t wait. He rolled you onto your stomach and slid in from behind, one arm under your chest, the other gripping your hip. You gasped, the angle sharper, the stretch deeper. The sound you made drove him wild.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned against your shoulder.

“Even tighter now. Wetter.”

He thrust deeper. Rougher. Every stroke coaxing louder cries from your lips. You reached back for him, nails digging into his thigh, as he fucked you slow and deep, hips snapping with practiced rhythm. You felt every inch, every ridge, and the weight of his need to claim you again.

When he came this time, he spilled into you thickly, whispering your name so angelically. Still, he didn’t stop touching you.

The third time came later, after water, midnight room service, a shower, and quiet laughter as you lay naked on the cool sheets.

You kissed him first, straddled him and took him in slowly, inch by inch, watching his face twist in pleasure.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he rasped.

“Ride me just like that.”

You moved slowly at first. Then faster. Grinding your hips until he couldn’t stop moaning. You came, your hips shaking. He came not long after, gripping your waist, panting into your mouth.

Then it was soft again, warm.

You laid side by side in the glow of the bedside lamp, your legs tangled and your foreheads pressed together.

You whispered about the baby, about how full your heart felt, how weird your body still was, and how you’d never been more in love.

He kissed your wrist.

You touched his hair.

Then, again.

Ari kissed down your stomach and between your legs. Slid his tongue into you and made you cum. And then he fucked you while sitting up, both of you facing the window, city lights flickering against your skin.

The last time, just before dawn, was the least careful of all.

He took you up against the bathroom counter after another shower. Your thighs were wet with slick. The mirror was fogged. And you were dripping down his cock before he even thrust inside.

He grabbed your hair, murmuring filth into your ear while he moved inside you, harder this time, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You missed this too, huh?” he growled. “Missed the way I fuck you? You gonna let me fill you up again, Sweetheart?”

You moaned your answer, half incoherent, and came around him again as he filled you once more, biting your shoulder as he spilled.

You were shaking when he cleaned you up and wrapped you in a towel.

He kissed your stomach as he knelt in front of you.

“I love this body. I love you,” he said again. “Every version of you.”

You barely made it to the bed before you passed out in his arms.

—---

The next morning, you barely had time to fumble with the keys before the apartment door opened. Your mother stood there, barefoot in sweats, cradling the baby against her chest and looking smug.

“Well,” she said, one brow arched as her gaze swept over you and Ari.

“You two look like you just got back from the honeymoon you didn’t take.”

You blinked at her, stunned. Ari chuckled under his breath.

You both did look different. Hair a mess, skin flushed. Your clothes were slightly rumpled from a morning of moving slowly and two pushed back checkouts because you didn’t want to leave that hotel bed.

Your mom’s knowing grin only widened when she took you in.

“You’re welcome,” she added, handing your daughter over with a kiss on her tiny forehead.

“She slept. I didn’t.”

You melted the moment your baby was back in your arms, her little fists curled under her chin, cheeks warm against your shoulder. Ari stood behind you, pressing a kiss to both your temple and hers, his hand resting on your lower back.

“Miss us, baby girl?” he murmured.

She cooed softly, half-asleep.

You and Ari exchanged a glance, melting, again, so in love it was hopeless.

—--

The next few days found you settling into something real, something new.

Your mother stayed for two more evenings, spoiling her granddaughter and watching you both with a kind of quiet satisfaction. Then, Ari’s mother arrived, sweeping in with meals, a silk wrap, and tears the second she held her grandchild.

“It’s not even fair,” she whispered one night, rocking the baby with a smile. “She got all the best parts of both of you.”

After that, the rhythm found its footing.

Mornings became sacred, half caf coffee, nursing, Ari holding the baby over his shoulder while you stole a shower, the quiet hum of domestic life.

Nights were warm and soft and sometimes sexy again.

Not every night.

But enough.

—---

Two more weeks and then it was time to go back to work.

Ari went back to Red Sea full-time. You weren’t ready for that pace yet, not with feedings and pumping and hormones and missing her every time you blinked. So you returned part-time at Muse, easing into editorial again with Trixie at your side.

You also began interviewing nannies.

Ari insisted on being there for every interview, sharp-eyed and surprisingly open-minded. Eventually, you found two who felt right, a weekday and a weekend rotation. Not to replace you. Just to help.

Your first real modeling job came a few weeks after that. Just a short editorial campaign.

You were nervous. But when you stepped into frame, something clicked.

And when Ari arrived at the end of the shoot, the baby strapped to his chest in a soft green sling, his eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, watching you pose with quiet intensity. “That’s my wife.”

The photographer caught him staring, and snapped a candid of you looking down at your daughter between takes, a beam of light catching the ring on your finger.

“She’s a goddess,” Ari said to no one in particular. “That’s my whole world right there.”

He worshipped you that night.

And your daughter giggled the next morning when he kissed you before breakfast, as if she knew that even now, you were still everything he wanted.

——

Love this little family. 🥹

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here-for-the-captain · 2 months ago

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Reblog if you're gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, transgender or a supporter.

This should be reblogged by everyone. Even if you’re straight, you should be a supporter.

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here-for-the-captain · 2 months ago

Text

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

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here-for-the-captain · 2 months ago

Text

Love affirming! I have loved this trio of series❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 Each one just gets better and better!

Muse: epilogue

Muse: Seven | Muse Masterlist

Summary: Two years down the line and Ari has been a patient man. How does he make that special moment unforgettable?

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader; Bucky x Frumoasă, and Steve x Peach

Word count: 4 K

A/N: This is it! It's really the last of the planned fics for Muse and Ari, but I will always be down for asks or devils in my inbox. Thank you to those of you who just get these two like I do. You know my heart. 🥹 Muse has been a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this is it. 🥲 Big thanks to @princessphilly who basically inspired the premise and has endured me being unhinged in her inbox. This AU is the nexus, not only connected to the Peach and Knock You Down verses, but also the Minx verse. I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, that forever feeling, death of an appliance; beginning of a union, wedding planning, wedding vows, Steve and Bucky and Furmoasa and Peach, wife and husband kink, Muse gets hella lucky: lots of oral (f receiving) intense breeding kink, anal play, edging, over-stim, size kink, raw p in v.

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

Two Years Later

The new apartment in Hudson Yards wasn’t new anymore; it smelled like the two of you now, ink and espresso, lavender and Ari’s cologne.

The walls were no longer bare; they were layered with framed editorial spreads from Muse Magazine, splashes of abstract color from Ari’s latest obsessions, and candid polaroids of you and him stuck up with painter’s tape.

It was home.

It wasn’t just your name on the lease, not just his art on the walls, your books on the shelves, or his socks in the drawers. It was dinners on the floor when the dining table was covered in proofs or polaroids of artwork. It was sleepy forehead kisses before sunrise when you left early for a shoot, and his murmured, “Text me when you get there,” before drifting back to sleep.

And you were busier than ever.

You'd used the momentum from Paris to start Muse, which was thriving now after so many long nights and big risks. You were the face of the brand, your image woven into its DNA, and your calendar was a stitched mess of shoots and layout meetings and interviews.

The article about Peach Rogers, Stripper Turned Socialite, had gone viral last month, and Mrs. Barnes was guest-editing the summer art issue. Your managing editor, who you called Trixie, because she was basically your Swiss Army knife, was your ace. Ari was on your editorial board. The team was small, but everything you’d dreamed of.

And Ari, god, was he proud of you, even when he teased you about being a tyrant in editorial meetings.

He was busy, too, consulting curator at the new MoMA extension and Red Sea was one of the hottest art spaces in NYC, up there with Rebirth.

Bucky had bought a piece by one of the artists Ari exhibited, something stark and haunted that reminded him of Romania, and the two of them had bonded fast over art.

His wife called you sister wife despite the fact that it made Ari’s eye twitch a little. Or maybe because of it.

Peach was your chaos twin, and Steve tolerated Ari. Ari tolerated him right back.

It worked.

And somehow, you still made time for late-night gallery crawls, monthly Salsa nights, early morning sex, late night sex, and mid-day-sneak-away sex, for cooking together and fighting and making up and holding each other through storms that no one else saw.

Your life was full of everything you had ever wanted and more. It didn’t look like what either of you imagined; it was better.

And tonight, as the sunset lit up the city outside your windows, you were curled up on the couch again, him in sweats, you in one of his button-downs, bare legs tucked beneath you. A plate of takeout was shared between you, your laptop open but ignored, and the latest proofs scattered around your ankles.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, reaching for your wine.

“That’s dangerous,” Ari replied, smirking as he swirled his own glass.

You nudged his thigh with your foot.

“I mean about the next cover. The anniversary issue. No gowns. No theme. Just… raw. Honest. Like the bones of why we started.”

He set his glass down and leaned back, watching you.

“You mean why you started. You’re the spine of that magazine.”

You smiled without looking up.

“Maybe. But you’re the one who taught me how to stay standing.”

The words caught him off-guard. You didn’t notice, you were back to flipping through the proofs and making notes. But Ari was frozen. Then, his hand slipped into the pocket of his hoodie, fingers finding the small velvet box he’d been carrying for weeks. Months, really.

He’d been waiting. Watching.

Not because he doubted you. But because he knew the woman you were. Knew how hard-won your independence was. Knew you didn’t want to be possessed, just chosen.

He wanted you to want it. Not because it was time, or expected, or pretty in a picture. But because it was him.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, voice softer now.

You looked up, surprised by the way he was watching you.

“What?”

Ari smiled. “You happy?”

You tilted your head.

“That’s a big question.”

“I know. But… two years ago, we were holding it all together with just desire and sheer stubborn willpower. And now we’ve got this life. Our life. Just… wondering if it’s everything you wanted it to be.”

You set the laptop aside and crawled into his lap without hesitation, looping your arms around his neck.

“I’m exhausted, overworked, hungry all the time, and I’ve got deadlines coming out of my ears,” you murmured.

“And yes. I’m so happy it makes my chest ache sometimes.”

Ari closed his eyes and breathed you in. And when he opened them, he knew.

Not tonight. But soon.

Very soon.

—--

It started with a flood.

Not a metaphorical flood. Just the dishwasher finally giving up and dumping water all over the kitchen floor on a Saturday morning.

You’d both slept in, a rare occurrence. Ari made pancakes. You made coffee. And then the dishwasher coughed, sputtered, and poured an ocean at your feet.

“Shit,” you muttered, dropping to your knees with a towel.

“Language,” Ari said, following with a second towel and a grin.

“Don’t start with me, Levinson.”

You wrestled with the flood, both of you in Ari’s clothes, slipping, cursing, and laughing as the towels soaked through too fast to matter. Ari bumped into you reaching for the paper towels and you knocked over the cold coffee. He tried to mop it up and ended up with pancake syrup on his elbow.

It was chaos.

Beautiful, sticky, domestic chaos.

You looked up at him, hair a mess, in his t-shirt, covered in coffee, kneeling in a puddle. And he just knew.

“This is it,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“The end of days via Whirlpool?”

“No,” he said, breathless with some kind of quiet joy.

“This. Us. This is it for me.”

You froze.

He reached into the drawer behind him, not the romantic reveal he’d been planning for months. Just… the junk drawer.

Because the ring was there.

He’d tucked it away two weeks ago after another failed plan involving candlelight and a rooftop view and you getting a last-minute call from the magazine.

He got on one knee, covered in dishwater and syrup, holding the velvet box in his palm.

“No crowd,” Ari said quietly.

“No over the top moment. Just… I love you. I love our life. I love the mess and the mornings and you being such a fucking boss. I want this, you, every version of you. For the rest of my life.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long, but I waited to ask because I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want to make you feel like it had to be anything but what we made together. But if you want it, if you want me, say yes.”

You stared at him, then at your kitchen, flooded and gleaming with city light.

And back at the man who had never asked you to be anything but yourself.

Who had waited until you were ready without ever stepping away.

You laughed.

Then you sobbed.

Then leaned in to kiss him, your wet hands cradling his cheeks. Then you reached for the box with trembling fingers.

Inside there was a ring that wasn’t flashy, and it wasn’t trendy; it was timeless. Something that would look just as good when you were both old and gray and bickering over espresso machines.

“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “Fuck, yes.”

And that’s how it happened.

Not on a rooftop.

Not in Paris.

Not on a yacht.

But in your kitchen, barefoot and sticky with syrup, soaked in dish water and love.

And it was perfect.

Absolutely, unequivocally perfect.

—----

You didn’t leave the apartment for two days.

Maybe it was the storm that rolled in that night, sheets of rain drumming against the windows.

Maybe it was the dishwasher’s death rattle. But mostly, it was the ring on your finger.

The quiet click of it as you rubbed your thumb over it absentmindedly. The weight of it, grounding you. A promise you could feel every time Ari touched you, which was constantly now.

He couldn’t seem to stop.

Neither could you.

That first night, after you said yes, he lifted you onto the kitchen counter and kissed you until you couldn’t tell if it was tears or steam fogging up your vision. You didn’t even notice the mess on the floor.

He dropped to his knees, not to propose again, but to pull your panties down and press his mouth to you like he meant it. Like he wanted to worship the exact moment his life changed.

“I get to marry you,” he whispered between licks, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re mine.”

You moaned his name, fingers tangling in his hair, and whispered back, “Yours. Always.”

You came with your legs over his shoulders, your shirt still on, your body arching into the kind of release that felt like yes in every form. He stood up and kissed you with your taste still on his lips, then carried you to the bed like he would as long as he could walk.

It didn’t stop there.

The next morning, after several rounds and a couple of showers, you woke tangled in his arms, the ring catching the sunlight as he reached for your hand to kiss your knuckles.

“Still yes?” he asked, teasing.

You dragged him back under the covers in response, straddling him, kissing him with slow, sleepy hunger.

“Yes,” you murmured against his jaw. “Yes, yes, yes.”

The sex wasn’t frantic, not always. Sometimes it was just lazy and warm. He’d whisper things into your skin, things like:

“Can’t believe I’ll get to call you my wife.”

“Gonna love you like this for the rest of our lives.”

“Bet you’ll be so fucking beautiful pregnant. Glowing and full of me.”

You gasped every time he said it, arousal tightening deep in your belly. It was a game, a kink, a maybe.

You were still on birth control, and you’d talked about waiting. But the way Ari said it, all hot and possessive, made it sound like a future you already wanted.

One night, he fucked you from behind, your palms flat on the windowpane, city lights smeared and golden.

“You’d let me do it, wouldn’t you? Fill you up? Keep you full? Give you everything?”

You whimpered his name, rocking back onto him, the ring on your finger clicking against the glass as you pressed your palm to it.

“Yes, Ari, oh fuck, yes.”

He came groaning your name, one hand gripping your hip, the other covering your stomach like he was already imagining it round and swollen, then lower. You came seconds after, hips jerking, your cheek pressed to the cold glass.

Afterward, you curled up on the living room rug under the Rothko, naked under a shared blanket, bodies still humming.

“I think we’re disgusting,” you whispered, smiling against his chest.

“We’re engaged,” he said, fingers carding in your hair. “It’s romantic.”

“You just called my uterus a nesting site.”

“And you moaned,” he added smugly.

You laughed.

You kissed.

You touched and teased and talked about everything, guest lists and flowers and how you didn’t care if anyone came as long as he was at the end of the aisle.

—-

And you tried. You really did.

There were Pinterest boards.

Mood boards.

Spreadsheets.

A dress fitting that made you cry (and not in the good way), a caterer who ghosted you, and a seating chart that could be classified as psychological warfare.

And then there was your mother. And his mother. And father. And step-mother.

Ari was… supportive. Too supportive. Which made it worse.

“Babe, whatever you want,” he said one night as you stared blankly at a color-coded planner.

“It’s our day.”

You glared at him from across the couch.

“Then why do I feel like I’m planning the Geneva Convention?”

He bit back a laugh.

“Want to elope?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

But he saw it, that flicker in your eyes that whispered: God, yes.

You tried again.

You called venues.

Your managing editor sent a list of photographers.

Your mother sent seven voice notes in a row about flower girls you didn’t want.

Ari watched you slowly unravel, always calm, and always ready to catch you.

Until you escaped to Montauk for the holiday.

Just a weekend, you swore.

Just to breathe, he promised.

But the moment your bags hit the hardwood floors of the beach house, Ari looked at you and asked, very softly, “Tell me we brought the rings.”

You blinked.

Then laughed.

Then cried.

Because of course you had.

The next evening, barefoot on the sand in front of the sunset, a local officiant Ari had apparently texted at dawn, read quiet vows as the waves came in.

No bouquet. No guests. No panic.

Just you in an off-the-rack Oscar de la Renta trapeze lace mini you just happened to have with you. He looked like the wind had knocked the breath from his lungs when you stepped barefoot across the dunes.

Ari stood there, his Tom Ford linen blazer open over a t-shirt and worn jeans.

But it was his eyes. His eyes made your knees shake.

He was your mirror. Your match. Your flame.

“Hello, Beautiful,” he whispered, your hands warm in his.

The ceremony was short and perfect. You didn’t hear half of the officiant’s words. You only saw Ari and the way he smiled at you like there was no one else in the world.

“I’ve loved you since I first saw you, and I didn’t even know it,” you said, trembling slightly.

“Now that I am aware…”

He laughed, softly, and the sound warmed your chest.

“I’ll keep loving you, on purpose, through the ordinary and the wild, and through every day we choose each other.”

Ari swallowed hard, his thumb tracing over your knuckles.

“You’re my Muse. My home. My heart. I knew I was yours from the moment you texted. You rocked my world, and I just had to show you how much by sticking around, despite both of us. I love you. And I’ll continue to love you in every way I know how, and then find more ways to show you.”

It was just you and him. And the simplest, truest promises you’d ever made.

You kissed before the officiant could finish, laughing into each other’s mouths.

“Told you it didn’t have to be a production,” he whispered.

You grinned through your tears.

“It will be when we tell everyone.”

—--

The last sliver of sunlight disappeared behind the dunes, and the ocean hummed beyond the open windows as you padded back from the shower wrapped in a towel, cheeks flushed from heat and wine and the surreal giddiness of what you'd just done.

Ari was already in bed. The white sheets pooled low around his hips, one arm behind his head, the other outstretched like he’d been waiting for you to fall into him.

“You married me,” he said like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“That’s wild.”

You dropped the towel and he stopped breathing.

“You married me,” you echoed, climbing into the space he made for you.

“That’s dangerous.”

He grinned, completely wrecked by you.

“God, you look good wearing nothing but my last name.”

You straddled him, letting him feel the heat of you as your hips slowly rolled forward. The diamond band caught the moonlight as you ran your fingers down his chest

“Want to know a secret?” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Always.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. It’s so intense, even after two years. Feels like it will be this way forever.”

His breath caught. Hands clenched around your hips. His mouth found your neck, open and hot, and he groaned into your skin.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, say that again.”

You kissed him instead, deep and slow, hips moving until he was hard against you.

His hands roamed like he was learning you for the first time, as if he didn’t already know every inch. Like the word wife rewrote every nerve ending.

“Gonna make love to my wife,” he murmured, voice deep and rough.

“All night. Just like this.”

You gasped when his lips brushed that spot behind your ear and your hands tangled in his thick, silken hair.

“First time I saw you, I thought about kissing you right there,” he whispered, “And now I get to do it every day for the rest of my life. I’m going to take such good care of you, Muse.”

His mouth trailed down your throat and across your collarbone to the soft swell of your breast. You arched into him as his lips closed around your nipple, tongue flicking slow, deliberate circles before he drew it into his mouth with a low hum.

You gasped, your fingers sinking into his scalp, the sensation a perfect, burning ache.

“You’re so damn gorgeous it hurts,” he said.

He moved to your other breast, lavishing the same slow, sensuous attention until you were gasping, arching, and already pulsing beneath him. He teased and sucked and grazed your skin with just enough teeth to make you shiver.

When your hips bucked up in search of more, Ari grinned against your skin.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured. “Didn’t even touch your pussy yet.”

He kissed his way down your belly, tongue dipping into your navel as you squirmed. He held you still, steady hands on your hips, eyes dark with hunger.

“My wife,” he said with reverence, as he kissed your thighs and pulled you open.

He settled between your legs like he belonged there, which he did, and then his mouth was on you. He licked you in long, sinfully slow strokes, savoring the taste like it was the first time.

“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” you heard him murmur.

“Mmmmm. Maybe…,” you moaned, hips jerking as he held you down, licking you lewdly.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled into you, before pulling your clit into his mouth.

And then he started sucking you so deeply that your back arched. You cried out and Ari sucked harder, faster, tongue circling and flicking and fucking you with a mastery born of obsession.

You were gone, lost in the rhythm of his mouth, and the filthy, reverent things he was saying between licks, and how he devoured you like the sweetest sin.

“I’m so fucking greedy for my wife,” he whispered, slipping one finger inside your tight ass, another deeper into your cunt.

Your orgasm hit like a current, tearing through you with a feral sound. Your thighs trembled. Your fingers pulled at his hair. And still he licked, dragging it out, keeping you on the edge until you collapsed back against the bed, panting and wrecked.

And still, he wasn’t done.

“Easy now, Muse,” he whispered, licking more gently now. “I have all the time in the world to eat my wife out.”

He kitten licked your clit, causing another deep ripple of bliss that he tended to softly. Finally, he kissed his way up your body to your mouth.

His cock was engorged, leaking copiously at the tip. You grabbed for it, desperate for it now.

“I got you, baby,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”

His dick slid through your soaked folds and you whimpered. He wasn’t inside you where you needed him.

“Or we can wait if you’re too sensitive,” he said, cocky grin above you.

“I will murder you on our wedding night,” you hissed up at him, desperate.

He grinned. You begged.

“Please, Ari. Husband.”

He lost it then and entered you slowly and deeply, groaning into your throat.

“You’re always so tight,” he gasped.

“You’re so big,” you whimpered. “My husband’s cock is huge.”

He laughed and then his jaw clenched. His rhythm turned savage. Beautiful. He fucked you like a man possessed. You came again when his fingers found your clit, your body milking him in rippling waves. He pulsed deep inside you with a broken moan, his whole body locked around yours.

You didn’t want to move. You wanted to keep him close to you, inside you, just like this.

After a minute, his hand cradled your jaw and his lips brushed your knuckles, and he whispered,

“God, I love you Muse. You good?”

You smiled up at him.

“Yeah. My husband’s hot, and I love him.”

Ari laughed as you grinned. Then he got serious.

“You still want the big wedding one day?”

You shook your head.

“This was all I needed.”

He smiled, sleep-heavy, pulling you closer.

“Then I’m the luckiest man alive.”

—----

You returned to the city with sun on your skin, rings, and one hell of a secret. You waited until brunch with your closest people. You even let them ramble about place cards and DJs.

And then, between sips of champagne, you dropped it:

“Oh, by the way,” you said. “We’re married.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Screaming. Crying.

Bucky cursing in two languages.

Peach shrieking and grabbing your hand.

Your mother sobbing.

Ari raised his mimosa.

“Reception’s still on,” he said, very seriously.

“Hope you saved the date.”

—---

At the reception, everyone said you were glowing.

And maybe you were. You hadn’t stopped thinking about Montauk. About the night you became his. Not just in theory, but in truth. And every time you looked down and saw the band on your finger, it all came rushing back.

Ari refrained from indulging in you just enough to be polite.

But you felt him. His gaze. The way his hand lingered on your lower back when he guided you through the crowd. The heat in his voice when he whispered, “God, you’re killing me in this dress.”

It was a thrifted Virgil Abloh find, and you were glad that you got to wear it. You didn’t need a full wedding to feel like a bride. The way Ari looked at you in your dress was enough.

And it turned out, people don’t need a wedding to celebrate you. They just wanted the dance floor, the drinks, and the joy of watching two people in love.

And that’s exactly what they got.

The Rainbow Room was iconic and the love was pure Muse + Ari.

Trixie got tipsy and announced a “special wedding issue” in your honor.

Peach held your mother’s hand and they both bawled.

Ari’s father toasted the man he’d become.

Bucky gave a Romanian blessing.

And Steve even shook Ari’s hand after he gave you a bear hug.

And through it all, Ari was by your side.

No one was mad; everyone was happy.

Because it was you two.

Messy, wild, stubborn, and glowing with the kind of love that made people believe again.

It got heated on the dance floor.

Ari pulled you close, hand splayed low on your back, your bodies moving together like muscle memory. You could feel him, hard against you, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about all night?” he murmured.

You raised a brow.

“You’re going to say something filthy, aren’t you?”

“That night. Montauk. You, spread out on the bed. Saying ‘Give it to me. Fill me up.’ Fuck. You remember?”

Your thighs clenched.

“Yes.”

“Can’t stop thinking about you like that.”

You leaned up and whispered in his ear.

“I went off the pill.”

He went still and his eyes widened.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t want to light the fire until after the party.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve been burning.”

You smiled, a little wicked, and a little shy.

“So do something about it.”

—--

You didn’t make it past the elevator.

The doors closed and Ari had you against the mirror, one hand up your dress, mouth all over you.

“You want it?” he growled. “Want me to fuck a baby into my wife?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, Ari. Want you to try.”

And he did. Again and again. On the elevator wall, the kitchen counter, the couch, and the bed until you were spent and shaking and moaning his name.

And afterward, your body sore, thighs still trembling, his seed still thick and hot inside you, he curled around you, hand low on your belly.

“Gonna give you everything,” he murmured.

“A house full of art, books, and babies. You just say the word.”

You kissed his chest.

“Let’s fucking go.”

——

The end. 🥹

If you want to see more from Muse + Ari’s life, just send an ask or barge in my inbox! ❤️ Also, let me know how you feel about this bit by commenting, and reblogging to share with others! 🤩

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