lupinsweater

[lupinsweater]

for better or for worse (7) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, bucky breaking down, flashbacks, fluff if you squint

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 6k

author's note: hi sweethearts! wow, i actually finished this series! thank you all so, so much for your love and support, gosh, it means the world to me, and if i could thank you guys with a huge hug, i would 💓. this series means a lot to me, i have so many different ways to end it, i think i had 3, and this is one of them 🫶🏻 thank you all so much for staying and for finishing this series with me 💌 love you guys and stay safe out there!

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The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional hiss of the oxygen line. Pale morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, slicing the space into uneven golden strips that barely touched the corners.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a bouquet someone had left two days ago already beginning to droop in its plastic vase.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

Yelena stepped in, her hair a little messier than usual and two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days either—the kind of exhaustion that sat behind the eyes, silent and weighty—but she carried it better than most. She always did.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked in slowly, boots soft against the linoleum, eyes flicking toward the only occupied bed.

Bucky was already awake.

Curled awkwardly in a too-small hospital-issued foldable cot, the sheet tangled around his legs like it had been kicked off in a restless sleep. If you could even call it that.

He sat hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed as his fingers toyed with the worn edge of a medical bracelet still looped around his wrist from when he’d refused to leave the ER that night.

He looked up when he heard her—or maybe just sensed her presence—and Yelena caught the full brunt of what the last five days had done to him.

His eyes were bruised with fatigue, red-rimmed and glassy. The stubble across his jaw had darkened into something more permanent. His hair was a mess—not the charming, tousled kind, but the kind born of sleepless nights and fingers dragged through it too many times out of pure frustration.

The navy blue t-shirt clung to his frame like it had been slept in. The sweatpants sagged slightly at the hips. He didn’t look like a soldier, he looked like a man desperately holding himself together by a thread.

“We found him,” Yelena said softly, breaking the silence as she approached. “Raskovic.”

Bucky didn’t react right away. Just blinked up at her, like he had to translate the words in his head before they could settle.

“And?” His voice was low, rough—not from sleep, but from disuse.

She sighed, offering him one of the coffees. “We haven’t gotten much. He’s not talking. Won’t give up the rest of the weapons cache.”

He took the cup without meeting her eyes, fingers curling tightly around the warmth like it was the only thing grounding him. He didn’t drink it, didn’t speak. Just let the silence fall again, heavier this time.

Yelena studied him for a moment—really studied him.

The way he hadn’t moved from that chair for nearly five days.

The way the cot hadn’t even been laid flat most nights.

The way he looked at you every hour, on the hour, as if just by watching hard enough, he could will your eyes to open.

“You should rest,” she said gently, crouching beside him. “Bucky… it’s been five days. You need to—”

“No.” He cut her off, firm but not sharp. Just final. Like the decision had already been carved into stone. “I’m staying. The doctors said… they said she could wake up any moment.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I need to be the first face she sees.”

Yelena swallowed. There wasn’t anything she could say to that.

Not really.

Not when she’d watched him refuse to leave even once, not even to shower. Not when John, Alexei, and even Bob had tried every tactic short of physically dragging him out, and still—still—he hadn’t budged. 

He’d brushed his teeth in the tiny public restroom by the elevators. Bought protein bars and shitty vending machine sandwiches. Sat by your bed, hour after hour, whispering things he didn’t think anyone could hear.

There was nothing she could say. So she just nodded, gently, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

The door clicked shut behind Yelena, leaving the room in its usual hush—the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around your throat and refused to let go. Too still. Too loud. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but suffocated. 

Outside, the world was slowly waking—nurses exchanging shifts, machines humming behind closed doors—but in here, time had collapsed into a slow, dragging ache.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, sterile and cold, casting a pale sheen over the metal railings and tile floor. Even they seemed to dim beneath the heaviness in the air. Like the room itself knew how close it had come to losing you.

Bucky turned toward you.

He moved like it hurt. Like his limbs had forgotten how to function under the weight of what they’d carried for the last five days. His gaze dropped to your hand—pale and unmoving, the skin bruised beneath the tape and gauze, fingers limp where they lay curled near your hip. 

The IV line trailed upward to the bag above your head, slow and methodical, like it had all the time in the world.

But he didn’t.

The sheet had been drawn neatly to your waist, the corners folded with practiced care. But Bucky had seen beneath it. He’d memorised the cuts, the dressings, the angry bruises blooming along your ribs.

He’d scrubbed your blood from his hands in the emergency room sink, over and over, until they were raw. Until there was nothing left but the ghost of your voice in his head.

He reached out—slowly, carefully, like one wrong move might shatter you all over again—and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The contrast was stark: his calloused, battered hands, and yours, soft and still. He held on like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice barely there—cracked and raw, like it had been scraped against too many sleepless nights. “I know you can hear me. Please…”

His eyes squeezed shut as he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the back of your hand. The contact was fragile, gentle. His breath hitched against your skin.

“Please wake up,” he whispered.

It wasn’t just a plea.

It was a surrender.

The words hung in the air, splintered and fraying at the edges—the way a man breaks when there’s no one left to see it. When the fight runs out, and all that’s left is the ache.

His lips brushed your knuckles, soft and lingering, like he could pour everything he hadn’t said into that single touch. Like if he kissed you gently enough, it might undo what the world had done to you.

His hand trembled around yours, chest rising in short, unsteady bursts. He’d spent the last five days holding it together—barely—and the cracks were beginning to show.

A single tear slid down his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw like it had every right to be there.

“Don’t go breaking my heart now, doll,” he whispered.

And it wasn’t just tenderness in his voice. It was fear. Bone-deep, marrow-carving fear.

Because Bucky Barnes had spent the last five days living in a world where nothing he did was enough—where holding your hand, begging, waiting, breaking, hadn’t been enough to undo the sight of you going still in his arms. Of blood on concrete. Of your eyes fluttering closed while he screamed.

He had faced war, torture, brainwashing—hell itself—and nothing had ever scared him like this.

He didn’t know how to live in a world where you didn’t come back.

He didn’t want to.

The memory came like a tide—slow and gentle—washing over Bucky where he sat now, curled at your bedside, hand still laced with yours.

It had been quiet then, too. Not like the sterile hush of a hospital, but something warm. Alive. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones without asking permission, that made everything else—pain, history, guilt—feel far away for just a moment.

The dock creaked beneath his feet as Sam’s boat rocked gently with the tide, tethered but still breathing with the water. The sky had melted into soft amber, streaks of orange and pink dripping into the still, dark ocean like brushstrokes on silk. 

The air was thick with the scent of salt and sugar—someone onshore frying something sweet, maybe beignets or funnel cake—and the breeze tasted like summer. Warm, lazy, golden. 

Somewhere behind him, Sam and Sarah laughed over an engine that refused to start, and AJ’s voice rang out, high and playful, a child’s joy unburdened by the weight of the world.

The sounds of a family.

You sat beside him on the edge of the boat’s stairs, knees pulled up, paper plate balanced in your lap. The hem of your shirt fluttered in the breeze. Your bare feet tapped gently against the wood, relaxed, alive. Like you belonged there.

You nudged the plate toward him without looking.

“Cake,” you said simply.

He took it from you, fingers brushing yours—a soft, accidental touch that lingered longer than it should’ve. He muttered a quiet, almost bashful, “Thanks,” eyes still cast toward the horizon.

But he didn’t eat it. Just sat there, the plate warm in his lap, staring out like the ocean might give him an answer if he looked long enough. The world had gone quiet in his chest for the first time in days, and it scared him more than he let on.

Peace wasn’t something he knew how to hold. Not really.

Then, quietly—almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud—“You think I deserve this?”

You turned to him, brows drawing in slightly. “Deserve what?”

His eyes were still on the water, unmoving. But his voice—that voice—was steady. Careful.

“Peace.”

It was such a simple word. But the weight it carried in his mouth was enormous. Like it didn’t belong to him. Like saying it out loud might make it vanish. Like wanting peace made him weak.

You didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the dying light—how it hit the high points of his face, turned his lashes gold, softened the lines etched deep into his forehead. How his jaw clenched, how his shoulders never fully relaxed.

There was a quiet awe to him then, even in stillness. Even in pain. Like he didn’t know what to do with a moment that didn’t come with gunfire or consequences.

You smiled, slow and sad. “You do, James.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and it almost hurt, the way your voice curled around his name like it was something worth holding.

“After everything,” you went on gently, “you deserve so much more than what the world gave you.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly around the paper plate, untouched cake still resting there. Like he needed to hold onto something just to stay grounded.

“But there’s so many people I—” he started, voice strained, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand found his, warm and certain, sliding over his knuckles like an anchor. You didn’t grip too hard. You didn’t need to.

“It wasn’t you,” you said. “You never had a choice. None of it was your fault.”

The wind tugged at your hair. The sky kept burning gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang from a ship docking further down the bay.

But here, on the steps of Sam’s old boat, time had frozen—like the world was giving him permission to stop running. Just for a second.

And for the first time in a very long time, something shifted in him.

Something cracked open. A softness he hadn’t known how to hold. A thought he hadn’t dared entertain—that maybe he could want something. Someone.

That maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

The memory faded, slow and reluctant, like a sunset slipping beneath the water. And when it was gone, Bucky was still there—seated at your bedside in the dim hush of the hospital room, your hand in his, the air too still.

The beeping of the monitor was steady, but too steady. Not fast enough to mean you were waking. Not flat enough to mean you were gone.

That in-between rhythm—it was driving him insane. Mocking him. Reminding him that you were here but not really. Close, but still too far.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise everything all over again. Your lashes against your cheek. The way the corner of your mouth dipped slightly, always slightly, when you slept. The small, near-faded scar on your temple from a mission gone wrong in Marrakesh. Every inch of you mapped onto him like a language only he could read.

And still… nothing.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, thick and tight. He hadn’t spoken in a while—not really. Not since Yelena left, not since the memory of your voice had come back to him, soft and alive and warm in the golden light. 

Now it felt like if he opened his mouth, the entire dam might break.

So when he finally did, it came out hoarse. Barely a whisper.

“Please don’t take her away from me.”

It cracked in the middle, fractured down the middle of his chest like a fault line giving way.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “I don’t care about anything else.”

His eyes stayed on you, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked. His fingers tightened faintly around yours.

“Just…” he breathed, voice shaking, “just let her stay. I-I’ll do anything.”

He wasn’t praying. Not really, no, Bucky didn’t believe in that anymore. Hadn’t in decades. Maybe never did. 

But he said it anyway—like if he could just get the words out, the universe might hear him.

Might show him mercy, just this once.

Might understand that you were the only good thing left in him.

That without you, everything else didn’t matter.

That if he lost you, there would be nothing left to come back to.

And so he sat there, forehead pressed to your hand again, tears slipping quietly down his face—no sobbing, no shaking, just the steady, exhausted grief of a man begging the world not to take the one person he didn’t know how to live without.

The first thing you registered was the light—too bright, too sharp, cutting through the darkness behind your eyelids like glass.

You blinked, once, twice, and the world came back slowly. Fuzzy around the edges.

The air felt sterile and cold, too clean. The scent of antiseptic curled at the edge of your senses, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then came the pain.

A dull, biting throb that pulsed hot through your leg—enough to steal the breath from your lungs. You winced, the movement sending a shock up your thigh. Your body felt heavy, as if the last week had settled into your bones like lead. It took effort to tilt your head, but you did, wincing as your vision swam.

And then you saw him.

Bucky was slumped beside you in a narrow hospital chair, legs sprawled out awkwardly, one arm still draped across the edge of your bed. His fingers were locked around yours—loosely, like he’d fallen asleep holding on and never let go.

His head was bowed, chin resting against his chest, and for a split second you thought he might have finally passed out from exhaustion. His hair was a mess, strands flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

There were shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His jaw was rough with days-old stubble, his shirt wrinkled and clinging to him in tired lines.

He looked wrecked.

But beautiful.

In that devastating, unguarded way he never let you see when he was awake. Like every sharp edge had been sanded down by worry, like grief had made room for something gentler.

Your chest tightened.

And just like that, it all came rushing back—the warehouse, the blood, the sting of your own scream. The panic in his voice when he found you. The way he’d cradled you against his chest, whispering your name like he could pull you back to the earth with nothing but his breath.

You stared at him now, barely breathing.

Because for all the bruises, for all the exhaustion written into every line of his body, he was still here.

Still holding on.

Like he’d never stopped.

You blinked hard against the prick of tears and let your fingers shift, just slightly, in his hand.

A small squeeze. Barely there.

But it was enough.

He stirred beside you, slow and groggy, like the weight of the last five days was still holding him under.

At first, he didn’t move. Just shifted slightly in the chair, the hand around yours twitching like his body already knew something had changed. Then his head lifted, eyes blinking open, blearily searching the room in that half-conscious fog where dreams hadn’t quite let go yet.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you—awake, breathing, eyes on him.

His breath caught in his throat. His entire body froze.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice rough and thin, barely more than air.

For a second, he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The emotion hit too fast—like it had been waiting just behind his ribs for this exact second to shatter him. His lips parted, a breath escaped, and then—

“Sweetheart.”

It came out like a promise. Like a prayer finally answered. He moved forward, hand cradling your face, thumb trembling where it brushed beneath your eye, over your cheek, as if he needed to touch every inch of you to believe this was real.

You could feel him shaking.

Not violently. Just enough to know that this had broken him in ways you hadn’t seen. That he had fallen apart in the quiet, in the waiting. And now that you were back, he didn’t know how to hold all of it.

His thumb traced down your jaw, reverent. Like you were something fragile, something rare.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice raw. He didn’t let go of your face.

You swallowed, the ache still sharp in your throat. Everything still hur—your leg, your ribs, your eyes—but somehow, right now, it didn’t matter.

You mustered a small, crooked smile. “Think I’m okay. Didn’t Steve used to say ‘break a leg’ before missions?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, a sound that cracked as much as it warmed. His eyes shone—too glassy, too full—but he let the joke carry him for a second. Let it be a tether.

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in something soft, something cracked wide open.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to finally breathe easy.

His forehead was still resting against yours when the silence stretched again—not heavy this time, but fragile. Like something delicate was settling between you, something you both felt but hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It trembled between your shared breath, suspended in that sliver of space where everything had changed and nothing had yet been said.

Bucky pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still cupping your cheek like he couldn’t bring himself to let go—like if he did, you might disappear again, slip through his fingers like smoke.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, his voice low and stripped raw. “That I’d lose you.”

The confession wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it cracked something open between you, split wide and aching. His voice held no armor. No deflection. Just truth—and the unbearable weight of it.

You opened your mouth, not to argue, not really. But he shook his head once, gently, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me finish.”

His chest rose, then fell—one deep breath, then another, like he was trying to steady himself before the dam broke. Like every word cost him something he’d never learned how to give.

“I know I’m not easy,” he began. “I’m rigid. Controlling. I hold onto things too tight, like if I let go, everything might fall apart. I ruin things before I ever deserve them. Before I even let myself hope.”

He blinked down at you, and his expression was ruined—not because he was falling apart, but because he was letting you see it.

Every crack. Every fear. Every piece of him that had been stitched together over years of surviving, now trembling in the quiet between you. 

He wasn’t hiding behind protocol or mission strategy or the weight of being Bucky Barnes. Not here. Not now.

“But you…”

His voice caught, just for a moment. He swallowed hard and tried again, slower, like the words had to be dug up from somewhere deep.

“You changed everything. And I didn’t see it at first. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending. I stopped keeping you at arm’s length. And now—” his thumb brushed your cheek again, barely there, “now I can’t imagine anything without you in it.”

He paused, breath uneven, like he was standing in front of a door he didn’t know how to open—afraid of what might be waiting on the other side.

His jaw tensed, like he was bracing himself for impact.

“I can’t lose you. If I do… I’ll have nothing left.”

And he meant it. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a line. It was a quiet, soul-deep truth. One that had been building inside him long before the blood and the gunfire and the scream that had torn from his throat when he thought he’d already lost you.

He exhaled slowly, like he had to push the words past the fear.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I love you. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I just—if there’s still a part of you that wants this… if you’ll still have me…”

His voice broke, just barely, a hitch so small most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did.

“I’m yours.”

He looked at you then, like he was standing on the edge of something sharp and bottomless. Like your silence might be the thing that finally shattered him. Like he would take whatever answer you gave—even if it gutted him—because loving you had never been about control.

Because this wasn’t a man trained to ask for things.

And still—he asked for you.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right—like the words had landed too softly to be real, like they’d slipped through his defenses before he could catch them. 

The weight of everything he’d just laid bare sat heavy in the space between you, and it was clear from the flicker in his eyes that it had taken everything he had to give it to you. Now, he didn’t know how to breathe, didn’t know how to hope.

Then, softly, almost like it hurt: “Say something. Please.”

His voice was barely above a whisper—fragile and trembling, held together by nothing but hope and fear and the quiet kind of love that never asked for anything, but still wanted everything. 

There was no demand in it. Just raw need. The sound of a man standing at the edge, waiting to see if he’d be pulled back or left to fall.

Your heart ached with the honesty of it. With the way he sat there, waiting—not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not as someone who’d been trained to endure the worst the world could throw at him.

But as a man. Just a man. One who had finally admitted what he wanted, and was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. That he wouldn’t be enough.

You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, and he went still beneath your touch—completely still, like something inside him was holding its breath.

Your thumb swiped gently at the tear trailing down his cheek—a small, quiet thank-you for every part of him he had given you without expecting anything in return. For the courage it took to let himself be seen.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

His eyes shut like the words had cracked something wide open—like they’d found every broken part inside him and flooded it with light. His shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with release, like the tension he’d been carrying since the moment he found you on that warehouse floor had finally let go.

And when he moved, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours, and his breath ghosted across your lips—warm, uneven, shaky.

His hands came up to frame your face, fingertips brushing just beneath your ears, thumbs trembling faintly against your skin. And there was something in his expression that looked a lot like awe—like he couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

You felt your gaze drift down—just slightly—and caught the glint of silver on his hand.

The thin band still wrapped around the fourth finger of his right hand.

The one from the mission.

“You’re still wearing it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—like it startled him, that he still had laughter in him at all. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever take it off.”

There was something unshakable in the way he said it—not possessive, not forced. Just steady. Like this had never been a tactic or a disguise to him. Like it had always been more. Like somewhere along the way, without even meaning to, he’d decided that the ring was already real.

Then, carefully, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, slow, almost tentative, like even now he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. You watched as he pulled out the second ring, slim and silver and achingly familiar. The one he’d never gotten to put on you.

Until now.

He looked up at you again, and this time his smile was smaller. Shyer. A little nervous in the way only he could be, all confidence stripped away, leaving behind something earnest and boyish and real.

“You never let me put it on, remember?”

You met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, you didn’t speak. Just looked at him, this man who had nearly shattered in front of you, who had stayed by your side through blood and silence and pain, who had chosen you even when it wasn’t easy.

And without a word, you extended your hand, left palm facing him, fingers slightly curled, offering it to him like it meant something.

Because it did.

“Now’s your chance,” you murmured.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make it grand. He just took your hand like it was made of glass, something precious, something that had almost been taken from him, and slid the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that made your chest ache. 

His touch was steady now, but his eyes… his eyes told the truth. They shimmered with a kind of wonder, like he couldn’t believe he got to do this. That you were letting him.

When the band settled into place, his lips found the center of your palm, pressing there softly, not rushed, just sure.

Like a vow made without words.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like home.

One week later, the compound felt like a strange mix of familiar and surreal. The sterile hallways and reinforced doors hadn’t changed, but everything else had. Or maybe it was just you.

You were home. Bruised, still limping, a dull ache riding your spine every time you moved too fast, but alive. Healing. Whole enough to smile when someone cracked a joke. Stable enough to tease John back. Present enough to notice the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the glass atrium instead of the pain it lit up in your leg.

The team had been insufferable, in the way that only people who loved you could be.

Bob made soup. Every day. Different flavours, each one weirder than the last, like he was trying to test the boundaries of what counted as comfort food. 

The last one had contained turmeric, coconut milk, and what he swore up and down were healing enzymes. You hadn't asked. You just nodded, thanked him, the smile on his face grew brighter. 

Alexei had taken it upon himself to be your personal chauffeur. The man had nearly gotten into a shouting match with a medbot over who was allowed to push your wheelchair. He’d won. Somehow. 

And ever since, he wheeled you around like a race car driver, dramatic turns, Russian commentary, occasional sound effects, and all. “Turn three, is hairpin! Hold on!” he’d shout gleefully.

John yelled at the medbots on your behalf. Loudly. Colourfully. "Come on!" he'd barked after the fifth proximity alert went off near your bed, like the bots had something personal against you. 

The medbot responded with a passive-aggressive buzz. John flipped it off. The medbot flipped the switch back, in its own, uncanny little way. You were pretty sure it had been programmed just for him.

And Bucky?

He stayed close, but not hovering. A hand always offered before you asked. A look always checking, just in case.

He’d been quieter these days, not distant, just steady. Like now that he’d said it, now that you’d both said it, he didn’t have to force anything. 

He could just… be. With you. No more waiting, no more pretending. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had chosen you every day, even when you couldn’t see it.

You were curled up on the couch in the common room, a blanket across your lap and a hot pack on your hip when Yelena dropped down beside you. She handed you a cup of orange juice—cold, freshly poured.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat close, shoulder brushing yours.

Then she nudged you gently, her gaze tilted your way, curious. A little soft at the edges, like maybe she'd been waiting for the right moment to ask.

“How’s you and Bucky?”

You looked down instinctively, your fingers brushing the ring now resting on your left hand. 

“I never thought I could find happiness,” you said after a moment, voice quieter than you intended. “Not really. Not like this. But with him… it feels real.”

Yelena’s eyes softened. She reached over and squeezed your hand.

“You deserve it,” she said simply. “You both do.”

You let your head rest against her shoulder, the blanket shifting slightly as you moved. Your chest felt warm, not from the heating pad, but from the way she said it. 

After a beat, Yelena added, deadpan, “Val says she’ll pay for your honeymoon.”

You wrinkled your nose. “No thank you.”

She smirked. “You don’t want a government-sponsored vacation? With gps tracking and an optional mission brief?”

“I’d rather eat more of Bob’s soup.”

Behind you, from the kitchen, Bob yelled, “Hey!” You didn’t even turn around.

Laughter spilled into the room, light and easy, stretching out across the space like sunlight through glass.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself sink into it.

A few weeks had passed, and life had begun to stitch itself into something that resembled normal. Not the kind of normal you'd known before, not pre-mission, but something quieter. Softer. A version of normal that fit into slow mornings and shared looks across rooms. 

It was healing, in its own strange way. A patchwork of bruises and blooming, of awkward firsts and familiar silences.

You still limped some days. Bucky still flinched at sudden noises.

But there was laughter now. There was warmth.

So when Bucky told you to meet him at the compound garage at 7 p.m, and added, almost shyly, “Dress nice” —you didn’t question it. Not out loud, anyway. 

You just raised an eyebrow, and he gave you that look. The one that meant, Trust me.

You tried to pry it out of John first. Predictable. Blunt-force obvious. And somehow, somehow, the man managed to keep his mouth shut. Not even a hint.

“He made me swear,” he said with smugness. “I’m not breaking that.”

You stared at him. “Seriously? As if that ever stopped you.” You quipped, jokingly.

John just grinned. “You think I want to be the reason he throws me through a wall?”

Alexei was no better. He distracted you for a good hour with a wild, mostly unverifiable story about his glory days involving a Russian circus, a helicopter, and what may have been a tiger. 

You weren’t sure if the entire thing was real or if he’d just been buying time, but he kept looking at the clock like it owed him something.

“Do not worry,” he said, patting your shoulder. “Is worth it.”

And then it was seven.

You made your way down the corridor, heels tapping softly against the concrete, nerves low in your belly even though you didn’t have a reason to be nervous. 

The garage doors were half-open. The light inside was warm, glowing.

You stepped through.

And your breath caught.

There he was.

Bucky stood just a few feet away, dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was neatly pushed back, the kind of effort he only made back when he was a congressman and that, that had been after you told him he can’t walk into the capitol with his hair in a mess. 

You both argued over that, sort of, but when you saw him on your television, hair slicked back, you had smiled. 

In his hand was a bouquet, mismatched wildflowers, soft pinks and whites and sprigs of green,like he hadn’t just picked the nicest flowers and wrapped them himself, but the ones that looked most like you.

And behind him, tucked into the far corner of the garage, was a small table for two. White tablecloth. Candles flickering inside glass jars. A few strands of string lights hung above it, casting the scene in a golden, dreamlike glow. 

A single speaker sat nearby, humming something low and instrumental, a soft jazz tune you vaguely recognized, the kind that filled a room without asking too much of it.

“What’s all this?” you asked, your voice catching slightly on the edges. You felt breathless. Not from shock, but from the tenderness of it all.

He gave a shrug, casual, but not careless. There was a nervous twitch to it, like he wasn’t quite sure how you were going to react. Like part of him still expected this to be too much. Or not enough.

“I figured…” He glanced away, then back at you. “I never got to take you on a real date. I wanted to do it right this time.”

You stared at him for a second longer, because it hit you all at once—the candles, the table, the flowers, him.

Every moment that had led to this one. Every choice, every ache, every time he could have walked away and didn’t. 

The man who'd stormed into a warehouse for you, who had stayed awake five nights just to be the first thing you saw—he was here. In jeans. With wildflowers. 

You stepped forward, eyes still on his, and took the flowers from his hand. Your fingers brushed his, and he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in, just slightly, like he was anchoring himself in the contact.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, a grin tugging at your mouth despite the lump rising in your throat.

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched warm between two people who no longer needed to rush. Who had already survived the worst and come out of it not just intact, but better. 

Then his head tilted, the corner of his mouth tugging up into that familiar, crooked smirk that always made your heart skip a beat.

“So… Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice low, teasing, soft. “You free tonight?”

Your smile bloomed, wide and stupid and completely uncontained—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, your lungs, your bones. The kind that had once felt impossible and now came easy, like breathing.

“For you, Always.”

a/n: oh my gosh, we are at the end!!! ❤️ i am so grateful for each and everyone of you for taking the time to read this series, for your support, kind words that really motivated me to keep this series going 💌.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes@that-daughter-of-hephaestus

[lupinsweater]

fanning myself rn

bound to burn

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), MDNI, explicit smut like….. the whole time, Voyeurism (for the mission), Panty Thief Bucky, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Begging, Unprotected Sex, Breathless Moans and Filthy Praise, Reader Comes First (Always), edging, sex club

Summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?

None of it feels fake.

Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.”

And when it’s all over? You still ache for him.

And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket.

word count: 11k

notes – not proofread. HORNY!!! This whole thing was inspired by that clip of Sebastian Stan saying he’d have sex every hour if he could in Romanian lmao I’m dead ass

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

Rain lashed against the windows of the safehouse briefing room, streaking down in jagged lines like claw marks against the concrete sky. The air inside was tight with tension, everyone still soaked from the field extraction, voices quiet and clipped. The lights overhead flickered as if they, too, could feel the mood coiling inside the room—sharp, brittle, ready to snap.

You sat at the long steel table, fingers clenched into your thighs beneath it, biting back the ache that had formed in your jaw from hours of grinding your teeth. Across from you, Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced against the surface, the veins in his hand bulging from the tension. His stare was locked on the briefing screen, unmoving. Silent.

Director De Fontaine’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“This one’s different,” she said, flipping to the next screen. “This one’s personal.”

The image that filled the screen made your stomach roll. You didn’t need to look twice to know who it was.

Cristian Dragomir.

Arms dealer. Human trafficker. Collector of women, weapons, and secrets. He wore suits like armor and surrounded himself with luxury that reeked of rot. On paper, he was a legitimate investor with deep ties to several Eastern European shipping companies. Off the record? He was a man who could broker the sale of a child or a warhead in the same breath.

And now, after weeks of sniffing along dead ends, you had him.

“Dragomir is hosting a private gathering at Club Vânătorii this weekend,” Val continued, crossing her arms as she paced in front of the screen. “Invitation only. No weapons allowed, no comms once inside. His security team is one of the most paranoid in the business. The only way in is to make yourself look too tempting to resist. And the only thing he cares about more than power—”

“—is watching people fuck,” Yelena muttered from the corner, slouched in her chair with a half-wrapped bandage around her ribs. The bruising along her collarbone was deep and purple, a halo of violence left behind from the ambush earlier that day. “Preferably when they think no one’s watching.”

You didn’t look at her injuries. Couldn’t. The sight of her blood staining her tactical gear had been enough to send something sharp and molten screaming through your chest. Ava had taken the worst of it—currently unconscious in the medbay, her vitals steady but shallow. Bob had a shattered femur. And the rest of the team? Shaken, silent. Gutted.

Val nodded grimly. “He has a thing for intimacy. Obsession. Pleasure dynamics. We’ve confirmed multiple reports of hidden surveillance systems in his personal properties—bedroom cameras, two-way mirrors, sound feeds. He gets off on devotion. Believability. If he doesn’t think a couple is real, he loses interest.”

She clicked again.

The screen split into four windows—each showing images of previous “guests” Dragomir had hosted. Couples entwined on silk sheets, touching and moaning while he watched. Some of them clearly unaware. Others? Not so much.

You felt your stomach turn.

“You want us to put on a fucking show?” Bucky said, his voice low and ragged. His knuckles had gone white against the table. “You want us to—what? Be bait?”

Val looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I want you to seduce him. You and her—” she nodded toward you, “—are the only ones who haven’t been made. You’re both unknown to him. He doesn’t know your faces, your aliases, your scent. We can plant the intel we need to get you in as high-end mercenary clients who are… deeply in love.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Dragomir will only engage with couples who seem hopelessly devoted to each other. Who act like they can’t go five minutes without touching. He likes to observe. Likes to believe that he’s discovering something private. The second he thinks it’s fake, he pulls away. And once he walks, he disappears. We don’t get another chance.”

The air in the room went thinner.

“Let me be clear,” Val said, stopping directly in front of the screen. “We’re not authorizing an assassination. This man is too valuable. He’s the only one who knows where several trafficking channels intersect. Names, drop sites, payment routes—some of them tied to Hydra remnants. We need him alive. We need his files. We need his silence afterward.”

She turned back toward the screen and pointed to the shimmering, golden glow of Club Vânătorii—Dragomir’s favorite hunting ground.

“He’ll be there. He’ll be watching. And he’ll only bite if you convince him that you two can’t keep your hands—or mouths—off each other.”

You sat back slowly, your pulse thudding in your throat.

Across from you, Bucky’s gaze finally met yours.

There was no joke in it. No smirk. Just that fierce, flickering heat you knew lived under the surface. The soldier and the man, warring beneath his skin. A question lingering in the air between you like smoke:

Can we do this?

Val’s voice broke the silence. “You’ll have one night. A single window to get close enough to draw him into a private room. Once he invites you in, we can activate the signal and move to extraction. But he has to invite you. And he won’t if he’s not convinced. You need to act like you’d die for each other. Like no one else exists when you’re in the same room.”

“We get it, Val. Touching. Hands all over each other.” You snap, jaw clenched. The room had narrowed to you and Bucky and the impossible tension already crackling beneath your skin.

He looked like he wanted to say something. But didn’t. Not yet.

“Are there any questions?” Val asked.

Yelena raised her hand, weakly. “Yeah. Who’s going to clean up the puddle when she makes him moan for the first time?”

There was a short, startled bark of laughter from Bob, even through the pain. You shook your head, a flicker of a smirk crossing your lips.

But Bucky? Bucky’s jaw twitched. His tongue swiped across his bottom lip like he was already imagining it.

Your smirk vanished, throat going dry.

“We leave in 48 hours,” Val said, nodding to the tech team. “Get fitted, get your backstories straight, and get ready to cross some boundaries. This mission won’t be comfortable. It won’t be clean. But it will be worth it if we bring that son of a bitch down.”

She paused at the door.

“And remember… whatever you have to do to get him alone?” Her voice dropped. “Do it.”

Then she was gone.

And you were left staring at Bucky across the table—both of you burning with unspoken words, with heat, with the knowledge that everything was about to change.

Forever.

-

The safehouse bedroom was dimly lit, bathed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. The kind of low light that made things feel softer than they were. Or maybe it was just that everything had been so sharp lately—every word, every touch, every stare—that now, in the stillness, the quiet felt unnatural. Unsettling.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed at the ankle, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Bucky stood near the door, arms crossed, the strain in his shoulders visible even through his black t-shirt. His jaw had been clenched for ten minutes now. You weren’t sure he’d unclenched it since the briefing.

Neither of you had spoken yet. Not really.

He finally broke the silence. “We need to talk.”

You nodded once, glancing up. “Yeah. We do.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, but not all the way. Not yet. “This mission’s not like anything we’ve done before. It’s not just physical—it’s… performative. Emotional. We’re not just gonna be touching. We’re gonna be selling something that people only believe when they feel it.”

You swallowed hard. “We’ll have to convince them we’re obsessed with each other.”

His eyes met yours then, dark and searching. “We’ll have to touch like we mean it. Look at each other like we’d fuck right there on the floor if no one stopped us.”

The breath caught in your throat. You looked away, heart fluttering.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That came out—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’re right. We have to talk about it honestly. What we’re willing to do. What’s too far.”

Bucky stepped closer now, kneeling in front of you, so close that your knees were almost brushing. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped. “So let’s lay it out. Boundaries. What are yours?”

You hesitated, then shook your head slowly. “I don’t know if I can afford to have them on this one.”

His brows drew together. “Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean it. We both know what kind of man Dragomir is. If we hold back even a little, he’ll see it. He’ll know. We don’t get to flinch. And I’m not letting what happened to Yelena happen to anyone else. Not again.”

The silence between you buzzed. His fingers tightened slightly where they rested, and then his voice dropped low.

“So… kissing?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Touching?”

“Yes.”

“Hands, mouths, grinding…?”

You flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Yes.”

His throat bobbed. “Clothes on or off?”

“If he asks, or if it gets us closer to the goal… yes.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment he didn’t breathe. You didn’t either.

“And after?” he asked quietly. “When the mission’s over?”

You didn’t have an answer to that. Not one you could say out loud.

“I trust you,” you said instead. “To know the difference between the mission and something else. I trust you not to hurt me.”

Something flickered across his face then. His jaw relaxed just a little. His eyes softened, but didn’t lose their intensity.

“I trust you too,” he said. “Which is why I wanted to ask…” He trailed off.

“What?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

“That first kiss.” His gaze dropped to your mouth. Lingered. “We’re gonna have to do it in front of him. In front of a whole damn room. But maybe it’d be better… if it wasn’t the first time.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m not saying we—” He scratched at the back of his neck, looking up through thick lashes. “Not for fun. Just so we’re not surprised by it. So it doesn’t feel… wrong. So we don’t flinch.”

But that wasn’t the whole truth. You both knew it. Because part of you—maybe a selfish part—wanted that first kiss to be yours.

Not the mission’s. Not Dragomir’s. Yours.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s get it out of the way.”

Neither of you moved at first. Then Bucky rose from the floor, the air shifting with him. He sat beside you on the bed, closer than he had to be, knees brushing yours, one hand bracing against the mattress behind you. The other hovered—hesitant—by your jaw.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded once.

His hand cupped your cheek, warm and calloused. You leaned into the touch without thinking.

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

“I will,” you breathed.

He moved in slowly, like the moment might shatter if he rushed it. His nose brushed yours. His thumb stroked along your jaw.

Then—finally—his mouth found yours.

It was gentle at first. Searching. Not a performance. Not a test. Just Bucky, kissing you like he needed to know what you tasted like. Like maybe he’d thought about this before, late at night, when you were both supposed to be sleeping. The kiss deepened slowly, his lips sliding over yours with more confidence, more heat, as you melted into him.

You brought your hand up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. He groaned softly into your mouth.

God. He was warm. Steady. Big. You could feel every inch of him where your bodies brushed, and yet he wasn’t rushing it. Wasn’t pressing. Just holding you, kissing you, his thumb still stroking your cheek like he was grounding himself.

When you finally broke apart, your chest rose and fell like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You opened your eyes.

So did he.

No one spoke for a long beat. Then Bucky gave a quiet laugh, voice rough. “That didn’t feel like practice.”

Your lips curved, slow and cautious. “No. It didn’t.”

He reached out, tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just—” You looked at him fully. “I wanted that one to be real.”

A pause. “It was.”

Another pause. You both stood slowly, feet unsure beneath you.

“Let’s get some rest,” Bucky said, voice low.

You followed him to the door. But before he opened it, his hand found yours and squeezed once.

Not for the mission.

Just for you.

-

The car door shut behind you with a heavy thump, Bucky’s hand on the small of your back guiding you toward the entrance of Club Vânătorii. It rose like a mirage out of the cobblestone back alleys of Bucharest, nestled behind wrought-iron gates and draped in decadence. A converted hunting lodge, if the rumors were true—though now the only thing being hunted here were thrills.

The air outside smelled like midnight. Warm, pulsing with electricity and expensive perfume. You could already hear the bass thrumming through the walls, deep and slow, like a heartbeat echoing in the dark.

You adjusted the hem of your dress—though really, there wasn’t much hem to adjust. The silk barely passed your upper thighs, a shade of champagne that shimmered like skin under the lights. It clung to your body like it had been poured on, every curve and hollow wrapped in temptation. Thin straps kissed your shoulders. The open back left you exposed down to the waist. One shift of movement, and the side slit promised glimpses of your upper thigh. Everything was intentional. The mission required it.

Still, when Bucky’s eyes dropped to take you in fully for the first time, you had to clench your fists to hide the way your fingers trembled.

He didn’t say anything—not at first. Just stared. Slow. Hungry. Then his tongue swept across his bottom lip, and he muttered under his breath, “Jesus.”

Your pulse fluttered. “You good?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

He met your eyes, that look in them dark and wicked and so very male. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly. “Try not to die until the mission’s over, Sergeant.”

He wore black tonight. No tie. Just a deep charcoal silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal the edge of a thick chain at his collarbone, the faint dusting of chest hair peeking through. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing the shimmer of his metal arm and the flex of thick forearms that made every woman—and more than a few men—watching your approach twist in place to get a better look. His slacks were cut to frame his thighs and hips perfectly, and when he moved, he did it with the loose, lazy power of someone who knew exactly how he looked in every shadow.

You weren’t walking into a club. You were walking into a performance. Two lovers so obsessed with one another they could barely make it through the front doors without tearing at each other’s clothes.

The bouncer greeted you with a nod and a knowing smirk. Bucky slid a black card across the scanner without breaking eye contact with you. It beeped green. The doors parted.

And you stepped into the lion’s den.

The heat of the club hit you immediately—lavender and champagne curling through the air, light pulsing low and golden from crystal chandeliers overhead. The music wasn’t pounding the way most clubs did. It was slower. Darker. Built to match the rhythm of something else entirely.

Bodies moved across the floor like smoke—touching, grinding, kissing in dark corners, mouths open and greedy. There were no rules here. No shame. Just couples and triads and shadows of lust cast long beneath velvet light.

Eyes tracked you from the moment you entered. You felt it like static on your skin. Curious, covetous. Assessing. Everyone in this room was playing a game, and you were the newest piece on the board.

Bucky’s hand stayed firm on your lower back, his thumb brushing bare skin, grounding you. You leaned into him with an easy smile, tipping your face up so your lips almost brushed his jaw.

“See anyone looking at us?” you murmured.

He nodded, pretending to scan the room. “Everyone.”

“But not him,” you said.

“Not yet.”

You both knew why. Dragomir didn’t rush. He liked the chase. The anticipation. He waited until a couple looked ripe with lust—until they were fraying at the edges and nearly undone—before he made his move. It turned his stomach to see falsehood. He wanted desperation. Craving. He wanted to believe he was interrupting something sacred.

You exhaled slowly and let your body lean more into Bucky’s, hips brushing his. He turned his head slightly, letting his nose skim the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing good, doll,” he murmured, voice rough silk. “Real good.”

Your stomach twisted, heat blooming low.

Couples swayed around you. Some danced. Some didn’t bother. A woman near the edge of the bar moaned openly into her partner’s mouth as his hand disappeared under her dress. Another pair lounged on a couch, the woman’s thighs spread around her girlfriend’s knee as she rocked lazily, glassy-eyed.

You weren’t sure if it was an act anymore. You weren’t sure if any of this had ever been an act.

“Let’s give him something to look at,” you whispered. Bucky’s eyes gleamed.

You turned in toward him, draping an arm over his shoulder and letting your fingers toy with the chain at his chest. His hand slid to your waist, then lower, gripping the soft curve of your hip. You pressed your body to his—slow, syrupy—your mouths close, lips brushing as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for another second.

He kissed your jaw.

You tilted your head back, giving him your throat. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be soft or sweet. It was indulgent. Lavish. The kind of kiss meant to be watched.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker. A flicker of something feral beneath the polished control. You brushed your fingers against the edge of his waistband, voice sultry. “Think anyone bought it?”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Does it matter?”

You paused, heart thudding. “No,” you said finally. “It doesn’t.”

He leaned in again, lips barely grazing yours. “Then let’s make it count.”

And behind you—unseen but definitely there—a new pair of eyes began to watch.

-

The lounge wasn’t part of the main club floor. It was darker, quieter, drenched in gold light and voyeurism. Plush velvet seating curved around the room like a theater. There was no stage, but everyone here knew the truth: you were the show.

This was where Dragomir’s guests lingered once they’d passed his first test. The ones he liked to watch but hadn’t quite settled on yet. Some were couples; others, strangers caught in the heat of the night. You could feel the atmosphere sink under your skin as you stepped through the archway, like walking into warm water. The music here pulsed softer, deeper. You could hear whispers, moans, the slick slide of skin on skin if you listened hard enough.

The couch Bucky chose was low and wide, its cushions soft like sin. He sat first, legs spread with casual dominance, one arm stretched across the backrest. You followed his silent cue and climbed onto his lap like you belonged there. Like this was your place. You weren’t even pretending.

His hand slipped around your waist as you adjusted yourself over his thighs, dress riding high, heat blooming beneath it. He didn’t speak at first. He just let you settle.

And then—his metal hand moved.

It brushed along your side, cold against your skin where the dress dipped dangerously low. You sucked in a breath at the shock of it, goosebumps prickling down your body. The chill of vibranium snuck beneath the silk, dragging slowly along your ribs with smooth, calculated pressure.

You didn’t flinch outwardly—but you knew he felt it.

Because a heartbeat later, his flesh hand came to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope. He just… held. His thumb brushed up, soft and apologetic, like a silent I know. He drew a line over your skin that burned hotter than the cold had.

And then his mouth was at your ear. “Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered. His breath tickled your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Eyes on me, okay, doll?”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You let your lips part in a quiet, knowing smile as your eyes fluttered shut for one long moment, and when you opened them again—you played the part.

You leaned into his body, your back arching subtly, breasts brushing his chest. You let your hand drift up his chest, fingers toying lazily with the buttons of his silk shirt, undoing one. Then another. Just enough to expose the firm plane of his chest, the dip of muscle, the necklace glinting beneath.

Someone across the room was watching. Maybe multiple someones. It didn’t matter.

Your smirk was slow. Teasing. A picture of indulgence.

The game had begun.

Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened slightly, his thumb still stroking as his metal hand swept broader circles along your side, palm flexing against your ribcage. The contrast of sensation—cold steel and warm callused skin—was dizzying. You shifted subtly in his lap, one of your hands rising to ghost along the side of his neck before sliding back into his hair. Short now. Still thick. Still something you’d been aching to touch since the moment he cut it.

You dragged your nails lightly over his scalp. He made a sound—low in his throat, nearly inaudible—but you felt it, the way it vibrated under your hands. His mouth returned to your skin, lips brushing your jaw before drifting lower, teeth grazing your earlobe with a sharp nip.

You gasped—real, involuntary—as his metal thumb slid higher along your ribs at the same time. The long sweep of it just barely catching the underside of your breast before retreating.

Your thighs clenched around him. He noticed.

His hand stilled on your thigh, fingers splaying, possessive. His metal hand returned to its slow, lazy exploration. He wasn’t being bold—not yet. But he didn’t need to be. Not when every graze of skin, every press of his mouth, was enough to send your thoughts scattering like glass.

You tilted your head, letting it fall back against his shoulder as his mouth found the curve of your neck. He didn’t kiss. He hovered. Teased. Let his breath wash over sensitive skin until your nipples tightened, your chest feeling heavy and achy beneath the silk.

You arched into him just a little more. Not because the room demanded it. But because you did. You needed to feel more of him.

A server passed nearby, placing two glasses of champagne on the table in front of you without a word. You barely noticed.

What you did notice was the moment a third person approached. A man in a rich burgundy suit, dark hair, darker eyes. He stopped in front of your couch, gaze raking over you with open interest.

Swinger. Not the target. But interested.

“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more?” he asked, his voice slick.

Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. His mouth was still on your neck, metal hand still painting circles on your side.

Then—very deliberately—he let his flesh hand slide an inch higher between your thighs. You inhaled sharply. That was not just for show.

The man raised his eyebrows in amusement.

You shifted in Bucky’s lap, throwing your arm around his neck as you turned your head, brushing your lips against his jaw.

“Why’d you stop, Ștefan?” you purred, using the code name Val had given him for the op. Your voice dripped with seduction. You spread your legs just slightly wider in his lap. For him. “Don’t be rude to our audience.”

That did it.

Bucky’s mouth crashed into yours—not soft, not hesitant. Hungry. Hot.

His hand moved between your legs fully now, not breaking rhythm, thumb pressing teasing circles high along the inside of your thigh but stopping just shy of slipping under the hem of your underwear. His metal hand curled around your side, rising to cup the underside of your breast, thumb brushing the soft swell of it through the silk.

You moaned into the kiss. Your hands were in his hair, tangling as you rolled your hips subtly against him, feeling the shift in his body as he hardened beneath you.

The man in the burgundy suit chuckled and walked away. He wasn’t your concern.

But Bucky was.

You pulled back from the kiss just enough to murmur his name—your real voice, your real self, slipping out like a prayer. “Bucky…”

His head dropped to your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you.” Then your lips found his ear, and you said it—soft, broken, real. “Bucky. Please.”

It left your lips like a secret, a breathless confession shaped by the ache building low in your belly and the press of his body under yours. You hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t planned it—but the words slipped out before you could call them back.

And the second they did, everything changed.

His breath hitched. You felt it against your throat, warm and uneven. His grip on your thigh faltered for a split second—just long enough to reveal that he’d heard it. That he’d felt it.

That it had shattered whatever wall he’d still been clinging to.

His mouth was still on your neck, parted just enough for you to feel the edge of his teeth when he exhaled. Then, slowly, deliberately, his flesh hand moved.

Down. Between your legs. Past the hem of your dress.

And under.

Your breath stopped entirely as he pushed your underwear to the side, fingers dragging through the slick heat that had been building for far too long. You choked on a sound and caught his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to stop yourself from crying out.

He groaned—loudly—his body jerking beneath you, hips shifting up into the cradle of your thighs like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck, doll,” he whispered, the words ragged against your skin. “You’re soaked.”

Your entire body flushed.

It wasn’t the mission anymore.

It wasn’t the game.

It was him.

You.

And this unbearable gravity that had been pulling you closer and closer for weeks, months—maybe longer than either of you could admit.

Bucky’s fingers slid along your seam, teasing but not entering, stroking you in maddening, gliding sweeps. His thumb circled your clit—slow, careful—like he was memorizing the way your hips twitched against his hand. You dug your nails into his shoulders, thighs tensing around his lap, your head falling back.

He watched every second of it.

His metal hand, still cradling your ribs, slid higher, cupping your breast through the thin silk and dragging his thumb lazily over your peaked nipple. It was too much. Too good. Your hips rolled without your permission, grinding against his hand in desperate little jerks.

His voice dropped, gravel thick and filthy-sweet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, nipping your jaw. “Shaking like this.”

“Because of you,” you gasped, the words catching as he flicked his thumb against you just right.

“Yeah?” His lips were at your ear again. “You gonna come like this, pretty girl? Just from my fingers?”

Your answer was a strangled whimper.

And then he slid two fingers inside you.

You saw stars.

Your back arched instantly, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as your body clamped around him. He filled you perfectly. Not deep, not hard—yet—but slow, deliberate thrusts that had your thighs trembling and your core tightening, fluttering. He curled his fingers with each stroke, grazing that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back.

Your mouth found his again, desperate and open. He caught you easily, kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds and giving you his own.

His tongue licked into you, hot and wet, as his fingers worked you faster. You rocked against him, grinding down onto his lap with reckless need. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All you knew was the rising, sweeping pressure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your body climbing toward a peak you couldn’t stop if you tried.

And he knew.

“Come for me,” he whispered into your mouth. “C’mon, baby. Show them who you belong to.”

You broke apart.

The orgasm hit hard—fast and molten—your body jerking in his lap as wave after wave rolled through you. You buried your face in his neck, biting down into his skin to keep the scream inside. Your thighs clamped around his, your whole body shaking.

You heard the groan he let out when he felt it—felt you clench around him, soaking his hand, your slick dripping down his fingers. He was panting now, his hips twitching beneath you, his cock straining against his pants and pressing against your soaked core through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, sounding half-wrecked himself. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You couldn’t answer. Not yet.

You were still coming down, chest heaving, hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

You’d forgotten the room. Forgotten the watchers. Forgotten the mission.

You remembered only him.

The heat of his breath. The strength of his body. The filthy, possessive way he held you through it all.

The way you never wanted to leave his lap.

Time passed in uneven heartbeats.

You lifted your head slowly, blinking, trying to gather your voice.

“Wait—” But before you could finish, a shadow approached. And everything snapped back into focus.

Dragomir.

He stood across from your couch, dressed in dove-grey, the fabric of his suit sharp enough to slice. His hair was slicked back, dark eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier light. He held a crystal glass in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket like this was just another casual evening.

But he was watching you like prey.

He said something in Romanian. “Ștefan, preferi sexul dimineața sau seara?” Ștefan, do you prefer sex in the morning or the evening?

You only caught Bucky’s alias—Ștefan—and the word sex. The blood rushing in your ears as you recovered from your earth shattering orgasm not doing you any favors.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He stayed exactly as he was—one hand still between your thighs, your body still curled in his lap, lips brushing your jaw.

Then he dragged his hand out from between your legs—slowly—making sure Dragomir could see every second of it. Your breath caught as the cold air hit your soaked core, your body still sensitive and twitching.

Bucky lifted his hand to his mouth.

And licked his fingers clean.

Your entire body shuddered.

He smiled, the curve of it sharp and lazy.

Then answered in flawless Romanian, voice thick with desire: “Cu ea? În fiecare oră, dacă se poate.” With her? Every hour, if that’s possible.

You nearly came again just from hearing it.

Dragomir’s gaze turned molten. He smiled like a man who had just found his next meal. “Very good,” he purred. “I shall be back. Do not disappoint me.”

And then he walked away.

Bucky exhaled, finally turning his attention back to you. You were still trembling. He brushed his lips against your temple and whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded. Just barely. “I have to keep going,” you breathed, heart still pounding. “We almost have him.”

His voice cracked on the next words. “Are you sure?”

You moved on instinct, shifting in his lap—and felt him. Impossibly hard. Thighs trembling beneath you from how tightly he was holding back. The raw want in his eyes made your breath catch all over again.

You kissed him—slow this time—pressing your mouth to his with aching intent.

Bucky understood without another word. Maybe he always had. He slid his hand between your thighs again, knuckles brushing your inner leg as you rocked forward in his lap, opening yourself to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

Because this wasn’t for the mission anymore. Not really. You could tell by the way his breath hitched when your slick heat met his fingers again, the way his mouth dragged along your collarbone like he was starved.

His lips ghosted against your throat. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured.

“For you,” you whispered against his lips. “That’s for you.” He groaned, forehead falling to yours.

His fingers were slick with you. Heat pulsed between your thighs, a steady, aching throb that hadn’t dulled even after the first orgasm wracked your body. If anything, the edge had sharpened—your nerve endings now hypersensitive, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks through your veins.

His fingers circled your clit again, not gently this time—but with purpose. You clung to his shoulders, one hand in his short hair, the other gripping the fabric over his chest to anchor yourself as your hips chased the motion, grinding down against his hand like you needed him to ruin you.

Your thighs were shaking. Your dress had hiked up so high it was barely covering anything anymore, the silk bunched around your waist. Anyone watching could see what was happening—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The entire room could’ve gone up in flames, and you would’ve stayed right there, moving against him, breath stuttering, pleasure curling tight and fast in your belly.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely able to say his name, mouth quiet. “Don’t—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His fingers worked faster, his other arm tight around your waist to hold you steady, to keep you close. His voice was ragged and low, each word kissed along your jaw between strokes.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. You can do it again. Let go for me—just like before.”

Your breath broke on a sob.

And then you did. It ripped through you like a storm, your body tensing, muscles clenching as you came around his fingers, the pressure snapping all at once in a burst of heat and helpless motion. You buried your face in his neck, gasping into his skin, hips still twitching as aftershocks rolled through you.

He held you through it. Let you ride it out, stroking slow, languid circles against your clit as your body trembled against his.

Your thighs were slick. Your skin was flushed and glowing, pulse hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You didn’t even realize you were still clinging to him, fingers curled tight into his shirt, until his hand came up to brush your hair gently back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice ruined and warm.

You nodded, dazed.

His eyes darkened. His hand still glistened with your slick, and the hunger in his gaze returned full force as he took your chin gently between two fingers, guiding your mouth back to his.

He kissed you slowly this time. Deep. Possessive. You whimpered into it, letting your body melt into his.

And that’s when the air shifted.

You felt it before you saw him.

Bucky’s hand didn’t stop moving. Didn’t falter. But his eyes flicked up—subtle, practiced—tracking the figure returning to your side of the lounge.

Cristian Dragomir.

The man was smiling now. Not the courteous kind. Not even the smarmy, rich bastard kind. No. This was something darker.

He came to stand just feet from your couch, watching as you barely managed to lift your head from where you’d collapsed against Bucky’s shoulder. Your dress was askew, cheeks flushed, lips red from his mouth.

You weren’t pretending anymore, and he knew it. Dragomir took a slow sip from his drink, eyes gleaming with something that looked far too much like satisfaction.

“You two,” he said, his Romanian accent curling around the words, “are… extraordinary.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He kept one hand at your waist, the other hidden between your thighs—but still. You let out a shaky breath and met Dragomir’s gaze.

He smiled wider. “You’ve impressed me. Very few ever do.”

You fought the instinct to shrink back. Instead, you shifted slightly in Bucky’s lap, letting your fingers trail idly across his jaw like you were that girl—intoxicated, enthralled, insatiable.

Dragomir watched the gesture with hooded eyes.

“I think,” he said finally, “we should get to know each other better. Somewhere more private.”

He turned on his heel with the smooth confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “Come. My personal rooms are this way.”

And then he walked off—just like that.

Not a request. A command.

You sat frozen for half a second.

Then Bucky leaned into your ear and whispered, “We’ve got him.”

You nodded, nerves returning now that the haze had lifted. Your legs felt like jelly. You didn’t trust yourself to stand.

Bucky kissed your cheek. “Let me help.”

You shifted off his lap, your thighs clenching involuntarily from the sensitivity still echoing through your body. His arm went around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you to your feet. You smoothed your dress down as best you could. Your underwear was still shoved to the side, your skin warm and swollen with afterglow.

He looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “You’re perfect.”

You swallowed thickly. So did he. You were both in way too deep. But there was no time to think about that now.

Because Dragomir had taken the bait.

And the trap was about to be sprung.

-

The hallway to Dragomir’s private suite stretched long and luxurious, the marble floors glistening beneath warm golden sconces. You walked beside Bucky in silence, your heels echoing against the polished stone, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. From behind, anyone watching would see the perfect picture of a woman who’d just been thoroughly ruined by the man on her arm. Which, in a way, wasn’t wrong.

You could still feel his fingers between your thighs. Still felt the quiver in your muscles and the ghost of your last climax lingering like perfume on your skin.

At the end of the corridor stood a tall door flanked by two guards, both built like ex-special forces. They said nothing—just opened the door and gestured you in.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Not a bedroom. Not a lounge.

A theater.

The suite was elegant and sprawling, the walls paneled in dark wood with sleek leather couches and a wet bar gleaming in the corner. But the focal point was the back wall, made entirely of glass—or so it seemed. The kind of glass that reflected the room back at you… until you looked closer.

And realized it didn’t reflect at all.

Your stomach turned as you stepped inside. That wasn’t a mirror. It was a window.

A one-way one.

Behind that glass, Dragomir was watching.

Somewhere in that darkness, hidden and invisible, he was waiting. Observing. Probably sitting in a plush chair with a drink in hand, waiting to see if you could prove you were worth his time. Worth his secrets. Worth the invitation into the next layer of his empire.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

Bucky stood beside you, silent. And then his hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours with slow certainty.

It was nothing the mission required. But it made your heart stutter anyway. He guided you toward the large, round bed in the center of the room—more of a platform, really. Draped in deep crimson sheets. Framed perfectly for the man behind the mirror.

You sat first. Bucky stood before you for a long moment, jaw tense, breathing slow.

“Eyes are on us,” he murmured.

“I know.”

You didn’t say it, but you could feel your pulse thrumming in every inch of your body. The last time had been overwhelming, raw. A wave of heat and desperation in the middle of a crowd. But now?

Now there was silence. And space. And with it came awareness. Of what you were doing. Of what it meant. Of how much more this would demand of you.

Bucky’s gaze softened. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

A beat passed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will be. Just… follow my lead.”

You whispered, “Always.”

Then he moved. He stepped between your knees, bending slightly to press his mouth to yours—and this time, there was no show.

He didn’t kiss you like a man performing for a crowd. He kissed you like someone who’d been dying to do it for a long, long time. His lips slotted over yours with heat and purpose, coaxing rather than demanding. You kissed him back, hands rising to frame his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble on his cheeks as his tongue slid against yours in slow, deliberate strokes.

When he pulled back, just a breath apart, his hand came up to cradle the side of your neck. “Lie back,” he whispered, voice low and steady.

You obeyed, reclining onto the bed, the cool satin of the sheets a jarring contrast to your heated skin. Your dress had already ridden up—one of the straps slipping off your shoulder—and Bucky caught it between his fingers, dragging it down slowly, reverently.

He bared you inch by inch.

And behind the glass, Dragomir watched. Leaned forward, even. But Bucky didn’t spare the mirror even a glance.

His eyes were on you. He shifted down the bed, pushing the skirt of your dress higher until it bunched at your waist, leaving your thighs bare to the air. He paused at your knees, trailing his hands upward, caressing your skin like it was a holy ritual. His mouth followed—planting kisses on the inside of your knee, then higher, then higher still.

Your breath hitched as he pressed his cheek to your thigh.

And then—he looked up.

Not at the mirror.

At you.

There was something in his eyes then. A silent apology. And maybe more than that. Maybe a promise.

Then he dipped his head. His breath fanned over your core, still tender and slick with arousal, still aching for more.

You gasped, fingers clenching the sheets. But he didn’t touch—not really. His lips ghosted along the crease of your thigh, featherlight, and when you arched instinctively toward him, he held you gently in place with one strong hand spread over your belly.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

His nose skimmed against you. His mouth hovered, lips parted. The faintest brush—like the first exhale of a prayer. Enough to make your hips jerk. Still, he didn’t move closer. Didn’t give you what you were begging for without words.

He just watched your reactions. Fascinated. Wrecked.

Like he was coming undone from seeing you this way—laid out, trembling, open for him and only him. You whimpered, toes curling. His breath stuttered against you.

Your hand found his hair, carding through it slowly as your thighs fell farther apart in silent invitation. But he still didn’t touch.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, then the other.

His mouth traveled over skin with reverence, with restraint, his hands steady on your hips like he was trying to anchor himself in the moment, trying not to cross the final line—not here. Not in front of him.

But you knew. You knew he wanted to. That he was holding back only by the barest thread. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Or better.

Because you were holding on by a thread too. Your breath came in shallow gasps now, body twitching with every not-quite kiss, every near-touch. He murmured things into your skin—not for the mirror. For you. Little nothings in Romanian and English, reverent and dirty all at once. Like you were the offering. You were the altar.

You felt like one.

Your body was alive, sparking under every word, every pass of his breath, every scrape of his stubble. You ached for him. Craved him. And the longer he held back, the closer you came to the edge all over again—just from feeling him near you. Just from knowing he could. That he wanted to.

Then his voice reached you again, hoarse and trembling.

“I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my life.”

You believed him.

Because neither had you.

-

Time had lost all meaning.

You didn’t know how long Bucky had been teasing you—his breath ghosting over your core, his mouth tracing reverent lines along your thighs, marks littering across your skin, his words spoken so low and hungry they felt like sin itself. You’d long since stopped pretending it was just for the mission. His hands on your skin, the gentle rock of your hips against the bed, the tremble in your limbs… it was all him. All real.

And still, he hadn’t truly touched you again. He was holding the line. Barely.

But something had shifted in him. Maybe it was how you were writhing beneath him. Maybe it was because there was no hiding how badly you wanted him. You saw it in the way his mouth followed the curve of your hip like he was worshiping it. In the way he whispered your name—not the code name, not an act. Yours. Spoken like a confession. So quiet that only you could hear it.

Then you felt his hands slide up your sides again, under your dress, slow and steady. He lifted you slightly, shifting your body effortlessly, and you let him—already boneless, dazed. It wasn’t until he pushed you gently down onto your stomach that you registered what was happening.

You gasped softly as the cool silk of the bed kissed your cheek, your chest flush against the sheets. One of Bucky’s arms curled around your hips, lifting them with ease. You followed, rising on your knees as he settled you in place—face down, ass up, utterly exposed.

Your panties were already shoved to the side, soaked and ruined. Now, he tugged them the rest of the way down and slipped them off.

You heard him sigh quietly through his nose, as if the sight of you this way was almost too much. Then the faint rustle of fabric as he pocketed them. No question. No comment. Just a silent claiming.

Your heart thundered.

Then—

His hard cock slid against your bare cunt, rutting just slightly. You cried out against him, rocking your hips back to meet his. His mouth found your lower back.

The softest press of lips. Then another. Slower. Lower.

He kissed down the curve of your spine like he was tracing a roadmap he’d studied in dreams, all while rocking his hips against yours. Each press of his lips made your thighs twitch, your breath catch. You bit the sheets as you felt his tongue sweep along the curve above your ass, and a sound escaped you—a desperate, needy whimper you couldn’t choke down.

Bucky groaned behind you, metal hand gripping your hip a little tighter. You were seconds from begging him to stop playing and just take you when the door behind you clicked.

A soft sound.

But deafening in the silence of the moment.

You froze. So did Bucky. You felt him still behind you, his hand still firm on your hip. He was the only thing anchoring you as the spell shattered and reality rushed back in like a storm.

A new presence stepped into the room.

“I must confess,” Dragomir said, his voice lazy and indulgent, “I was enjoying the view from behind the glass… but I find myself curious for something closer.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stayed frozen, heart pounding against the mattress, not daring to move. Bucky’s body shifted behind you, rising slowly—calculated. Smooth. A shadow cut between you and the mirror now.

You couldn’t see his face. But you felt the change in the air.

The heat gone cold. The hunter returned.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was low and calm. Measured like a blade being drawn.

“I think you’ve seen enough.”

Dragomir chuckled. “You think so? I could watch her for hours. Your little songbird… the way she opens for you…”

“I said,” Bucky repeated, voice darker now, “you’ve seen enough.”

You chanced a glance over your shoulder—and caught just a flash.

His face. Calm. Deadly. The glint of something hidden in his hand. Just below the waistline of his pants, he drew it in one fluid motion—silent, precise.

The tranq gun.

He didn’t wait.

The second Dragomir stepped close enough to breathe your air, Bucky raised the weapon and fired.

The dart hit center mass. Dragomir’s smirk faltered. Then he stumbled backward, hands grasping at his chest. Bucky stepped forward, shielding your body from view as the arms dealer crumpled to the floor without a word.

Just like that—you were done.

The room was still for a moment. Then Bucky turned, tucking the gun away in the hidden strap at his ankle before helping you up from the bed, one hand steady on your bare back.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet, real.

You nodded, tugging your dress down with shaky hands.

He reached out and framed your face gently between both palms—flesh and metal, warm and cold. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

-

The rest moved fast.

Bucky carried Dragomir’s unconscious body over one shoulder while guiding you down a back corridor that the surveillance team had mapped earlier. Your comms buzzed back to life as you neared the extraction point, a coded pulse signaling successful acquisition.

You barely registered it.

Your mind was still on the bedroom. On his mouth. On the way his body had moved against yours like he needed you.

You weren’t sure if you were walking or floating.

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

Even when he had to maneuver Dragomir into the waiting car, he kept his fingers curled around yours like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear to break contact. When the doors closed behind you both, and the car peeled off into the Romanian night, he finally looked at you again.

You stared at each other in silence.

There was no mask now. No act. Just the aftershock of what you’d done—and what it meant.

Your dress was wrinkled. His shirt was open. You were covered in his marks and your panties were still in his pocket.

But the mission was done.

And nothing would ever be the same.

-

The silence was louder than any explosion you’d ever heard.

It followed you both as you left the mission behind—the body delivered, the asset secured, the team informed. It followed you through the late-night drive across the countryside, headlights streaking through endless dark. It followed you into the safe house tucked deep in the Carpathians, past stone walls and creaking floors, a fire already smoldering in the hearth.

It followed you down the hall when you didn’t speak. When Bucky didn’t reach for you. And it wrapped around you like fog when you shut the bathroom door behind you and turned the water on hot enough to scald.

You stood under the spray far too long, hands braced against the cool tile, water pounding your back like it could scrub off the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his voice. But it couldn’t. You still felt him. Not just on your skin.

Inside.

You hadn’t meant to lose yourself in it. But somewhere between the second kiss and the second orgasm, between the filthy Romanian murmurs and the aching way he’d kissed your shoulder, something had changed.

It had been a mission.

And then it hadn’t.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, still wet, and stared at your reflection. Your skin was flushed, your lips pink and full. Your thighs were sore and covered in his marks. Your chest still rose and fell like you hadn’t caught your breath since that room.

And you were trembling.

But not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. You were trembling because you still wanted him.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure if that made you brave—or weak.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary when you padded in barefoot, hair damp, body wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt you found folded at the edge of the bed. You hadn’t looked in the mirror again. You didn’t need to.

Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, collar undone, the scarred edge of his vibranium arm catching the firelight. He stirred something in a pan—simple, warm. Comfort food. A quiet offering.

Neither of you said anything when he plated it. Pasta, toasted bread, bits of roasted chicken. He poured water into a glass and set it beside your fork. You sat across from him at the small wooden table. The only sound was the clink of silverware and the crackle of the fire.

You tried to eat. But your throat was too tight.

Bucky barely touched his food.

Eventually, he set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You didn’t look up until he spoke.

“I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

Your head lifted slowly.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, voice hoarse. “I let the mission get to me. Let you get to me. I was supposed to keep you safe. Not make it worse.”

Your fingers tightened around your fork. “You didn’t—”

“I did,” he cut in. “I crossed a line. You asked me to take it further, and I wanted to. Wanted to go harder. That’s the part that fucks with me. I didn’t just go along with it—I wanted to be the one who made you come like that. I wanted to make you shake.” His voice cracked at the end. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He still wouldn’t look at you.

You set your fork down and swallowed the lump in your throat. Your voice was soft. Real.

“I’m still shaking.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours as you exhaled slowly, “Not because of shame. Or because of what you did. But because of what it felt like.”

He stared at you like you’d just confessed something sacred. “I’m not scared of you, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched. You stood up slowly, walking around the table until you were standing in front of him. His eyes tracked every step, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you.

You dropped to your knees between his, resting your hands on his thighs.

“You didn’t make it worse,” you whispered. “You made it harder to pretend it wasn’t real. That’s all.”

He exhaled sharply, knuckles whitening where his fists were clenched. You leaned in, resting your cheek against his knee. “I’m still aching,” you admitted, voice barely audible. “Not because you hurt me. But because you stopped.”

He let out a broken sound—somewhere between a curse and a prayer. You looked up. His hands reached for you slowly, hesitantly—one flesh, one metal. They hovered beside your face, trembling.

“I didn’t want your first time with me to be that,” he said, voice rough. “A job. A fucking performance. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You pressed into his palms. “It didn’t feel like a job.”

His eyes flicked between yours, searching, desperate. “Then what did it feel like?” he whispered.

You answered without fear. “Like you meant every touch.”

He swallowed hard. “I did.”

“And I wanted every one of them.” He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours, like your words had cracked something open. Then you whispered the truth you’d been holding back since the moment you left that mirrored room.

“Bucky… I didn’t get to finish that last time.”

He froze.

“I came before. Twice. But when you kissed down my spine…” You swallowed. “When you said you wanted me more than anything—you didn’t even touch me and I almost—”

His breath hitched.

“And then he walked in, and I had to pretend it didn’t matter,” you whispered. “But it did.”

He sat back slightly, his voice shaking.

“You’re still hurting because of me.”

You shook your head. “I’m hurting because I wanted more of you.”

His pupils dilated. And then he stood—fast and fluid—and pulled you up into his arms like he couldn’t bear another second without you.

-

Bucky didn’t kiss you right away.

He just held you. Arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck like he was trying to make sure you were real. His breath came hot and uneven, chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Like he was drowning and you were the first breath he’d taken in years.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. And when he finally pulled back enough to look at you, your breath caught.

He looked wrecked. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, jaw tight with restraint. Like he was on the verge of breaking—and afraid you’d vanish if he did.

“You sure?” he whispered. “Because if we do this… I won’t be able to stop. Not halfway. Not after everything I felt with you in that room.”

You lifted your chin, no hesitation in your voice. “Then don’t stop.”

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been dying for it—like the hours of teasing and pretending and aching had finally pushed him too far. His hands were everywhere. On your waist, in your hair, sliding beneath the oversized sweatshirt you wore like it offended him. He pulled it up and off, flinging it across the room without ever breaking the kiss.

You were bare underneath. No bra. Just you—flushed and warm and already breathless. His breath stuttered as he looked at you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You pressed your palms to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, the old scars, the new ones. You leaned in and kissed the center of his sternum, just once, before whispering, “Touch me like it’s real now.”

Bucky groaned, low and deep in his chest. Then he lifted you.

You let out a small gasp as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your hands in his hair, lips back on his mouth. He carried you down the hall with ease, each step fast and precise, like he couldn’t wait one more second. When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut with his foot and laid you down on the bed like you were something fragile he finally got to hold without gloves.

He hovered over you, pressing kisses to your mouth, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. His metal hand smoothed up your thigh, cool and steady, grounding you. The contrast of temperature made you shiver.

“I thought about this,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Every night since Berlin. Every time you leaned on me after a mission. Every time you smiled like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You reached down, palming the front of his pants—already hard, straining beneath the fabric. “I knew.”

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking. “You little brat,” he muttered, nose brushing yours. “You knew and you still let me suffer.”

You smirked. “You liked suffering for it.”

His hand slid between your thighs. “You’re damn right I did.” Then he was kissing you again, and this time it was slower. Deeper. Not hungry. Worshipful. He slid down your body, kissing over your belly, your hips. When he pressed your thighs apart and settled between them, his eyes locked on yours like he was asking one last time—

And you whispered, “Please.”

That was it.

His mouth found you, tongue licking a firm stripe up your center that made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands flew into his hair, thighs tightening around his head as he moaned against you. He devoured you—slow, methodical, then filthy and raw. Switching from broad strokes to soft flicks, curling his tongue just right until you were crying out, incoherent.

You came on his mouth, sobbing his name, clenching around nothing—and when he pulled away, lips wet, expression dazed, he kissed the inside of your thigh and whispered, “That’s one.”

You were still shaking when he kissed back up your body, trailing his hand between your breasts, teasing a nipple with his thumb as he rolled his hips down against yours.

You felt him. Thick. Heavy. Hard.

Your breath hitched.

“Condom?” he rasped, already breathless.

You shook your head. “I want to feel all of you. Just you.”

His eyes nearly closed, like the weight of that hit too deep. “You’re sure?” he asked.

You curled your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips barely touched. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Then you reached between your bodies and slid his pants down, freeing him from the last barrier.

He groaned into your mouth as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly—learning the weight of him, the thickness, the way his hips bucked under your touch.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, teeth gritted.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want to.”

He lined himself up, head pressed against your entrance. His gaze locked on yours, expression tender and wild all at once. Then—slowly—he pushed in.

You both gasped at the same time. He was big. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that made your toes curl and your mouth fall open as your eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “Eyes on me.”

You opened them. You watched him sink into you, watched his lips part and his brows furrow as he seated himself fully, hips flush against yours.

“Fuck,” he choked. “You feel like—like you were made for me.”

You cupped his face with both hands, eyes stinging. Then you rocked your hips once. He whimpered. Actually whimpered as his composure shattered.

“Fuck, baby, please,” he begged, voice cracked. “I need you. I need you so bad—please let me move—please, I’ll be so good—I’ll make it so good for you—”

You held him tighter. “Then do it,” you whispered. “Make it good. Make it better.”

And he did. He started to move, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, finding a rhythm that made the stars behind your eyes pulse. He rolled his hips just right, grinding deep. His mouth kissed everywhere—your jaw, your ear, the swell of your breasts—like he couldn’t bare to leave any part of you untouched.

You locked your legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, crying out when he hit that spot that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s my girl. Take it—just like that—fuck, I love how you feel—I love—”

He stopped himself. Your breath caught. You stared at him, panting. He didn’t move. His chest heaved against yours.

The words hung in the air. You lifted a hand to his cheek. “Say it.”

His voice cracked. “I love you.” It broke from him like a storm, like a vow. Like it had been sitting in his chest for years and finally clawed its way out.

Your heart split open. “I love you,” he repeated, forehead pressing to yours. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but—God, I love you.”

Your hands tangled in his hair. Your lips kissed his mouth. “Then don’t stop loving me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, needier. You clung to him, gasping, crying out, right at the edge. “I’ll make it up to you,” he swore, voice unraveling. “Every day. Every time. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you—”

Then you came. He followed with a broken cry, spilling into you, arms wrapped so tight around you it felt like he’d never let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Not ever.

-

You woke to the smell of coffee and the feel of Bucky’s hand tracing lazy circles over your bare lower back. The sheets were a tangled mess around your hips. The mattress dipped slightly beneath him where he sat against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent so he could cradle the mug in his hand. He looked unfairly good in nothing but a pair of sweats, hair still mussed from your fingers, chest kissed in red streaks from your mouth and nails.

You blinked sleepily, cheek still pressed into his side. “You made coffee?”

“Only if you’re nice to me.”

“I was very nice to you last night,” you muttered into his ribs, voice still husky from sleep—and moaning.

“Mm.” He sipped. “Can’t argue with that.”

You stretched with a groan, feeling sore in every way that made you blush. Between your thighs, along your hips, deep in your abs. You felt… used. Loved. Feral.

Ruined.

It was glorious.

His hand trailed down your spine, fingertips dancing over a spot you remembered all too well—right above your tailbone, where his lips had lingered just before—

“You pocketed my panties yesterday,” you said suddenly, voice flat with faux accusation.

Bucky coughed into his coffee. “I… what?”

You lifted your head slowly, giving him your best death glare. “I heard it. Back at the club. Right after you pulled them off. You tucked them into your pants like a perv.”

He smirked, all teeth and sin. “Perv? That’s rude. I was safeguarding evidence.”

“Oh? Gonna tag and bag it for S.H.I.E.L.D. archives?”

“They’re in my jacket pocket,” he said proudly. “I might frame them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Didn’t stop you from begging for it, sweetheart.” You launched a pillow at his face, which he caught one-handed like a smug bastard.

“I’m never gonna live this down,” you muttered, hiding under the sheets. “I can see the debrief now. ‘Agent compromised. Pantyless. Moaning.’ Yelena will never let me forget it.”

He reached under the covers, dragging you into his lap with zero effort, your naked body wrapping around him instinctively. He kissed your neck, slow and possessive, the hand on your thigh tracing the same maddening circles it always did when he wanted to make you squirm.

“You were more than compromised,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You were mine.” You flushed deep. But you didn’t deny it.

-

You arrived back at headquarters forty-eight hours later—rested, cleaned, still slightly raw from the way Bucky had insisted on making you come on his face before the flight. Twice.

The safehouse glow faded as soon as the elevator doors opened onto the briefing floor.

Val was waiting. So was Yelena. And Bob. And Ava. And every other team member who hadn’t been cleared for that op.

They were all staring at you.

And then—

“THERE THEY ARE!” Yelena crowed, practically climbing over the conference table to meet you halfway. “The performance of the century! Did you see the footage?!”

“You saw footage?” you asked, instantly mortified.

Bob waggled a tablet from across the room. “You were out of camera range most of the time. But the audio feed was… let’s say, deeply educational.”

“I had to turn it off,” Ava deadpanned. “You were making my ventilator blush.”

You turned to Bucky. “You told me there was no audio.”

He raised a brow. “I wasn’t wearing a wire.”

You shoved him. He caught you around the waist and pulled you in without hesitation, grinning against your temple.

Val stepped forward then, all business—but with a flicker of something suspiciously close to amusement in her eyes.

“You secured the target. You extracted without civilian casualties. And you somehow managed to break Agent Dragomir’s security web without tripping any alerts.”

She paused, nodding towards Bucky as she added, “he’s been asking for your ‘wife’ every day since.”

You blinked. “Wife?”

“He seemed to think you two were ‘passionately married’.” Val said dryly. “Wanted us to tell you he misses the way you moan.”

Bucky’s jaw cracked.

You coughed. “That’s… fine. He can miss me from prison.”

Val’s gaze lingered. “Mission accomplished. File your final reports by Friday. And maybe next time—” her eyes cut to Bucky, “—don’t steal any ‘evidence’.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just nodded, all calm and smug. “Too late. I’m keeping them.”

You groaned and walked straight out of the room.

-

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. After everything that had burned through you during the mission—every whispered plea, every desperate kiss—there was a stillness now.

A tenderness. You weren’t pretending anymore. You didn’t need to chase the heat to justify what you felt. You let the slow burn settle instead.

You stayed over that night. And the night after. He didn’t ask. You didn’t leave.

You cooked dinner together—though he chopped like a soldier, and you snuck vegetables into his pockets when he wasn’t looking just to see if he’d notice. You watched old movies on his couch. He pressed his mouth to your forehead when you fell asleep on his chest.

You had long conversations at 1AM about nothing. About everything. He’d never had this before. The aftermath. The quiet. The softness of love without threat looming around the corner.

Neither had you. He walked you to your quarters every morning, hand in yours, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he wouldn’t.

And every time you parted—even for a moment—you looked back.

And so did he.

[lupinsweater]

WOW wow wow this made my heart ache in all of the best ways😭😭 so beautiful!!

where the quiet lives

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), sexual content, MDNI, cheating (past relationship), grief and identity loss, roommates to lovers, soft Bucky who I think about too often,

word count: 14k

Summary: You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.

notes – not proofread.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

“You sure about this?” Sam asks, thumb tapping the steering wheel in uneven rhythm. “Last chance to bail and come drink bourbon on my porch instead.”

You don’t answer right away. The house in front of you—Bucky’s, technically—rises out of the trees like something borrowed from a dream. It’s humble, just one story of aging timber and deep porch shadows. But there’s a kind of peace to it that makes your throat tighten. Quiet. Solitary. A far cry from D.C.’s sirens and your ex’s condo full of curated throw pillows and controlled air.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally. “This’ll do.”

Sam turns off the engine and throws it in park. “Bucky won’t be here for a couple weeks—he’s helping me and Torres with some clean-up ops. Just needed someone to check on Alpine, and I figured you could use the air.”

You nod. That’s the arrangement. His friend’s lakehouse. Your borrowed exile. Just long enough to not feel like you’re drowning anymore.

He helps haul your duffel out of the trunk, then pulls you in for a one-armed hug—tight and warm and fast, like he’s afraid if he gives you too much softness, you’ll break apart right there in his hands.

“Don’t burn the place down,” he says, teasing.

“I’ll do my best.”

“And don’t steal his cat.”

“You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Wilson.”

Sam smiles at that. It’s the first thing that feels remotely normal.

“There she is,” he says. Your raise a brow at him in response. “Just saying—it’s nice to hear you sound like you again.”

Then he drives off, and you’re left alone with your bag, your silence, and the looming task of rebuilding yourself from scratch.

—

The inside of the house is… spare. Spartan, even. But clean. The furniture is simple, all dark wood and worn-in leather. No throw blankets, no art. No clutter. Just intention.

And sticky notes.

They’re everywhere.

On the fridge:

Check expiration dates. Don’t risk it, idiot.

By the door:

Keys. Wallet. Left boot first.

Taped to the mirror in the bathroom:

Today is Wednesday. Grocery day.

You have time. Don’t rush.

Pinned to a small corkboard over a desk:

Call Sam. Try to get along with Torres. Don’t isolate.

DO YOUR THERAPY EXERCISES.

You are not what they made you.

And then one that stops you cold:

March 10 – your birthday. Don’t forget again.

The handwriting isn’t the same as the others. This one’s neater. Familiar.

Sam’s.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your chest aches. There’s a weight in these walls—not bad, not oppressive. Just heavy with the feeling of someone trying really hard to live.

You swallow, blinking hard. You’re not going to cry over someone else’s heartbreak. Not when yours is still bleeding. Then, you drop your bag in the only bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed until the stillness starts to hum.

Alpine appears that evening.

She’s huge. Long white fur, sea-glass eyes, and an expression that could curdle milk. She stalks into the living room, gives you one slow blink, and hops onto the back of the couch without further comment.

“Captain Attitude,” you mutter. “Good to meet you.”

She flicks her tail. You’re not sure if it’s a greeting or a threat.

You toss her a treat from the jar by the coffee maker. She eats it like you don’t exist. You respect the hell out of her.

That night, the lake pulls you in like gravity.

You undress on the dock, leaving your clothes in a folded heap beside a lantern. The water’s cold enough to shock breath from your lungs, but you swim out into the black anyway, eyes on the stars, heart thudding like you’re trying to remember how to feel alive.

Later, you lie on your back in the shallows, toes still grazing the dock post, and whisper the name you would’ve taken after the wedding. You watch the sound dissolve into the water like it never belonged to you in the first place.

You don’t cry.

You just float.

—

You find the sweatshirt the next day. BROOKLYN, soft navy cotton, tucked under a pile of towels in the linen closet. You tug it on over your damp tank top and feel the weight of it settle around your ribs. It smells like cedar and faint soap and something inherently… warm.

You make tea. You drink it barefoot on the porch while Alpine lounges near your ankle like a tiny, disapproving guard.

You don’t check your phone. You left it off. A self-imposed cleanse.

You’re not ready to scroll past honeymoon photos of people you don’t know or see the wedding venue’s Instagram post with someone else walking down the aisle. You’re not ready to remember what you almost bought into—the picket fence, the golden retriever, the safe house full of smiles that weren’t yours.

—

By day three, you start to crave motion.

You scrub the stovetop. You reorganize the bookshelf. You dust Bucky’s record player and flip through the vinyl crate beneath it—Sinatra, Etta James, Sam Cooke. Jazz standards that crackle at the edges, velvet voices that sound like they belong to another lifetime.

You drop the needle on “Night and Day” and dance barefoot in the living room. You close your eyes and twirl slow, hips swaying, Alpine yawning on the windowsill like you’re putting on a show she’s seen better elsewhere.

For a moment, you remember who you were before compromise.

And it feels good.

—

You venture into town the next morning. Coffee first. There’s a shop on Main Street with chipped mugs, homemade pastries, and an older woman named Jo who talks like she’s known you forever.

You sit by the window and people-watch. The town’s small—comfortable. There’s a rhythm to it that you fall into easier than you expect.

Next door, there’s a bookstore. Used and independent. The guy behind the counter is in his twenties, flannel shirt, sarcastic grin. You let him flirt. Let him tell you about poetry you won’t read. Let yourself laugh. Because you can. Because you’re still good at it. Because it’s fun.

At night, you find a dive bar near the edge of town. Wood paneling, neon signs, music too loud to overthink your choices. You play pool. You dance. You flirt again, this time with someone taller, scruffier. You let your hand rest on his forearm a little longer than necessary.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re just proving to yourself that you’re still wanted.

That you’re still you.

Back at the house, you wash the day off and wrap yourself in towels and the BROOKLYN sweatshirt. You curl up on the couch with Alpine pressed against your thigh, a record playing low in the background.

You let the night settle over your skin like fog.

You still don’t know who you are outside of the life you left behind. But you’re starting to see the shape of something new in the water. In the quiet. In the way your name sounds when no one’s asking anything of you.

You don’t know it yet, but Bucky’s going to walk through the front door two days from now.

But for now, the only thing that matters is that you’re still here.

Alive.

And finally, finally beginning to feel like it.

-

Bucky didn’t plan to come back early.

The mission wrapped faster than expected—clean, quiet, nothing he couldn’t walk away from. He didn’t bother texting Sam. Didn’t call ahead. Just got on his bike and drove until the city gave way to trees and silence and the gravel under his tires began to feel familiar again.

It’s not until he opens the door and hears the faint crackle of a record turning in the other room that he remembers: Sam said someone would be here.

He steps in cautiously, duffel slung over one shoulder, combat boots scuffing against the entry rug. The house smells different. Not bad. Just lived-in. The kind of warm that comes from candle wax and tea bags and maybe someone humming to themselves while brushing their hair.

He doesn’t know what he expects—some stranger on the couch? A friend of Sam’s still unpacking? Maybe you in the kitchen, halfway through leaving.

What he finds instead stops him cold.

You’re curled up in his bed. You’re asleep. On your side, facing the window, the BROOKLYN sweatshirt falling off one shoulder. No pants—just bare legs tucked under the blanket, one knee exposed. Alpine’s curled against your hip like a sentry. A cup of tea sits forgotten on the nightstand, still full, faint steam long since faded.

Bucky doesn’t breathe. For a second, he forgets how. Because it’s not just that you’re here. It’s that you look like you fit here. Like the house softened around you and gave you permission to belong. His gaze drifts over you again—messy hair, parted lips, the curve of your thigh peeking beneath the covers. The sweatshirt is his, worn thin from years of use. You’re swimming in it.

His ears go pink.

He’s in trouble. Something in him loosens—some knot he didn’t know he’d been walking around with in his chest. And something else tightens, coils low in his gut like recognition. Or warning. He’s still standing there when Alpine lifts her head, blinks at him like she’s unimpressed, and yawns. He backs out of the doorway slowly, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

-

The morning sun catches you in the eyes. You blink blearily, reaching across the bed—only to find it empty.

You sit up. The sweatshirt rides up high on your thighs, and you run a hand through your hair, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. 9:12 a.m. You hadn’t meant to sleep that late. You hadn’t meant to sleep in his bed at all. You were supposed to be on the couch. But Alpine kept pawing at your shins until you caved and followed her upstairs.

You stretch your arms above your head, spine cracking. Then you freeze. There’s a sound coming from the kitchen.

You pad out barefoot, trying not to look like you just committed light trespassing. At least you’re wearing underwear.

The first thing you notice is the broad back standing by the sink. The second thing you notice is that the broad back is attached to Bucky Barnes. The third thing?

He’s wearing a navy Henley rolled to the elbows and looking at you like you might’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“Oh,” you say, voice a little croaky. “You’re early.”

He shrugs one shoulder, not quite meeting your eye. “You’re in my bed.”

You raise a brow, but grin. “Technically, your cat’s in your bed. I was just following her orders. She runs a tight ship around here.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something close. “I made coffee,” he says.

“Thank god. I like you already.” You cross the kitchen to grab a mug and pretend not to notice how he sidesteps slightly to give you room—how his eyes dart to your bare legs and then snap away again like they touched something too hot.

The coffee is strong. You sip it gratefully, leaning back against the counter. He’s watching you again, you can feel it. Not just with curiosity—but intention. Like he’s trying to memorize. “You always come back from missions unannounced?” you ask.

He lifts a brow. “Haven’t had anyone to announce myself to. Do you always wear stolen sweatshirts to bed?”

You grin into your coffee. “No, but yours is comfortable.”

He hums. Then—softly—“It looks better on you.”

Your fingers tighten around the mug. Your pulse flutters somewhere between your throat and your stomach. “Well, that’s dangerous praise from a man with sticky notes taped to every surface in his house,” you shoot back, trying to sound casual.

He stiffens slightly. You’re about to apologize, but he surprises you by smirking—barely there, like he’s out of practice. “You read my notes?”

You sip again. “They’re kind of everywhere.”

There’s a pause. Then, mimicking your tone, “Well, that’s dangerous judgment from someone who fell asleep next to my cat like you pay rent.”

You laugh, full-bodied and real, and for the first time since your engagement fell apart, it feels good. Unfiltered. “You really wrote ‘remember to breathe’ on a sticky note?”

“I forget sometimes,” he says simply.

That shuts you up. Not because it’s awkward—but because it’s honest. There’s no shame in it. No defense. Just truth, laid out flat like a wrench on the table.

You look at him then. Really look. His hair is damp at the ends. He must’ve showered when he got in. There’s a faint bruise blooming at the base of his throat—faded but there. His eyes are sharp, wary, but not cold. And he’s handsome. Painfully so. Not in a magazine-cover way, but in the way that sneaks up on you. The kind of handsomeness that’s been through something and came out quiet instead of shiny. “I like the sticky notes,” you say finally. “They make the place feel lived-in.”

He glances down. “That’s new.”

“What is?”

He meets your eyes again, steady this time. “Feeling like someone might actually want to live in it.”

You swallow. There’s something happening between you—unspoken but undeniable. Not romance, not yet. But a pull. A recognition. Like two people holding the same scar up to the light and realizing it’s shaped the same. “I’ll make breakfast,” you say quickly, trying to lighten the air before it gets too heavy. “But I draw the line at sticky notes about eggs so don’t get any funny ideas.”

You brush past him toward the fridge, and he doesn’t move for a beat. When he finally does, you catch the ghost of a smile behind his coffee mug. It’s the soft kind. The kind that feels like a reward.

-

The wrench bites into your palm as you tighten the last bolt on the railing. Your arms ache, and you’ve got a smudge of dirt on your cheek, but the post doesn’t wobble anymore, so you call it a win.

“You know how to use that.”

You glance up. Bucky’s kneeling a few feet away, sanding down a warped bench with slow, deliberate strokes. Sunlight catches the sawdust in the air around him. His sleeves are rolled up, the Henley clinging to his back with sweat.

You wipe your forehead with your forearm. “Yeah, Barnes. I was pararescue, not prom queen.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Could’ve been both.”

You roll your eyes, but it flusters you more than it should. He doesn’t say anything else, just keeps sanding. You keep working too, your bodies moving in parallel rhythm.

—

He starts coming into town with you after that.

At the coffee shop, you introduce him as James but Jo calls him “sweetheart” and doesn’t bat an eye when he orders in that low, even voice of his. You try not to watch the way his fingers wrap around the mug. He drinks black coffee like it’s a punishment he earned. You also try to not think about why saying his name— James — feels more intimate than anything you’ve ever experienced in your almost 30 years of life.

At the bookstore, Kyle—the flannel-wrapped poetry nerd—flirts with you like usual. You flirt back. Lightly. Playfully. Because you can. And because you realize you like the way Bucky watches out of the corner of his eye, even if he pretends not to care.

At the dive bar, you shoot pool. Bucky leans against the wall, beer in hand, watching as you beat some cocky stranger by three balls. When the guy asks if you want another round and you flash him a grin that’s all teeth and danger, Bucky just lifts his bottle in salute.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t pull you back. But you catch the way his eyes follow you the whole way home.

—

It starts with a touch—your fingers brushing his as you both reach for the same mug. You pull away like it shocks you. He just watches, jaw ticking once. Then he’s shirtless, fixing a panel on the shed in the heat of the day. His dog tags dangle against his chest. The curve of his spine moves with each stroke of the hammer. You stare. Too long. When he turns, sweat beading along his collarbone, you pretend to be suddenly very interested in the ground.

You trip over the hose. He catches you. You stammer something and retreat, your skin on fire.

It gets worse when he comes back from a run. You’re walking into the kitchen in your tank top and sleep shorts when the front door opens. Bucky steps in, flushed from the jog, sweat darkening the hem of his Henley. He yanks the shirt up to wipe his face—and you freeze. His abs are cut like sin. His happy trail leads to places you shouldn’t be thinking about. His hair’s pulled back in a low tie, but a few damp strands have come loose and cling to his neck.

He glances up just in time to catch the way your mouth parts. How your thighs squeeze together.

“Need the kitchen?” he asks, voice steady. Amused.

“I—yeah. Water.” You flee like a woman hunted.

You down a glass in one gulp and spend the rest of the day pretending not to think about how he looked wiping sweat from his jaw with the hem of his shirt.

—

He still refuses to let you sleep on the couch. You tried, once. Dragged your blanket out and insisted it was “more fair.”

“I’ve slept on worse,” he said simply. “Take the bed.” You argued. He didn’t budge. Alpine stared at you like you were wasting everyone’s time.

So now it’s routine: you in the bed, him on the couch, Alpine rotating loyalties depending on her mood. You lie awake most nights, listening to the old creak of the house and wondering if he does the same. You suspect he does.

—

It happens on a Tuesday. You come back from the lake late, hair still wet from your swim, skin glowing from the cold. You’re wrapped in one of his towels, too short to really cover your thighs, and draped in an open flannel for warmth. The house is mostly dark. Moonlight filters in through the windows as you pad down the hallway.

You turn the corner—and walk straight into him. Bucky.

Also in a towel. Fresh from the shower, water still clinging to his collarbones, hair damp and curling around his temples. He’s standing in the hallway, towel slung low on his hips, and you collide. His hands come up instinctively—one landing on your waist, the other gripping your arm to steady you.

You both freeze. Your palm is flat against his bare chest. His skin is warm. Your towel shifts slightly with the motion.

You look up at him. He’s looking down at you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. You don’t breathe. Neither does he.

You might even lean in. Just a bit. Before you can catch yourself. The silence stretches, tense and thick. Charged. And then—

“I’ll just…” you murmur, stepping back, heat rushing up your neck. “Kitchen. Tea.”

He lets you go. “Right,” he says. “Cool.”

You both pretend it didn’t happen. But it did. And something has shifted.

—

You’re sitting on the porch later that week when it finally comes up. Your legs are kicked out in front of you, a beer sweating in your palm. Bucky’s across from you, elbow resting on his knee, head tilted toward the sound of cicadas. “You ever miss it?” you ask.

He doesn’t look at you. Just watches the treeline. “The missions?”

You nod. “The chaos. The clarity. The part where you know exactly who you are in the middle of something on fire.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Every damn day.” You glance over. He’s still not looking at you. “But I wasn’t as good at it as you were.”

Your brow furrows. “Bullshit.”

Finally, he meets your eyes. His expression is unreadable. “I wasn’t built for rescue,” he says. “You were. You still are.”

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “no one wants a girl who comes home bleeding.” Your exes words, words you let become your own, again and again, until you almost believed them.

You don’t look at Bucky right away. But he’s there. Solid. Steady. Listening. You’ve been slowly letting him in—without really meaning to. Letting things slip in the quiet hours. Over coffee, on walks into town, late at night when the silence hums between you and you can’t quite keep the past from spilling out. You’ve told him about the wedding that wasn’t. The dress you never wore. The way your old fiancé called your work “reckless” and said loving you felt like “waiting for a knock at the door.” You told him how you traded adrenaline for safety. Purpose for pleasing someone else. How you left the team because being wanted started to feel like being manageable.

You told him because he didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. He holds your gaze now, and there’s something stormy behind his eyes. “That’s not true.”

You swallow, the words catching in your throat. “It was for him.”

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw flex. “Then he was a coward.” You blink. Look away. “You’re not,” he says quietly.

The cicadas sing. The beer goes warm in your hand. You stare at the sunset for a long time and wonder how someone who barely speaks can say everything you didn’t know you needed to hear.

—

That night, he’s quiet. So are you.

You’re in his sweatshirt again. The one that smells like cedar and soap and something warmer underneath. You curl up in the armchair, a blanket he bought from town for you over your legs after you complained to him about him not having anything soft. He’s stretched out on the couch across from you, Alpine perched on the back cushion like she owns the place.

“I know we’ve talked about it before, but seriously, why all the sticky notes?” you ask after a long silence. You’ve teased him for them before, but tonight, you want to talk about something real.

He lifts a brow. “I told you it’s because I forget.”

“To breathe though? Really?”

“To do normal shit. Eat. Sleep. Trust people.”

You chew on that. “They’re kind of comforting.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You say that like they’re affirmations.”

“They kind of are. Like a trail of breadcrumbs back to yourself.” He watches you for a long beat. “I think that’s what I’m doing here,” you admit. “Trying to find my way back.”

You expect him to offer something—advice, maybe. Or worse, pity. But instead, he says: “You’re doing better than you think.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it. Even if just a little.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft creak of the floorboards as Bucky moves through the kitchen. The fridge opens. The faucet runs. Alpine makes her usual dramatic leap onto the counter.

You don’t sleep for a long time. You think about how his hand felt on your waist. How his eyes lingered when your towel slipped. How he smells like warmth and pine and rain. You think about how you don’t feel broken anymore.

Just… waiting. And maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting too.

-

It starts without you realizing it. The way you lean against the counter just a little too long when he walks by. The offhanded jokes you toss his way, a little warmer than before. The eye contact that lingers, the silence that isn’t awkward anymore—just charged.

He’s shifting too. You see it in the way he stops muting himself. How he lets his sarcasm come out—dry, wry, and occasionally muttered under his breath just loud enough for you to catch. You throw him a dishtowel one morning for wiping his hands on his pants again.

“You’ve got the manners of a teenage raccoon,” you say, smirking.

He catches the towel mid-air without looking up. “Better than yours. You sing ABBA at full volume while brushing your teeth when I’m trying to sleep.”

You freeze. “You heard that?”

“Jo heard it down at the coffee shop.” You gasp in mock betrayal, and he smirks—but it softens at the edges, like something loosening in his chest.

Later, you sit on opposite ends of the couch, legs stretched out under the coffee table. You toss him a piece of popcorn. He catches it. You toss another. He lets it hit his forehead dramatically. You laugh. And it echoes. It sits in the room like it belongs. He looks at you, amused. Quiet. Settled.

“Been a while since I heard that,” he says.

“What? Laughter?”

“Yours.”

—

The Triumph gleams in the sun, matte black and silver, like something out of a war film. You’ve walked past it a dozen times, but today you pause—long enough for Bucky to notice.

“You ever ridden?” You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing on the porch, towel draped over one shoulder, forearms crossed. The sun catches the metal of his arm and the sharp cut of his jaw.

“Motorcycles?” you ask, like there’s any other meaning. “Only on the back of one.”

He tilts his head toward the gravel trail near the lake. “Want to learn?”

You blink. “You offering lessons?”

“I’m not bad at it,” he says. Then, a flicker of something softer. “You’ve been restless, thought it would give you something to focus on.”

He’s not wrong. You square your shoulders, nod once. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He wheels the bike into position, throwing one leg over the seat with ease. “Come on.”

You straddle the seat in front of him, suddenly very aware of how much skin your shorts leave bare. His thighs bracket yours. You feel the warmth of his body before he even places his hands on you.

“You’re stiff,” he murmurs, leaning in. His breath brushes your ear. “You’ve got to relax. If you lock your hips, the bike’ll fight you.”

“Sure,” you say, voice tighter than intended. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying not to fall on your ass.”

“I won’t let you fall,” he says simply. But it makes your heart flutter unexpectedly.

His hands slide to your hips—just enough pressure to ground you, to guide. It’s nothing overt. Not inappropriate. But it’s… steady. Possessive in a way that makes something coil low in your stomach. Your breath catches. It’s impossible to ignore the heat of his chest at your back, the way you can feel every exhale he makes—slow, even, practiced. Like he’s calm. Like he does this all the time. Like you being practically in his lap means nothing more than Alpine sitting on him.

The engine hums beneath you, a low, steady growl that vibrates through the seat and into your spine. Your pulse starts to sync with it. Your thighs tighten against the curve of the bike, trying to ignore the way your body’s reacting to every… single… thing.

You’re just touch-starved. That’s all. You haven’t had anyone’s hands on you in months, and now this man—this very solid, very warm, very steady man—has the audacity to hold your waist like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s not the bike that’s dangerous.

It’s him.

You inhale through your nose, trying to stay calm. His fingertips flex slightly, and your breath catches again. He probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. Just holding you steady. Just making sure you don’t fall. But God, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Not sexually. Not forcefully. Just there. Just holding. Just keeping you upright. And it’s wrecking you.

“Throttle’s light,” he says, voice low. “You don’t need to manhandle it. Ease into it.”

You twist your wrist slowly. The bike jolts forward, and his hands tighten on your hips just enough to keep you steady—grounded. “Good,” he murmurs, his mouth too close to your ear. “Better.”

The wind hits your face as you roll forward, gravel crunching under the tires. You loop once around the clearing, then twice, and with each turn, you feel steadier. In control. But not calmer. Not with him there.

Not with his thighs bracketing yours, his chest a furnace pressed to your back, his fingers hooked just a little too firm around your waist. Not with every vibration of the engine rattling straight up through the seat and into your bloodstream. Not with your whole body singing from contact. He’s not even doing anything. Not really. Just being there—a quiet, solid wall of muscle and heat and restraint—and it’s undoing you.

By the time you slow to a stop, your heart is pounding so hard it makes your breath stutter. You let the engine idle, but nothing in you feels still.

He leans in slightly, chin nearly brushing your shoulder. “Nice work,” he murmurs, and the gravel of his voice scrapes warm and low across your nerves. You really shouldn’t be this affected by his praise, but it makes your whole body feel warm.

You glance back at him, pulse spiking. His hands are still on you. Firm. Warm. Right there. Your breath comes out too fast. Your skin’s burning. And you can’t even pretend it’s just adrenaline anymore. You don’t know how to think with him this close, with his mouth inches from your jaw and his breath ghosting across your neck like it belongs there.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. “For the help.”

He nods. Doesn’t move. Not his hands. Not his chest. Not even his eyes. And you don’t either. For a moment, the bike is silent, the engine humming like it knows a secret. The birds are loud. But not louder than your heartbeat.

Not louder than the way you suddenly want to turn, just a little, and feel what his mouth would taste like when he’s still catching his breath.

You swing off the bike a little too fast. Your legs don’t cooperate. They tremble beneath you like you’re made of static.

“Careful,” he says, catching your elbow. His fingers curl there—gentle, grounding, just like before—but this time, your whole body reacts like it’s starved.

You swat his hand away. Too late. Too soft. “I’m fine,” you lie, voice breathless and uneven.

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. You turn on your heel and walk toward the house, trying not to trip over your own knees or the heat still coiling low in your stomach. You don’t see him watching you go, jaw tense, hands flexing once like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your waist without reaching for it again.

-

That night, you cook. Or try to. Bucky walks into the kitchen just in time to see you squinting at a pan like it personally wronged you.

“You cooking or staging a fire?”

“Do you want dinner or not?”

He glances at the scorched edge of the onions. “Debatable.”

You throw a spoon at him. He dodges, smirking. In the end, he joins in. You chop vegetables. He seasons things. You keep bumping into each other on accident—his hand on the small of your back when he reaches around you, your fingers grazing his wrist when you hand him the garlic.

You put music on. Something old. He hums along under his breath. You stare, grinning.

“What?” he asks.

“Didn’t take you for a soul music guy.”

He shrugs. “Spent time in Harlem in the ’40s.”

“You’re unfairly hot and historically cultured. It’s kind of annoying.”

He snorts. “You’re mouthy.”

“I’ve been worse.”

He looks at you over the rim of his glass. “Yeah,” he says, “but not with me.”

Your stomach flips.

Dinner is simple. Good. You eat at the table, knees brushing under it. You pretend it’s an accident the first few times.

He doesn’t move. You don’t, either.

When you finish, he helps you wash dishes. At one point, your fingers meet under the water and neither of you pull away right away.

-

You leave him a note the next morning.

Out of coffee. If you let me go caffeine-deprived, I can make no promises about my behavior. Also—why do we have three cans of beans? – Fire Hazard

He replies later in tidy block script.

You’re terrifying without caffeine. I restocked for you, so spare me, please. Left cabinet, second shelf. Also: beans are versatile. – Barnes

After that, you start doing it more often. You leave notes all over his house, little snarky things, or fun things that one of you said that you want him to remember.

Sun’s out. Arms out? Asking for science.

No written response. But he’s shirtless that afternoon, oil on his hands, sweat down his chest. He catches you looking and just raises a brow.

You leave another note.

You ever smile just to make someone’s day worse? Because it’s working.

He replies:

Only yours. And Jo’s. I think she wants to adopt me. Or marry me. Juries still out.

Sometimes they turn softer.

Today felt like something real. You made it feel that way. Thanks, Bucky.

That one doesn’t get a note in return. Instead, he leaves you the last chocolate croissant and doesn’t say a word about it. You fold the wrapper and save it.

—

One night, you’re curled on the couch. Alpine’s at your feet. A half-glass of wine rests on the coffee table, and your head lolls back on the cushion as an old thriller flickers on the screen.

You don’t realize you’ve leaned into him until your shoulder rests against his bicep. He doesn’t move. His breath stays slow and even. His arm shifts behind you. Not around. Just there. But close enough.

You fall asleep like that. No ceremony. Just warmth and gravity.

You wake to soft light. The kind that catches in lashes and turns dust into gold. You’re half on top of him. Your cheek on his chest. One of his hands rests on your hip, fingers curled just barely into the hem of your sleep shirt. The other is drawing lazy circles across your spine. You breathe in slowly, and still he doesn’t move.

“Morning,” he says eventually, voice low, rough with sleep.

You lift your head an inch. “Did we…?”

“No,” he says, not opening his eyes. “Unless drooling on me counts.”

You groan and try to sit up, but his arm tightens once—just enough to say, you’re okay here.

You sit up anyway, the blanket pooling at your waist. He stretches and stands. The hem of his shirt lifts, revealing a line of skin, low and firm and unfair.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says, like he didn’t just wreck your entire ability to form a thought.

You nod, dazed.

He disappears into the kitchen. You touch your lips, breath catching in your throat. He hasn’t kissed you. But you think you’ve already started falling.

-

The dive bar is alive tonight.

The kind of loud that feels good in your bones. That buzzes at the base of your spine and makes you forget the quiet ache you’ve been carrying around like a second skin.

There’s a horn section blaring from the jukebox—something with too much swing to be modern, but with too much kick to be old. The floor’s sticky. The lights are low. The beer is cheap.

You finish your drink and turn to find Bucky standing by the wall, a glass in hand, watching you with a little tilt to his head like he’s already reading your next move.

You grin. “Come on, old man. Dance with me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not really a slow song.”

“I know.” You grab his wrist. “Show me what you’ve got, Sergeant Pie-Eating Contest Champion, circa 1943.”

He blinks once. Then smirks. “You’ve been talking to Sam.”

“Don’t deflect. Come dance. If you even know how.”

“Oh, I do.” He grins a little as he lets you pull him out onto the floor. You’re not expecting too much—maybe some awkward swaying, maybe a little shuffling. What you’re not expecting is for him to spin you out on the first beat and pull you back into him with a smoothness that nearly takes your breath away.

You land chest to chest, laughing. “Wait,” you gasp. “You’re actually—oh my God—you’re good.”

“Told you,” he says, not even winded. “Used to dance six nights a week before the war. Real ballrooms. Live bands. Shoes that ruined your feet.”

“You’re telling me Captain America’s best friend was a menace at swing clubs?”

“Menace,” he confirms, spinning you again. “And I had the suspenders to prove it.”

You can’t stop laughing. He doesn’t just move—he glides. Light on his feet, sure in every motion, with that kind of old-school charm that shouldn’t exist in real life. Not anymore. And definitely not in this dive bar, under this busted neon sign.

You’re flushed. Cheeks warm, heart pounding, thighs sore from moving, but you don’t care. Because his hand is at your waist, his eyes are locked on yours, and the rest of the room has melted away.

“You’re blushing,” he says, voice low near your ear.

“I am not.”

“You are.” His smile is real. Quiet. “It’s cute.”

You scowl, but it’s ruined by the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re annoying.”

“Still cute.”

You shake your head and let him spin you again. Your hands find his shoulders more than once. His find your waist like they belong there. You don’t flirt with anyone else that night. You barely notice anyone else exists.

And when the song ends, you’re breathless and aching in all the best ways. “I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.

“Most people don’t,” he says. And for a moment, there’s something unguarded in his eyes.

You just smile, hand brushing his arm. “I think I like surprises.”

-

The lake is cold when you slip in. Not freezing—just enough to make your skin tingle. It’s nearly midnight. The moon hangs high and full, silver light rippling across the surface as you float on your back, eyes toward the stars.

This is what peace feels like. You, alone, weightless. The water takes the ache out of your joints and the fire out of your brain. It holds you like it understands you.

You don’t hear him approach. You only notice the shift of shadow on the shoreline.

Then his voice, “You always disappear into the water like that?”

You swim closer, tread water near the edge. “Only when the bar’s too loud and I need to rinse off the sweat from dancing.”

Bucky lowers himself into a folding chair at the edge of the shore. He’s barefoot, wearing a hoodie, and watching you like he doesn’t want to blink. “I didn’t know you swam like this.”

You shrug. “Helps me think. Or it helps me to not think. Depends on the night.”

He nods, thoughtful.

You pause. “Reminds me of jumping. Pararescue ops. That moment after you leave the plane, before the chute opens. That strange quiet. It’s the same here. Just you and the weightlessness.”

His gaze softens as you smile. “I get that.”

You swim a little closer. The moon catches the curve of your shoulder. “You’ve been watching me for a while, Barnes.”

His mouth twitches. “Just keeping an eye on you.”

“Oh yeah?” You smirk. “For your records or your recreational interest?”

That makes him laugh—just a breath of it. “Both.”

You float back, arms wide, head tilted. “You know, I usually skinny dip when I come out here.” You say it casually. Like it’s nothing.

His head snaps up. “What?”

“Mmhm.” You spin slowly in place. “Water’s better without a suit. More… liberating.”

His mouth opens. Closes. “Are you—right now?”

You grin. “What do you think?”

For a second, he looks genuinely panicked. He sits up straighter, like his brain has stopped working. You swim toward the shore, teasing, and watch his eyes widen like he’s preparing to bolt.

Then you step out of the water.

Wearing a swimsuit.

Not naked.

His shoulders drop half an inch in visible relief.

But then you smirk, water dripping down your thighs, and raise a brow. “Disappointed?”

He blinks. “No. I just—I didn’t want to stare if—”

You grab a towel and toss it around your shoulders. “Relax, Barnes. If I didn’t want you to stare, I’d have told you.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

He groans and drops his head back against the chair. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You grin, wringing out your hair. “I think you’d make a very pretty ghost.”

-

You don’t remember falling asleep. You just remember feeling warm. And then it’s cold.

You wake to the sound of movement—jerky, panicked. You sit up slowly. The moon is still high. The house is quiet except for the stifled, ragged breath echoing from the living room.

You walk quietly, heart in your throat, and find him on the couch, caught in it.

A nightmare.

He’s curled tightly, face twisted, sweat clinging to his hairline. One hand clutches the blanket like a lifeline. The other twitches like it’s fighting off a memory.

You kneel beside him. “Bucky,” you whisper gently. “Hey. Wake up.”

He jerks upright, gasping. His eyes are wide, wild for a split second. Then he sees you and breathes like it’s the first time.

“It’s okay,” you say again, soft as the night. “You’re here. You’re safe.” His shoulders shake once. You reach for his hand. “Come to bed.”

He hesitates. Just for a second. Then nods.

You lead him down the hall. Slide into the bed and lift the covers. He joins you slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast.

You curl into him. Press your forehead to his collarbone. Your hand finds his chest. He exhales shakily. Then his arm comes around you, pulling you closer. Strong and slow and sure.

You say nothing more. You don’t need to. Because eventually his breath evens out, and yours follows.

-

The morning starts quiet.

Birdsong filters in through the half-cracked window. The sky outside is still kissed with the cool blue of dawn. You’re warm—tangled in sheets and something softer. His arm.

You stay still for a long time.

Not just because of the weight of his arm slung low across your hips, or the gentle rise and fall of his chest behind you. But because it’s the first time you’ve woken up not feeling haunted. Not by what you lost. Not by what you used to be.

Just… here.

The buzz of the phone breaks the moment.

Bucky shifts slightly behind you. Grumbles.

You reach for your phone on the nightstand and answer with a sleepy, “Yeah?”

Sam’s voice crackles through. “How would you feel about one last op?”

You sit up slowly. Bucky does, too, pushing a hand through his hair. The sheets fall to his waist. You try not to notice, and fail.

Sam continues, “Low risk. Small team. Just need someone I trust watching Joaquin’s six.”

There’s a pause. You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no. You just glance at Bucky, suddenly unsure. The last time you said yes to something big, it rewrote your whole life. Made you forget who you were. Made you small.

Maybe he sees it in your face—because Bucky leans back against the headboard, arm folded across his chest, and says nothing at first. Just watches you. “You’d be great.”

Your lips part. “You think?”

“I know.”

“But I’ve been out of it for over a year. I haven’t trained, haven’t—”

“You didn’t forget how to be who you are, you just tried to ignore it.” You blink. He says it soft. Like it’s not meant to convince you, just remind you. And maybe it’s the gentleness of it that cracks something open. Because you believe him.

Still, doubt creeps in around the edges. “Wouldn’t it be weird? Being back? After everything?”

Bucky shrugs a little. “It only feels weird if you’re doing it for someone else. If you want it—say yes. You don’t need permission to be who you are.”

That silences you. Because no one’s ever said it quite like that. No guilt. No push. No strings. Just—freedom. You nod slowly. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll do it.”

The words feel like a pulse of adrenaline in your blood.

Sam whoops on the other end of the line. “That’s what I like to hear. Suit up, baby.”

You laugh, and it feels good. Bright. When you hang up, you find Bucky watching you again. That look he gets when he’s seeing all of you and not turning away. “Thanks,” you say, your voice quiet. “For not… pushing.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t need anyone to tell you who to be. Least of all me.”

Still, you reach for his hand, fingers brushing lightly. “I wanted it more than I thought.”

His hand curls back around yours. “I know.”

And for the first time in a long time, choice doesn’t feel like a lifeline or an obligation.

It feels like you.

-

You’re in the shed behind the lake house. The air smells like cedar, engine oil, and late summer heat. Bucky’s makeshift training setup is simple but solid—padded mats, a sparring dummy, a chin-up bar welded to the beams. You roll your shoulders, already sweating through your tank top.

“You’re holding tension in your shoulders,” Bucky says, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, like he’s got nowhere else to be but here. With you.

“That’s rich, coming from Mr. Tactical Tension himself.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

You square off against the dummy and throw a clean combo. Elbow, knee, heel. Crack, crack, crack.

He whistles. “Still got it.”

You breathe hard, bounce on the balls of your feet. “Was there ever a doubt?”

“No,” he says, stepping into the space with quiet ease. “But there’s always room for sharper.”

You raise a brow. “You offering to spar?”

“You asking me to?”

You grin, then lunge. He dodges easily. Of course he does. But he’s holding back. You can tell. His movements are tight, efficient, like he’s gauging distance not just to win—but to keep from touching you too long.

And that makes you reckless.

You twist. Sweep his leg. Almost take him down. But he catches you mid-roll, one arm bracing your back, the other gripping your hip. You land with a thud against him—half-straddled, chests flush, breathing ragged.

His grip tightens for a second too long and your fingers curl in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Neither of you moves.

“I think I win,” you murmur, your voice husky.

“You think wrong,” he murmurs back.

You don’t know who pulls away first. Only that your skin burns where he touched you, and his eyes linger like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

-

Later, in the house, you gear up. Sam’s sending over the specs, Joaquin’s already prepping the jet, and you’re crouched over a duffel bag, checking weapons, tools, field med supplies.

Bucky enters the room, tossing a tactical vest your way. “Thought you might need the good stuff.”

You hold it up. “This is yours.”

“Was mine,” he says. “It fits you now.”

You look up at him. Really look. He’s in a snug black base layer and combat pants, hair pushed back with a headband. The dog tags around his neck clink softly when he moves. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—they flick to your lips and back before he looks away.

You step closer. “Help me strap in?”

His jaw tightens. Just a tick. Then he nods.

He moves behind you, brushing your hair aside gently, fingers ghosting over your shoulders as he tightens the straps on your vest. The buckle clicks between your ribs, but your pulse is already pounding.

“Too tight?” he asks.

“Not tight enough,” you say, then immediately regret how breathless you sound. He doesn’t comment. Just reaches around and adjusts the belt with steady hands. You close your eyes. The moment hangs—quiet, magnetic.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone tomorrow,” he says finally, voice low.

“I’m not,” you whisper. “I just want to remember what it feels like. To matter.”

“You already do.” You turn then. And there’s barely space between you. You’re so close you can see the small scar on his cheek, the way his lashes brush down when he blinks too slow, the heat behind his reserve.

“You’re really bad at pretending you don’t care,” you say softly.

“Only one of us has been pretending anything,” he replies with a wry smile. And then he’s stepping back. Clearing his throat. Grabbing his jacket and keys like he needs something to do before he loses his grip.

“We leave at 0700.” You nod, biting your cheek to keep the rush in your chest from spilling out.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something. And it’s alive.

-

The building is concrete and shadows, some long-forgotten Cold War bunker repurposed for offshore weapons storage. You move like water through it—silent, precise. It’s you, Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky. Four bodies breathing in rhythm. Four sets of boots falling in sync. You forget what silence like this feels like. The kind that isn’t empty, but electric.

You signal to Joaquin without looking. He mirrors it immediately, flanking left as you sweep through the corridor with your Glock up, flashlight tight under your grip. Sam’s already moved ahead, and Bucky’s right behind you, low and controlled like muscle memory despite never having run an op with you before.

“You always make me look bad in front of Sam,” Joaquin whispers through comms.

You smirk. “I am the favorite Torres, don’t take it personally.”

“Oh, I do. Deeply.”

“Maybe don’t walk so loud next time.”

Sam’s voice cuts in. “She’s not wrong.”

You catch Bucky biting back a grin. It’s barely a twitch, but it’s there.

Then—

A clatter, sharp. Ahead, left. You’re first to react, darting forward, signaling halt. Bucky’s at your six, covering, silent. You push open the door and sweep—two hostiles. One drops from Joaquin’s tranq round. The other lunges.

He doesn’t stand a chance. You’re faster than you remember being. Adrenaline hums like a second pulse in your neck. By the time Bucky gets there, you’re already panting and holstering your sidearm.

“I had it,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says.

But his eyes linger. Just a beat too long.

—

The mission’s mostly clean after that. Minor tech recovery, no major injuries. But something shifts midway through the final floor sweep.

You sense it. You’re halfway through covering a side hallway when something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand. A whisper of movement on a rooftop. You spin, glance up—glass glints.

“Down!” you shout, just as your body slams into Bucky’s.

He goes with the momentum as the crack of a sniper rifle splits the air. The shot misses. Barely. You roll off him, winded. He’s already looking at you. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just—

Stunned.

You pull your goggles back up and mutter, “You’re welcome.”

He blinks, looks to the roof. “I didn’t see it.”

You shrug. “Didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t say anything else. But his gaze doesn’t leave you. Not for the rest of the extraction.

—

Later, at the safehouse, you sit on the floor, legs stretched, rolling out your shoulder. Bucky brings you a water bottle. “You good?”

You take it. Nod. Your fingers brush his. “Yeah. Just…” You pause, swallow hard. “I missed that.”

“The mission?”

“The rush. The purpose. The clarity. I forgot what it felt like to move like that. To feel useful. To make calls without overthinking, to feel like—” You stop short. Then finish quietly, “—like myself again.”

Bucky crouches next to you. “You were never not useful.” You glance at him. The expression on his face isn’t pity. It’s not admiration, either.

It’s recognition. Like something in you rang familiar to something in him. He places a steadying hand between your shoulder blades. Just for a second. But it’s enough. Your whole body quiets under the touch. You lean back slightly, letting it ground you.

“Thanks,” you say. “For having my back.”

He smirks faintly. “You had mine first.”

“You’re just mad I got to be the hero.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. You’ve always been the hero.”

And you can’t joke that away. Not this time. So instead, you nudge his knee with yours and say, “You hungry?”

He huffs. “Always.”

The tension eases, but only on the surface. Below it, something is still shifting. Tightening. Because now he’s seen you in your element.

And he knows—without a doubt—he’s fucked.

-

The ride home is quieter than expected. Not tense—just… full.

Sam and Joaquin joke in the front, easy and familiar. The windows are cracked, wind sliding in to cut the late summer heat, and you sit beside Bucky in the backseat, sun-warmed and electric.

Your fingers tap against your thigh. Your body still thrums with mission afterglow, the kind of physical high you can’t explain to anyone who hasn’t done this work. Your senses are sharp, your muscles sore in a satisfying way. You’re not just awake—you’re alive.

You tilt your head toward the window. The blur of trees and sky and lake all rushes past, but your mind is still on the bunker. On the moment Bucky’s body collided with yours, heavy and warm. On the sound of his grunt as the bullet missed. On the way he’d looked at you after.

“You’re glowing,” Bucky murmurs beside you.

You glance at him, startled. “What?”

He nods toward your reflection in the window. “Your face. You look… alive.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just smile. “It felt good to be that version of myself again.”

“I could tell.” He studies you for a long moment, then says, “You never stopped being that person.”

You exhale, slow. “Maybe. But I stopped being her for me. I let him convince me that what I wanted wasn’t worth the risk. That it was selfish.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. The truck hits a bump. His thigh knocks into yours. You don’t move.

“You think I’m ready for more?” you ask, eyes still fixed ahead.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I think the world doesn’t stand a chance.”

—

The lake is gold when you pull in. The sun’s lower now, casting long streaks across the water. The house looks the same, but the way you walk through the door feels different. You leave your bag by the steps. You toe off your boots and roll your shoulders.

Bucky’s already gone to feed Alpine. You find him in the kitchen. The moment stretches—quiet, breathless, still carrying the echoes of the mission.

“You want tea?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

You take a step forward. He turns. Your heart skips. And you don’t think. You just move.

Your hands curl into the collar of his shirt. You press your mouth to his like it’s a live wire—desperate, sudden, electric. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s like something finally breaking open.

He kisses you back without hesitation. One hand on your hip, the other sliding to your jaw, fingers curling there like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. His mouth is warm, open, needy—and for one dizzying second, you think he might lift you right onto the counter. But then—he stops.

His breath is heavy. Forehead against yours. “Don’t give me anything you’ll regret.”

You’re still trying to catch your breath. “I won’t.”

His eyes are searching yours like he doesn’t quite believe it. But he steps back anyway. So do you.

The kitchen is too quiet. You can feel the thrum of your pulse in your lips, your wrists, your thighs. The ache of it. The frustration. He doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you murmur.

He nods. Says nothing.

You leave, heart hammering. The night is cool and the wind is soft, but your skin burns where he touched you. And behind you, still standing in the kitchen, Bucky leans against the counter and exhales like he’s holding back the entire fucking ocean.

-

It happens slowly.

You’re in his bed together more often now—not always on purpose. It starts with falling asleep there after long nights talking. After reruns on the TV. After tea, or whiskey, or just silence. You never ask him to leave. And he never shifts you away. Just pulls a blanket over you and settles in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, you stop pretending he’s going back to the couch at all.

He sleeps on the right side. You sleep on the left. Sometimes you wake up tangled together. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes your thigh brushes his under the covers and you pretend not to notice. Sometimes, when the wind howls through the trees at night, you shift closer—just for warmth.

Mostly.

Your tank tops start showing up clipped to the deck rail in the mornings, drying in the sun. Bucky’s shirts end up in your laundry pile more than your own. You start leaving little things—hair ties, lip balm, the paperback novel you never finish—on his nightstand.

And Bucky?

Bucky doesn’t move a single one.

—

You touch his metal arm in the dark. It’s one of those nights. Warm air. Window cracked open. Moonlight spilling across the bed. You’re curled on your side facing him, blinking into the quiet, your hand resting in the space between you.

And slowly, inch by inch, you reach out. Just enough to brush your fingertips against the cool curve of vibranium where it meets his bicep.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t move away. His breathing changes—just slightly. Slower. Deeper. As if that little touch reached somewhere further than skin.

You stay like that for a long while. Hand on his arm. Eyes on his chest, rising and falling steady. You don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.

But in the dark, something settles between you.

—

You sit on the porch one evening with your feet propped on the railing, the lake like glass under the setting sun. There’s a stillness in the air that doesn’t feel oppressive—it feels earned.

Bucky leans against the post beside you, a cold bottle sweating in his hand. He hasn’t said much since dinner. You haven’t either. “I’m scared,” you say quietly. “Of wanting more again.”

His eyes flick to you. “More from what?”

You shrug. “Life. Love. All of it.”

You take a sip of your drink, throat tight. “It felt easier with him. To know what my future looked like. Even if it wasn’t really mine. Even if I didn’t want it.”

Bucky doesn’t interrupt. “I keep thinking… what if I let myself want something again, and it all falls apart?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Sometimes what scares us most is what we already have.”

You look over at him. “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t smile. But there’s something in his eyes—something soft, steady, unbearably open.

“It means,” he says, “you’ve already got the things you’re afraid to want. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

You stare at him. Then look away. Then back again. And you don’t answer, but God—he’s right.

And now you know he’s yours.

—

You’re in the kitchen after a long day. Sweat clinging to your skin from a run. Bucky’s shirt is loose on your frame. He comes up behind you, hand brushing the small of your back as he reaches for a glass.

You freeze. He does too. Your breath catches. His fingers curl just slightly.

You turn slowly. He’s close. Too close. His eyes flick to your mouth.

You don’t think.

You just move.

Your hand slides up his chest. His arms come around your waist. Your lips meet—not rough, not like before, but slow. Testing. Savoring.

This kiss is different. This one is soft and real. His hands are reverent. Yours are needy. You’re pressed up against the counter and he’s kissing you like he’s memorizing every second. You can feel the restraint in him—every muscle taut, held just on the edge.

And then—his hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm against your bare skin, and you shiver.

You want to fall apart. Right here. Right now.

But he pulls back.

Barely.

Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to yours.

“We don’t have to stop,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes. Then says, so softly it breaks you, “You’d be worth waiting forever for.”

Your breath hitches. And you understand what he’s really saying. Not tonight. Not yet. And it kills you. Because you want him. God, do you want him.

But more than that—you want it to matter. So you nod.

His thumb brushes your cheek. And you fall asleep in his arms that night. Quiet. Firm. Held like something precious. Held like he means it.

-

You start feeling it before it happens.

It’s in the way the mornings stay warm a little longer. The trees burn richer gold. The lake glimmers like it knows something’s ending. You watch the breeze ripple across it and pretend you’re not counting days.

Because eventually—this ends. This borrowed time. This little patch of stillness you stumbled into, bruised and bleeding and pretending to be fine. You knew it couldn’t last. And now the clock feels louder.

You’re helping Bucky repair a loose gutter on the side of the house when it starts to hit. He’s up on the ladder, shirtless again (because the universe is cruel and you’ve done something to offend it), and you’re standing in the grass below pretending not to stare at the lazy stretch of muscle along his stomach.

“Pass me the socket wrench?”

You blink up at him. “Hm?”

He arches a brow, smirking. “Unless you plan on unscrewing this with your mind, sweetheart.”

You toss him the wrench a little harder than necessary, and he catches it one-handed, laughing under his breath. But even his laugh doesn’t pull you out of it this time. Because underneath the familiar heat crawling up your neck is a dull, gnawing ache in your chest.

You leave the tools out when you wander back inside. You leave your phone face-down on the table. You try not to wonder what happens next.

-

The first message comes just after dark.

Chris:

I just… I don’t know how it got so bad.

I miss you. I think about you every day.

Are you okay?

You stare at the screen and don’t respond. Your throat feels like glass. You leave the cabin and walk until your feet are wet with lake water, the cold biting up your shins. You sit on the dock, the sky inked with stars, and don’t move until Alpine comes looking for you.

—

The second one comes two mornings later.

Chris:

I fucked up.

Can we talk?

You delete it.

-

The third one is longer. More desperate.

Chris:

I saw you’re not online. Your socials are dead. You just disappeared.

I don’t know what happened. I know I messed things up.

I thought we were okay.

I thought we were going to build something.

Why won’t you answer me?

You throw your phone across the porch. It doesn’t break. You almost wish it would.

—

It escalates after that.

Calls. Voicemails. A message with a photo of the ring you returned.

You don’t answer any of them. But the pressure builds until you feel like you’re going to burst open just standing still. So you don’t.

You walk.

You walk down to the dock in the middle of the night and sit at the edge in one of Bucky’s old flannels and nothing else. The wood is cool beneath your bare thighs. The water laps gently at the posts. And you cry.

Not loudly. Not like the pain is new. Like it’s old. Like it’s been sitting in your chest for years and only now found the crack to leak out of.

You cry because you gave up a life you never really wanted. Because you tried so damn hard to fit into someone else’s future. Because you twisted yourself up into something soft and small and quiet—until you didn’t even recognize your own reflection.

And now?

Now you’re sitting on a dock wearing someone else’s flannel, in a borrowed place that feels more like home than anything you’ve ever had, and you’re terrified. Because maybe you want to stay. And you don’t know if you’re allowed.

“Hey.”

The voice is soft. Careful. You turn your head, already wiping your cheeks. Bucky stands at the top of the slope, eyes dark in the moonlight, arms crossed loosely like he doesn’t want to scare you. “I didn’t mean to—” he starts.

“It’s fine,” you croak. “I just—needed air.”

He says nothing. Walks down the steps slow, boots quiet, until he sits beside you on the edge. His jeans creak as he settles. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t speak. You don’t look at him.

“I thought I had it all figured out,” you whisper. Your voice sounds far away. Like it belongs to someone else.

“I was supposed to get married. I left everything behind. I convinced myself I was okay being the safe one. The one who stayed behind, who made dinner, who smiled at the fundraisers, who wanted the dog even though I prefer cats and the stupid perfect house…” You exhale shakily. “And it was never even mine.”

Bucky’s quiet. So quiet it makes the tears come back. And then—gently, quietly—he says, “You’re not broken.” You glance at him.

His jaw flexes. “You were just too whole for the wrong person.” The words land like a stone in your chest.

You break.

Not the pretty kind. The messy, sniffling, hiccuping kind. You turn toward him and bury your face in his shoulder, and he pulls you in without hesitation. His hand comes up to the back of your head. His other arm wraps tight around your waist.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just holds you. And you feel safe.

-

You’re not sure how long he holds you like that. Long enough for your breath to stop catching in your throat. Long enough for the tears to slow, then stop. Long enough for the silence between you to feel less like distance and more like gravity.

You pull back slowly. His hand lingers on your back. His thumb rubs a slow, grounding line between your shoulder blades. His eyes are on you—steady, clear, kind.

And God, you’re so tired of pretending you’re not in love with him.

You don’t even remember standing. You just know you’re walking toward the house together, his hand brushing yours, your fingers itching to twine with his. Every step is louder than it should be, every glance more loaded.

You cross the threshold into the warmth of the cabin. The door closes behind you. And suddenly the quiet between you isn’t peaceful anymore. It’s electric. You’re still wearing his flannel, but it’s barely buttoned. Your legs are bare. You’re hyper-aware of every inch of skin he might be looking at.

You turn to him in the soft lamplight.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“I just…” You swallow. “I wanted so badly to be wanted. And then I met you and—” You stop yourself. Start again. “And you make it feel okay to want something more.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Not yet. But his eyes are fire. “You make me want a future again,” you admit, quietly. “One I get to choose. With missions. With Alpine clawing at my feet. With this stupid lake house. With someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m too much. Or not enough.”

He takes one step forward. Then another.

“You,” you whisper. “You make me feel like I’m someone worth staying for.”

That does it.

His hands are on your face before you can breathe. His mouth is on yours like he’s been holding back a storm, and the second he touches you, it breaks.

The kiss is deep. Open. Desperate. You make a sound in the back of your throat and press closer, your hands in his hair, your body flush against him. He groans into your mouth when you suck his bottom lip between your teeth. You can feel him—hard, warm, alive against you—and the rush of heat through your bloodstream makes you dizzy.

You tug his shirt up and over his head. He helps you. Your flannel slips off your shoulders. He catches it.

He catches you. His hands are strong, reverent. His lips move from your mouth to your neck, your collarbone, lower—

You fumble for the waistband of your underwear, but his hand closes over yours.

“Wait,” he says, breath ragged.

Your chest heaves.

“Bucky—”

“I want you.” His voice is hoarse. “So bad, baby. But not like this. Not tonight.”

You freeze.

His forehead rests against yours. “You’ve been through hell,” he says. “And I’d rather wait than wonder if you’ll regret this tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.” His thumb strokes your cheek. “But you deserve more than this being a distraction after a bad day.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re not,” he says. “That’s why I’m stopping.”

You’re quiet. Your eyes sting again—but for a different reason. He kisses you once more. Softer. Slower. Like a promise. And then he pulls you toward the bed.

No hesitation. No shame. He just lies down and opens his arms. You climb into them like you were built for it.

You don’t make love that night. But you fall in love anyway. And as he holds you, his hand stroking slow down your back, your cheek pressed to his chest, you whisper it—

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

You feel his heart stutter beneath your palm.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Me too.”

-

The next morning, the air outside is golden and soft, dew still clinging to the grass. You wake warm, safe, and impossibly tangled with Bucky Barnes—your leg slung over his hip, your face tucked against the curve of his neck. He hasn’t moved all night.

His metal arm is around your waist. Gentle. Unshaking. Solid.

You should feel awkward. You should feel nervous. Instead, you feel whole.

You stretch a little, eyes fluttering open. His do too—slowly, like the weight of the morning couldn’t rush him if it tried. There’s sleep in his gaze, but something else too. Something warm. Something anchored.

“Morning,” you whisper.

His voice is gravel. “Hi.”

You stay like that a few minutes longer. The birds outside. The hush of the lake. The soft rhythm of his hand on your side. Eventually, you rise. He stays in bed a little longer, watching you with a soft, quiet affection that feels like the sun.

But the moment breaks with a sharp vibration. Your phone. You stare at it on the kitchen counter. His name again. Your ex. You don’t pick up. Not this time. But your stomach churns at the flood of messages now waiting to be read.

You feel it all creeping in again. The spiral. The self-doubt. You don’t even realize you’ve stepped outside until Bucky finds you again—barefoot on the dock, arms wrapped around yourself, face turned toward the horizon.

He walks to you silently. Then slides your phone into your hand. On the screen: a message thread. His message.

To: Chris

Don’t call her again. She’s not yours. And you’re damn lucky she ever was.

You blink.

Bucky shrugs. “He needed to know.”

Your throat tightens. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did,” he says. “Because I’ve seen you light up a room just by walking into it. I’ve seen you fly out of a firefight like it’s instinct. I’ve seen you take care of Alpine like she’s your own cranky little kid.”

He turns toward you fully. “And I saw you cry like your whole chest was breaking because some coward made you think being too whole was a flaw.” You can’t breathe. “I’ve done a lot of things,” he says softly. “But if I can be the one who reminds you of who the hell you are—then maybe that’s one I can be proud of.”

The tears come again—but you don’t fall apart this time. You lean in.

You wrap your arms around him, press your cheek to his chest. He holds you like it’s instinct. Like he never learned anything else but this.

And when you finally pull back, when you press your mouth to his with that spark still simmering under your skin, he kisses you like it’s a yes.

Not just to you. To the future. To whatever this becomes when you stop pretending it’s temporary. Because it never was. Not really.

-

The official offer comes in the afternoon.

You’re sitting on the porch swing in Bucky’s sweatshirt, a half-eaten peach in one hand and Alpine sprawled in a sunbeam near your feet. The sky’s that cloudless kind of blue, the kind that makes you feel like you could float. Your phone buzzes. You don’t even flinch anymore when it does.

It’s Sam.

You ready to be back in the game?

This time on your terms.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a moment. And then you type:

I’m in.

You don’t wait for the flutter of anxiety you expected. You don’t feel like you’re jumping into the unknown anymore.

You feel like you’re coming home to yourself.

—

Bucky doesn’t say anything when you tell him. He just smiles, a small one, crooked and quietly proud. He nods once and murmurs, “’Bout damn time.”

But that night, just as the sky begins to turn lavender and gold, he steps out onto the porch with his keys in hand. “Come on,” he says, voice soft. “Let’s go.”

You raise a brow. “Go where?”

He shrugs. “Nowhere in particular. Just… ride.”

The wind is still warm from the day, but the night promises cool edges. You pull on your boots and a jacket and straddle the seat behind him, your hands finding his waist like it’s second nature.

You don’t need to ask where he’s headed. The road curves along the lake, glittering with moonlight. The breeze rushes over your cheeks. Your chest presses against his back. His warmth seeps through the leather. His body, steady and strong, anchored between your arms, feels like something you could hold onto forever.

There’s no music. No chatter. Just the purr of the engine and the rhythm of the road. And for once, you don’t feel like you’re running from anything.

—

He pulls off onto an old gravel turnout near a cliffside—one you’ve seen before but never visited. It overlooks the water, endless and black beneath the moon, speckled with starlight.

Bucky kills the engine. For a second, neither of you speak. You both dismount, boots crunching on stone, and stand side by side at the edge.

“You really said yes?” he asks finally, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You nod. “I meant it.”

He lets out a slow breath. “Good.”

You tilt your head toward him. “You think I’m ready?”

He turns then, really looks at you. His expression is unreadable for a moment—then something softer breaks through. “I told you once before,” he says, “the world doesn’t stand a chance.”

You smile.

And then you kiss him. It doesn’t feel like the first kiss. Not really. It feels like a dam breaking. Like a breath you’ve both been holding for far too long.

His hands are in your hair. Yours are gripping his jacket. It’s hungry and warm and grateful and real. There’s no post-mission high. No accidental brush of lips. Just this. Just you and him and a night too full to hold it all in anymore. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His voice is low.

“You sure?”

You don’t even hesitate. “I don’t want perfect. I want this.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, reverent. “Then take it,” he whispers. “Take all of me.”

-

You barely make it inside before his mouth finds yours again.

The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly your hands are in his hair, tugging, desperate. His mouth crashes into yours with a hunger that’s been simmering for weeks—months maybe—and your back hits the wall as his hands cage you in.

It’s not a question. It’s not hesitation. It’s inevitability.

You break the kiss long enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you. Bucky’s hands are on your waist immediately, warm and reverent, pulling you back to him as if he’s afraid the moment might dissolve if he lets go.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, like a prayer, like he’s already undone. “You’re—”

You kiss the words off his mouth. You stumble toward the bedroom, knocking into the couch, the table, neither of you caring. You shed layers like second skin—his Henley, your jeans, the bralette you barely remember putting on this morning. His hands trail fire as they go, skimming the swell of your hips, the curve of your ribs, the small of your back. It’s not just need. It’s reverence.

His lips move down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. Your hands drag along his shoulders, his chest, flattening over the steady rhythm of his heart like you’re trying to memorize the way he feels under your palms.

“Bucky,” you breathe, voice trembling with something you don’t dare name yet.

His hands still. He looks at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shake your head before he’s even done speaking. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He exhales like he’s been waiting a lifetime to hear you say that.

Then he lays you down like you’re something rare, something precious. Like you’re already his.

And when he touches you—he touches you like it’s a vow. It’s not rushed. It’s not careful either.

His mouth moves over your chest, down your stomach, lingering like he’s imprinting you onto memory. You thread your fingers into his hair, moaning softly as he worships every inch of you. His scruff burns your skin in the best way. His metal hand, cool and strong, anchors you while his flesh one explores like it’s learning the shape of devotion.

Your legs fall open beneath him. He groans low in his throat and presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You arch toward him, flushed and breathless. “Then come here and show me.”

He does.

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow, reverent—like something clicking into place. Like your bodies already know each other, like your skin has been waiting for this confirmation.

You both freeze for a moment, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving. It’s too much and not enough. It’s everything.

And then he moves.

Your breath catches as you feel him thrust, deep and unhurried. His hand slides beneath your back to hold you closer, like even an inch of distance is too much. You wrap your legs around his hips, grounding him, grounding yourself. He rocks into you with a steady rhythm, and every sound you make only spurs him on—quiet gasps, whispered pleas, the soft staccato of your name falling from his lips like it’s sacred.

You’ve never felt so full. So seen. You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Bucky…”

His mouth meets yours again, tender and hungry. You feel him tremble against you when you whisper, “I want all of you.”

He breaks, just a little, at that. He picks up the pace, but never loses the softness. His grip tightens, his metal hand cradling your thigh as he buries himself deeper, over and over, like he’s trying to etch himself into your soul.

You cry out, clinging to him, overwhelmed by sensation, by emotion, by the unbearable truth of it all.

You love him.

You do. And you think maybe you have for a while now. But tonight, it isn’t about declarations or fears. It’s about this. This moment. This man. This love. You come undone around him with a shuddering gasp, clenching tight, whispering his name like you’re afraid it’ll disappear with the stars if you don’t say it enough times.

He follows seconds later, pressing so deep into you it feels like forever. Your name is the only word he says as he falls apart—groaned into your shoulder, kissed against your jaw, moaned into the crook of your neck like a secret he never wants to give back.

The afterglow is quiet.

You lie tangled together in his bed, still breathing hard, limbs knotted beneath the warm cocoon of sheets. His chest rises and falls against your cheek. You trail your fingers down his sternum lazily, drawing invisible lines.

He shifts to look at you, brushing your hair from your face with a soft hand.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raw and real.

You nod, smiling sleepily. “Better than okay.”

Something in his face softens. His lips curve—not quite a smile, more a moment of absolute peace. “Yeah?”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “Yeah.”

He exhales slow, like he’s been holding it for years. You curl into him, leg draped over his, his hand resting at the small of your back. “I don’t want perfect,” you whisper. “I want this.”

His eyes close for a long beat. Then, with a voice full of more love than he’s ever admitted aloud, he answers:

“Then take it, doll. Take all of me.”

And so you do.

-

The morning comes soft and golden. You wake to Alpine perched on the nightstand, glaring at both of you with the severity of someone who’s been kicked out of her usual spot.

You laugh, hiding your face in Bucky’s chest.

He just groans and pulls you closer, muttering something about cat tyranny.

But his arms never leave you. Not once.

And this time, you don’t think he ever will.

-

The apartment in D.C. sells faster than you expect.

You don’t go back for much—just a few boxes, a couple of photos, a few dusty pieces of yourself that never really fit there in the first place. The rest you donate. Leave behind like a shed skin.

You don’t need any of it now. Not when home is somewhere else entirely.

You move into a rental near the lake house at first. Close enough to see Bucky most days, but still your own space—your own rhythm. But slowly, that space becomes shared. His boots at your door. Your shampoo in his shower. A drawer here, a coffee mug there. You drift between houses like the lake wind itself—sleeping wherever the day ends, wherever the arms waiting feel warmest.

Sometimes, that means waking up alone after a mission—your gear still dusty, adrenaline still humming under your skin—but there’s always something waiting. A note. A meal. A stupid little cartoon of Alpine giving you side-eye.

Sometimes, it means coming home to his shoulders slumped in your doorway, his voice tired but his arms still strong when they pull you in.

And sometimes, it means coming back to see him barefoot in your kitchen, in a soft blue Henley and old jeans, two mugs steaming beside him as he hands you one without looking—like he’s felt you coming the whole time.

He looks at you like that more often now. Like you’re the best decision he’s ever made.

—

You still go on missions. You still say yes to the world when it asks.

Sometimes he’s with you. Sometimes he’s not.

But no matter where you are, the truth stays simple: you come home to him.

Or he comes home to you.

Or you both return to something you’re building with your own hands—a new house, not perfect, not polished. Just right.

There’s no picket fence. No blueprints pinned on a vision board. Just walls that grow a little taller each month. A kitchen you both painted together. A porch swing he hung for you on a Sunday morning with his shirt half off and a pencil behind his ear.

You tease him for looking like a dad already.

He shrugs. Smirks. “Not opposed.”

You’re not either.

Alpine sprawls like she owns the place. Which, of course, she does. She divides her time between the houses like a tiny, entitled queen. You catch her sleeping in the unfinished nursery once, curled up on a pile of blankets like she knows what’s coming before either of you has said it aloud.

-

The ring on your finger a year and a half later isn’t flashy. Just smooth, warm metal. Etched with the coordinates of the lake where you fell in love. Made by him.

There’s one on his dog tags that match.

But his left hand bears something even more permanent—a dark band welded to the ring finger, sleek and simple, fused into the vibranium like a promise no one can break. He hadn’t told you he was going to do it. Just came home one night, kissed your forehead, and let his hand rest beside yours on the dinner table.

When you noticed, you didn’t speak.

You just leaned over and kissed him like you understood.

Because you did.

You always do.

—

Some nights, you lie on your half-built porch and talk about the future. About renovations and missions and the names you like. You trace patterns over his chest and ask if he thinks Alpine will tolerate a baby in the house.

He scoffs. “She barely tolerates me.”

You both laugh, but it fades quiet, easy.

You picture it sometimes—chubby legs, tiny onesies, Bucky half-asleep in the rocking chair with a baby tucked against his bare chest. The steady thump of his heart. His metal arm holding strong.

And maybe you’re not there yet.

But you could be.

That’s what matters.

That’s what all this was for.

[lupinsweater]

i can fix them and whatever the hell’s wrong with their club.

[lupinsweater]

the eyes, they never lie

[lupinsweater]

Omg look who at pride

[lupinsweater]

late night after quidditch jily talks

commissioned by @daiziesssart :)

[lupinsweater]

shy reader who starts working with rockstar!remus and thinks he’s super grumpy and mean, but eventually he reveals that he’s a huge softie and is really sweet to her. maybe she gets the impression bc she sees him arguing with someone or gets told something. thanks so much for all your amazing writing!

tw implied slut shaming ♡ rockstar!remus x shy!fem!reader | 1k words

Remus is technically your boss. You don't expect him to treat you any differently than that – a boss employee relationship suits you fine. It actually suits you perfectly. If he'd been chatty like James or overly flirtatious like Sirius you may not have survived this long on tour, but you have.  

Sirius' assistant Mabel had told you on your first day that Remus can be quite short with others. And over time you've found she's right. He doesn't say more than he needs to, he doesn't adopt any beguiling tones. Short, though, might be the wrong word for it. He's quiet. 

You try not to label him too harshly. After all, you barely talk. If people were calling you grumpy because of that alone you'd feel a great sense of injustice.

You wipe your damp cheeks. Maybe being called grumpy might be kinder. Grumpy you can own. Grumpy is something you can actively change. 

"Are you okay?" Remus asks, shocking you out of your thoughts. 

You sniff and stand as quickly as you can, stiff from sitting outside in the cold for so long. You don't look at him as you say, "I'm okay." 

"Are you sure?" 

You chance a glance at his face, unreadable as always. "Yeah." 

"What's upset you?" he asks seriously. 

The wind whips at your clothes and bites at your fingers. You tense them up into balls. With no jacket to hide them in they might as well be made of ice. 

Remus is similarly underdressed for the weather. Different cities, different climates. You miss the South American half of the tour dearly. 

"We should go inside," he says into the silence. 

You don't want to go in yet. "I'm gonna stay out here." 

"It's too cold." 

You nibble the inside of your bottom lip and try to fight another embarrassing wave of tears. "I don't want to go back to my bus, yet." 

He nods, eyes very obviously on the tear dribbling weakly down your cheek. "Okay. Okay, but we can't stay out here. Come on."

He nods his head towards the right where the band's bus, bigger and shinier than anyone else's, sits parked. You follow him up the steps and into the small front where there's a sort of L-shaped sofa around a square table covered in laptops and paper and drinks. You've been in here before, though usually there's another Marauder causing havoc. Remus opens his arm toward the table and you take it as a cue to sit as he disappears into the bedroom area down the way. He returns with a thin quilt and passes it over. Obviously his, it smells exactly like him, woodsmoke and sandalwood and that hint of fruity jasmine. 

You try not to breathe it in too deeply as you pull it over your lap, frigid hands hiding beneath it. "Thank you." 

"If somebody's done something to you, you can tell me." 

"Maybe I'm homesick," you try. 

"Are you homesick?" 

"...No." 

He sits beside you. Not close but closer than you thought he would've. If he wanted to, he could wrap his arm around your shoulder. 

"Are you feeling warmer?" he asks after a minute. 

"Yeah. Thank you. You didn't have to-" 

"Of course I did. You're my favourite assistant." 

You laugh, startled. "I bet you say that to all of your assistants." And he must have a few. You only handle his on tour expenses and comfort. He barely ever needs you.

"Only the very pretty ones." He tilts his head to the side. "Are you okay?" 

His caring tone is sobering. You nod slowly and then with more enthusiasm. "Yeah, I-" You shock yourself when you realise how much you want to just tell him what had happened, and when he smiles at you to keep going, you do. "One of the, uh, one of the tech guys. I got in the way and he- he asked me why I couldn't be more useful. 'N obviously uh, I'm your- I'm usually with you, and it looks… well, they think we're sleeping together. And one of the girls said I have plenty use." Your voice wobbles.

"One of the girls on your bus, you mean?" he asks gently. 

"Yeah. That's why I didn't want to go in." 

"You don't have to go in. I can't get them to put you on a different bus, if you like." 

You shake your head. It's a silly thing to be upset about. So what if everyone things you're having sex with a rockstar, right? And you don't really care about that. Sex is sex. But, the animosity that she'd said it with. 

"I guess- I mean, I thought she liked me," you say weakly. 

"More fool her if she doesn't. You're lovely." 

You laugh wetly. "What?" 

"I said you're lovely. You're sweet. You've never heard that?" he asks. 

You turn your face to him and smile shyly. "No, I've never heard that." 

He raises his eyebrows and rolls his eyes before huffing a breath out of the corner of his mouth. "Well, that's a crime." 

You don't know what to say. You think maybe he's knocked himself unsteady as well, because he reaches over your lap to grab a heavy looking laptop and pull it open in front of you. "I got that movie you like. The one about the aliens." 

"A Dark Line?" 

"Yeah." 

"I didn't know you liked-" 

"I don't. Or, I mean, I didn't. But you were so excited to see it when we were in Brazil, I thought it must be worth watching." 

The DVD he got is dubbed in Portuguese. You have to sit very close to read the subtitles, and his arm is a heat against yours. When he laughs you can feel it in your chest. 

You sneak a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His smile is the farthest thing from grumpy, at least in your opinion. 

[lupinsweater]

what abt rockstar remus and reader start chatting over the phone and he invites her to a party the band is having perhaps? sirius n james see them together n tease remus maybe (goodheartedly) smthn like that :] also i love ur writing i’ve been following for months now n i literally all of it is always so good never read anything i didn’t thoroughly enjoy from u

thank you so much you're LOVELY!! part two to this but you don't have to read it ♡ fem!reader | 1.3k words

When Remus had asked you over the phone if you wanted to go to a party, you'd said yes before really thinking it through. 

"Cool. I'll send someone." 

His nonchalance had further disturbed you. Talking to him over the phone is terrifying. He's a hard guy to read when he's sitting right across from you – over the phone feels like slow torture. You'll say something and the line will go totally dead and you'll pull back the phone to check he's still there and catch the end of a laugh. Then he says something stupidly nice, like, Fuck, you're funny, and you have to stop from throwing your phone across the room. 

The driver Remus had sent for you has to give your name at the front gate, which is ridiculous. Then he pulls into a driveway big enough for thirty cars, which is more ridiculous, and it's over capacity by double that, all sports cars' worth more money than you'll likely ever see in your entire life. Famous people's parties are insane, to put it lightly.

You linger in the back seat, wondering if you're going to throw up. 

"Is everything okay?" The driver asks. 

"Do you… You don't know whose house this is, do you?" 

"Mary McDonald's," he says knowledgeably. "Mr. Lupin is waiting for you inside." 

You take it for what it is, a dismissal. "Right. Sorry. Thank you," you tell him as you climb out. 

He has the kindness to roll down a window. "You'd do well to be careful. Celebrities are… a different breed to us," he says cryptically. 

You watch him pull away in horror. 

This is where it would be great to call Remus, only your phone had died in the car and everything is starting to feel like a total disaster. Through the open door you can see that the house is teeming with people and movement and sound, lights and drinks.

There's two huge bouncers manning the door. You approach the one with the clipboard though you're seriously considering turning around and walking home. 

You give him your name and he stares. "With Remus Lupin." 

He looks skeptically to your side. 

"I think he's inside," you squeak. 

The guy checks his list and evidently finds you because you get nodded in. 

It's worse once you're actually past the threshold. You've never seen so many people, so many people with so much money. It's clear in everything about them. Designer clothes and perfect hair and better bodies. You feel a little sharp pain of nerves every time you remember whose house this is. 

You see a flash of familiar hair and decide to start there. Through a moving crowd of people and shoes that crush your toes to the living room, where Sirius Black stands to the side with an actor you're intimidated by and said actor's model girlfriend.  Your two seconds from spinning on your heel when he locks eyes with you and grins. Really grins. 

"Hey! Sweet thing!" You freeze. He gestures with his hand. The way he does it, like he's entirely unused to gesturing his hand and not having the person cede his command, is both hot and infuriating. Rockstars, you think wryly. 

"Hey," you say, not loud enough. He gets it anyway. 

"Now how are you here? We have met before, right?" 

"Right. At Devys Centre." 

"Right…" He squints and points his glass toward you, his drink sloshing over the edge. "Not stalking me, are you?" 

You're suddenly so grateful to him you can't speak. His arrogance, while charming on him, is huge, and it makes you laugh. Your shoulders relax, your jaw softens, the stress of being here and not knowing anybody fading just slightly. 

"No, I'm not stalking you." 

He steps closer and he smells like expensive cologne, like fake leather worth enough money to look real, like cognac worth a thousand a bottle. 

"Then why are you here?" 

"She's here as my date," Remus says from behind you. 

Which is not what he said on the phone. The word date was never mentioned. Its clarification emboldens you, has you beaming as you turn your head to see him. You've talked over the phone, sure, but that's only been a couple times a week for two weeks, and you only ever met him one time. There's no guarantee that this is going to work. That he even wants you. 

"Hey," he says, as if he's said it a hundred times before, as if you're familiar. 

You really want this to work. 

"Hi," you say, smiling softly. 

He dots a friendly kiss over the apple of your cheek and his hand grasps your shoulder lightly as he turns his gaze to his bandmate. His fingers are long. The press into your skin and the pressure is awfully nice. "Where's James?" Remus asks.

"That's what I'd love to know," Sirius says, smooth. He suppresses a smile badly. "I didn't realise we'd be seeing you again," he says to you. 

"Go bother somebody else," Remus says. He talks with a casual boredom that Sirius is obviously used to. 

"I'm gonna go find Jamie," he says. It's a promise of something but you don't know what. 

As soon as he moves Remus is taking his hand from your shoulder. You spin in place to face him and find yourselves very close, his dark brown eyes trained on you, moving a little less than amicably over your figure. 

"You look amazing," he says. 

You should say the same. You'd managed to forget how good looking he is. You are sorely reminded. 

"You too," you say pathetically.

"I tried to call you half an hour ago." 

"Sorry, my phone died." 

"No, don't be. I was worried maybe this wasn't the best place for a first date. I'm not trying to scare you off so quickly." 

You smile and rub your lips together, gloss sticky as you say, "I didn't know this was a date." 

"Is that okay with you?" he asks. 

His voice enamours you; the lilting cadence of his concern and the genuineness of his question is endearing beyond words. 

"Yeah, it's okay." 

He smiles and brings a hand to your face, stroking your cheek with the broad of his thumb just once before you're interrupted. 

"What's he look so chuffed about?" a loud voice asks. 

"Baby's first groupie," Sirius says. 

"Don't be fucking disgusting," Remus says. There's a quiet heat there that twists your chest. 

"Groupie as in enthusiastic," Sirius corrects himself, winking at you as he appears at one shoulder. 

A second presence at the other. "Hi, shortcake. What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" James Potter asks jokingly. He inclines his head at Remus, who, to your astonishment, seems to be blushing. "With this vagabond?" 

"A girl like me?" you ask. 

"Jesus christ," Remus mutters. 

You catch his eyes and smile at him until he smiles back, hoping to reassure him though you're not sure what for. His expression softens. 

"That's bad. That's really bad," Sirius says to James like you're not there, endlessly amused. "S'like I'm watching you and Lilykins."

"Like looking in a mirror," James sing-songs.

"I'd assume there was much less contempt on our front," Remus says. 

James protests loudly and enraged whilst you repeat the word 'our' to yourself, grinning. Our, as in us, as in there's an us, no matter how small it might be.

"Do you want a drink?" Remus asks you over the low din of his friends.

"Sure." 

Remus holds his hand out and you take it. He has big hands. His fingers fit through yours like they were made to. You let him drag you to a kitchen full of too many celebrities to count. He only looks at you. 

[lupinsweater]

PLS PLS PLS IM ON MY KNEES what about Remus with a sunshine reader? Like she comes around and is just so chatty and energetic and a much needed change of pace for our brooding quiet boy

Remus takes his earphones out the moment he sees you, but that's his secret alone. You barrel through the atrium to drape yourself over Sirius’ shoulder, meeting his smirk with a genuinely ecstatic smile before looking up at the others. “Hello, my favourite boys. Did you get dinner yet?” 

“No, babe, we were waiting for you. Sit down,” Sirius says. 

You beam and make directly for the chair next to Remus, though you could've sat with Sirius, or a little ways across next to the girls. “Hey,” you say, like he's the only boy you've ever wanted to speak with. James makes a knowing face behind your back. “What are you having?” 

“Remus doesn't believe in canteen food,” James says.  

“No kidding,” you say, still smiling, not even slightly put off by this nor Remus’ passive expression. It's not that he doesn't like you, the opposite, he just has a headache and he hates uni. You make it easier, a light in the dark. “What's not to like? Three quid for a slice of burnt pizza or five for a bowl of metallicy pasta. You couldn't get it any better.” 

“We'll go up to town,” Sirius suggests with a chuckle.  

“Let's order a pizza or something, they'll deliver in here, won't they?” James asks. 

You focus on Remus. “You don't like anything at all? The curry and chips is nice enough.” 

“It's not for me.” 

You nod appreciatively and let your tote bag fall from your shoulder into the crook of your arm. You rifle around and pull out a tupperware full of cut fruit, slices of banana, strawberries, blueberries, what looks like circles of pear. “We can eat this.” 

Remus could say no. He can't decide what's worse, saying yes or no, that is until you open the lid and put it between you both, offering to Sirius and James as well, and suddenly it isn't awkward at all, just something you've done. The pads of your fingers turn pink with strawberry juice as you tell him, “I was gonna put some tangerine in here but I keep getting super sour ones.” 

“They're out of season,” he says, fingers brushing yours as he takes a slice of banana. He swears, it zings. 

“I should know that. You know everything.” You leave a little strawberry print on the back of his hand, unnoticed, and he knows he's fucked when he lets it dry there in the shape of your finger. 

Somewhere between fruit slices and your chatter your chair grows closer to his, your knee pressed to knee without remorse, your elbow a whisper from his as you lean back in your chair. “So, bad day?” you ask. 

“What makes you think that?” 

You tap the space between your brows. He registers the gesture, nearly misunderstands, but eventually he relaxes the set of his brow and his tensed jaw. It's actually a relief. He hadn't realised he was doing it. 

“There,” you say, still smiling softly. “That's better. You'll get a headache, you know?” You sound genuinely worried. “It's not good to be so tense.” 

“Thank you,” he says. James and Sirius order a pizza on speaker across from you both, and, for fear you've missed it, he adds, “Thanks.” 

You needle into him with your elbow gently. “You're welcome. You're handsome when you smile.” 

“Not like you,” he says, “you're brilliant.” 

Your teeth peek out. His chest lifts, you look that happy, and when he smiles back it doesn't feel nearly as taxing as it usually does. 

[lupinsweater]

Hello lovely Jade! Can we please get something where reader is watching a horror movie with best friend!Remus (that’s she’s head over heels for) and is so scared she ends up on his lap? Love you!

love you :D♡♡ fem, modern au

"I really don't like this." 

Remus laughs under his breath. "Don't be a scaredy cat," he whispers. 

You take the pillow from his lap without asking and hold it in front of your face, peering over the top as the TV turns quiet. Quiet means suspense, and suspense leads to jumpscares. 

"I always am," you whisper back, stretching back in your seat. 

The settee is old and dipped in the centre, leaving you and Remus thigh to thigh, as close as you can be to one another without having your legs tangled. "It's not that bad," Remus says, putting an arm behind you in a show of support. "It's hiding in the kitchen cupboard, watch." 

His warning doesn't stop the flinch of the demon's appearance nor the way you jump back, almost dropping your head into him. "Sorry," you say. 

"Don't apologise," he says, but it's lost as the horror keeps on coming— the demon possesses the daughter, the daughter splits her head open on a wall. Something sharp splinters from her face and it's disgusting, it's too much, you whine something silly and push the pillow over your eyes. "Dove, don't suffocate. Look, I think it's done now," he says.

You look as he tells you to, trusting of your oldest, bestest friend, and your loyalty is rewarded with another scare that catches you off guard completely, a fleshy face of black gore so close to the camera that it feels like it's in the room. You scramble away from the screen and into Remus' arms forcefully, turning away from the screen and into his embrace. "What the fuck," you gasp. 

Difficult to explain why you're genuinely frightened but not the immediate safety of Remus' arm behind you, the tight hold of it, the ridge of a bicep pressed hard to your shoulders. "I'll turn it off," he says quickly, though his hands stay right where they are on your jumper. 

He smells like sandalwood and autumn rain, that earthy smell of rain and crushed leaves, like a walk in the woods. You start to laugh as you breathe him in, aware of the terrible fool you've made of yourself and the humour in the situation, at least. 

"I'm so sorry," you laugh, moving back, careful not to knee him somewhere delicate. 

His face comes into view, not half as annoyed as you worried it would be, brown eyes sugary sweet with soft lashes to match, his hands falling to your elbows. "Let me pause it." He keeps a hand on the middle of your back, fingers spread, encapsulating. It says I'm here without asking for anything in return. "Fucking hell, dove, I know you have bad nerves, but I've never seen one get you like that." 

You should put some amicable space between you. Remus should drop his hand. Instead, you put your hand on his collarbone and catch your breath, the excitement an instant headache waiting to bloom behind your eyes. 

"There," he says, his gaze back on you. "That'll help." 

You glance over your shoulder. Remus has changed the channel to World of Zoo, where a baby panda tries to stand while holding its own foot. "Nice," you say, smiling sheepishly to yourself. Nice. You loser. 

You turn back suddenly when his hand strokes your cheek. Two fingers, the backs of his marriage and pinky, tracing a short line down your still trembling cheek. "Seriously, dove, calm down. You think I'd let something hurt you?" he asks softly.

"No, I–" Can he stop you from swallowing your own tongue. "Of course not." 

"I can't believe it," he says, dropping his hand. "Never seen you like that, what happened?" He rubs your back roughly like he's trying to warm you up. "Let me make you a cup of tea, lovely." 

He says this, and yet he makes no move to leave your side. His behaviour is almost as odd as the way you respond, sinking into his touch. 

[lupinsweater]

hi lovely! can i request trying to pick a horror movie to watch with remus or steve but they keep getting distracted by r? or they keep kissing her so she gets distracted? thank u <33

thank you love ♡ modern au

"You don't like gore, so no Saw." You rub your hand down the length of your legs, warming yourself in the autumn chill. "And I don't like new slashers, so we can forget Totally Killer." 

"You're missing out, if James is to be believed," Remus says from just behind you. He must lean down, his voice closer and warmer by your ear when he adds, "but he doesn't have the best taste, bless. You want socks?" 

"Come and sit down," you beg. 

Remus is one of those guys where you're always pleading with him to slow down. When he gets started, he can't stop. Ever since he caught wind of you being cold he's been closing the windows tight, fiddling with the boiler, and now throwing a blanket over your legs. You pull on his arm until he deigns to sit next to you, immediately pushing your face into his neck. His hair tickles your face, soft brown waves that smell like macadamia oil. His cheek chubs with a smile as he turns in on you. 

"What other options are there?" 

"The new Pet Sematry," you say into his neck, rubbing your nose on him indulgently. "Uhm… ton of Blumhouse panky." 

"Don't be a snob." 

"M'not. S'just all a bunch of rubbish." You drag yourself away from him and turn your attention back to the TV, flicking through rows of new autumn movies to the 'Spooky Collection'. "Hocus Pocus 2?" 

"No, thanks." Remus ignores what you're up to, bringing a hand to your face to guide your lips to his. You're not expecting it but you give him a little kiss, always happy for one if it's from him. 

You're distracted by different possibilities on screen, pausing your half hearted kiss to ask, "What about a horror TV series?" 

Remus kisses your cheek while you're busy. His hand skirts down your neck, laying it loving but still on the flat of your chest. "What about whatever you want?" he asks, the cartilage of his nose bending as he kisses, and kisses, hot flashes of affection that work their way to your jaw. 

"I don't know what I want, that's the point." You laugh as he kisses under your jaw, a sweet spot he knows to leave well enough alone when you're not already at his mercy. It's too much. "Stop," you chasten. 

Remus leans into the sofa, rubbing your kissed skin with the back of his hand. "Yeah, alright. Show me the TV programmes." 

The hint of his Welsh accent lays heavy on 'programmes'. You resist the urge to repeat it and scroll down to the shows, all new and unexciting. "We'll have to watch Criminal Minds." 

"That's not in the spirit of Halloween." 

Remus is looking at you hard. You can feel his gaze on your cheek, and you know he's waiting for permission, or at the very least, wanting to ask for it. 

You side eye him. "What's more scary than a serial killer?" you ask. Then, quickly, "Please kiss me again." 

"You don't even want me to kiss you," he says. 

"I always want you to kiss me–" You squeal as he descends on you, pushing you rough into the cushions. "But you have to pick what we're watching! Okay? I'm sick of always choosing." 

"No problem," he says, kissing you smack dab on the lips. "In a minute." His smile begins to take form against yours, kissing and smiling and kissing some more, the colour of his laugh in the exhales of his breath. 

"What about… uh…" You shudder as his lips part atop yours and encourage you to part your own, promptly forgetting what you'd been about to suggest as he pushes the taste of a cherry soother into your tongue. His arm wraps around the back of your head with a put upon aggression, hooking you in as he kisses you silly. 

You laugh too hard to keep going and pull away, flustered, hands on his pinking cheeks. "Woah, Lupin, I know it's halloween, but if you wouldn't mind holding back your Hannibal-esque urges–" 

Remus' turn to laugh, loud and brash as he squeezes another swift kiss to your cheek. He's still laughing as he stands, practically jogging down the hall and into the kitchen, away from his responsibility.

"Where are you going? You haven't picked a film!" 

The fridge opens, bottles clinking in the door shelf. "I have to take the fruit strudel out, dove! You pick while I find the cream." 

"Cheater," you mutter, fishing for the remote where it's escaped into the crack of the sofa cushions. 

[lupinsweater]

“You duck your head, playing with your sleeves, and Remus, the bastard, ducks his head to follow your gaze, smiling at you all the while.”

brb giggling and kicking my feet

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 —send me a shy!reader request for any character (with a plot) and I'll write a >1k drabble

sirius/james introducing shy!reader to remus. and shes just like quiet and in awe, but remus loves it.

luveline's 40k party ☆ tysm for requesting! remus x shy fem!reader

James is used to your personality after months of being your lecture neighbour, unperturbed by your quiet. "It's going to be fun," he promises, handing you a cold glass of cranberry vodka. "They're nice, okay? I won't let anyone irritate you." 

He's hosting a party and had the generosity to invite you round early. He's easing you in, so to speak. It took him two weeks of steady Hellos for you to work up the courage to say Hi back, another two weeks for small talk, a month before you felt comfortable speaking to him first. If you're that shy, a party is basically torture.

"It's not about irritating me," you say. 

"I know, I'm messing." James lists his head to the left. A second later, there's a knock at the door. "Aha. Wait here, shortcake, there's someone I want you to meet." 

"James," you say after him, wet from your glass leaking down to your sleeve, "what?" 

"I asked him to come early and say hello! He's quiet and handsome and you'll love him, just don't stare at his nose." 

What's wrong with his nose? you think, alarmed. 

James opens the door. Two new voices emerge, one scratchy and a little high, the other smoother. "I need to pee so bad," the scratchy one declares, followed by bounding footsteps up the stairs. 

"You alright?" the smoother asks.

You think there's patting, a hug, "I'm brilliant! You smell really nice, Remus, like a garden." 

"Lovely."

"In a good way! Come and meet my Y/N, you remember I told you about her nice gel pens?" 

James leads the smooth-voiced Remus into the living room. You hurriedly put down your drink and stand, wiping your wet hands in your shirt. You cringe at the darkening fabric but hide your grimace as they stop in front of you. 

"Remus, Y/N. Y/N, Remus," James introduces you both. 

Remus has a scar across his nose that seems cruelly cut. There's another beside it that starts in his upper lip, both of which end in his eyebrow. You know how self-conscious it feels to be looked at, so you manage to smile and offer your hand without too much of it. He's handsome with his scars, a nice nose with a ridge and brown eyes the colour of caramelised sugar.

"Hello," Remus says, shaking your hand. His is big enough to make yours feel small. 

"I invited her early because she's more fun than the rest of our lot," James says, throwing himself down on the sofa and kicking his legs out on the coffee table. 

Remus taps your elbow very gently as if to usher you to sit and sits down beside you, enough space to be casual but too little to stop the rampant nerves that blossom in your stomach. 

Remus asks about your life. What you're studying, where you're from, if James is being nice to you. While James is touchy in the rough older brother way, scrunching your shoulder and shaking you when you're not expecting it. Remus is touchy in a different way, you find, almost as if he doesn't know he's doing it. His shoe bumps your shoe, his hand falls down between his outer thigh and your own, his knuckles touching your jeans very lightly. He spins in his seat to talk to you. 

You don't notice other people arriving, nor the scratchy-voiced friends return. All you can do is look up at Remus with wide eyes. Your nerves meld to something warmer. 

"And what do you do?" you ask him. 

He smiles like you've wandered into a secret. "I'm trying to write a book." 

"He's being a bit much," Sirius says to James, the two now loitering in the doorway with matching beers. You and Remus chatter on, unaware of their running commentary.

"It's a very strong reaction. I knew she'd like him, but I didn't think she'd like him like that." James takes a sip of his drink. Remus asks you a quiet question. You duck your head, playing with your sleeves, and Remus, the bastard, ducks his head to follow your gaze, smiling at you all the while. 

James almost chokes, pointing his bottle toward you both as though Sirius isn't already looking. "He's eating it up. I forgot how flirty he is."

"She'll be nice to him, won't she?" Sirius asks, like it's a done deal. To be fair, Remus seems enthralled with you. 

"Definitely. She's very nice. Oh, look, that's sick, she's gonna pass out." James winces as Remus takes your arm into his hand. 

Remus wouldn't do anything cruel, but James wasn't joking when he told Remus that you were exceedingly, achingly shy. He's about to step in and rescue you, but you turn into Remus' touch and pull your leg up on the sofa to make yourself comfortable. Your voice is animated, if quieter than the average person's.

"Woah," James says, beaming.  

Remus flirts almost as a defence, like he wants to get the rejection over and done with so he can move on. You've yet to reject; you're looking up at him in moderate awe, your lips quirked into an easy smile. 

"Boo!" James calls, flicking his bottle cap at Remus, who brushes it away. "Took me three weeks to get a smile out of her," he mutters. "What a dick." 

[lupinsweater]

this is so sweet it gave me a cavity😭

can we get shy! reader x remus where they’re just in their own little bubble and the other marauders and lily and the girls think it’s the cutest thing ever?

i love you and your writing!! <33

thank you!! ♡ shy!fem!reader | 0.6k words

Remus has always been steady. His voice is warm and measured, his every movement thought through. 

You'd love to be that way. You're not and you never have been but sometimes, with Remus, you get close. He's pulled your thighs over his lap and you've forgotten to feel bashful about it, though there's a heat from being so close to him spreading over your entire body. 

You're smiling. Really smiling. 

"It's disgusting," Sirius says where he sits a little ways away with the rest of your friends. 

"I think it's nice," James says. "She never smiles like that." 

"She smiles like that all the time," Lily argues 

"Only with Remus. When they get like that," Sirius says, pretending to gag. 

Remus has inclined his head to yours, his hand clasped lightly around your forearm for no reason at all. He's just said something to make you laugh, a peel of giggles foreign to the group despite having known you for years. You sound pleased though shy. It's obvious what he's saying, his lips curled up, sweet nothings that have you closing your eyes and dropping your head into his shoulder.

Remus raises a big hand to your back and claps it gently.  

"That's, like, illegal right?" Sirius asks.

"It's a bit much, Pads, but I don't think it's prosecutable." James says, wrinkling his nose as Remus ducks down to whisper something in your ear. "Might be soon, though."

"Keep your hands to yourself, Moony!" Sirius shouts. 

Remus pulls his hand from where it had been perfectly chaste on your thigh and throws the bird in the general direction of your friends. 

"It's PDA to the extreme." 

"Technically, it's not public," Lily says. 

"Might as well be. It's my house," James grumbles. "Why are they always gross in my house?"

"Do you think they know we can hear them?" Remus whispers to you.

You pull your head off of his shoulder. You're embarrassed about being so lovey-dovey in the middle of a party, really, it's not like you, but Remus has this way about him that you're hopeless for. He's a warm flame. You melt anytime he gets close enough, and right now you're more than close. 

Worse than his proximity is the clear, undeniable affection and esteem that he holds you in. He's adoring in more than touch. The way he talks to you, as if every word is something to be treasured - ugh. You feel sick with it. 

"I think it's fucking adorable," Mary chimes in. 

Sirius scowls at her. "You think everything's adorable." 

"It's cute," Marlene agrees reluctantly. 

"McKinnon!" 

"What? Look at them! And Lily's right, when do you get to see Y/N smiling like that? Only when they're together being gross. I say leave them to it." 

"It's nice," Emmmaline says. 

You tilt your head back and whisper something to Remus, looking unsure of yourself. 

He bursts into laughter, loud and urgent, his hand gripping your thigh in a tight grip. "Dove," he says, almost chiding. 

"What?" you ask, though his laughter has swiftly infected you and left you breathless, gasping for air through thick rounds of giggling. 

"Ugh," Sirius says, looking over his shoulder at your laughing with a scowl. When he turns back, everybody is smiling. "Oh, get a hold of yourselves, I beg." 

[lupinsweater]

me reading this

“You look better in my clothes than I do.” with remus 👀

this might be a bit of a twist on what you meant I’m sorry <3 ty for ur request <33

Your door slams shut just milliseconds after you remember you’re naked. Well, mostly naked. You’re wearing the world's smallest vest - lacy, pink, so short it hides absolutely nothing - a small pair of black knickers and dirty white ankle socks. Not an inch of your leg is covered, nor your midriff. 

You try the handle and find your front door has already latched. You reach into a pocket that doesn’t exist for your keys before pressing your face into the chipping paint of your front door and letting out a tortured, pathetic whine.

The building’s fire alarm roars, its vibrations climbing up your naked legs. Maybe dying in a fiery blaze won’t be so bad, you muse, startled into clarity. When you woke, sweaty on the hottest day of summer, disorientated by the screaming chirp of the fire alarm, you hadn’t thought very hard about tumbling out of bed and stumbling down the snug hallway to your front door. Now, on the other side of it, you want to wring your own neck. 

You whirl at the sound of a door opening. Remus, your neighbour of a few months, staggers out of the flat opposite yours. He’s in a sensible but tattered outfit: a washed out t-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms with a bleach stain on the hip. Still, he’s dressed. The red light of the fire alarm splashes over him in waves. 

He’s rushing. He looks up and spots you across the banister, pausing in his hurried pocket shove. You cross your hands across your chest like that will help and give him your most neighbourly smile. “Hi,” you say shyly.

Before you can explain he turns from you and walks back into his flat. It’s absurd. You have twenty seconds to feel the most insecure you’ve ever felt in your life when he opems the door and strides out. He beckons for you to walk towards him and you do unthinkingly, seduced by the soft bundle in his arms. Remus passes the shirt to you wordlessly and you pull it on, following him down the five flights of carpeted stairs to the ground floor. 

You’re not sure what time it is, late enough that the summer sun has fled the sky and left behind it’s humidity. The night is clammy but blissfully dark, you find, muttering a “Thanks,” to Remus when he holds open the big metal front door. 

“I got locked out,” you say, unprompted. Remus is a nice guy and you've had a few funny, slightly flirty conversations with him beforehand. He’s easy to talk to.

“I gathered,” he says, humour colouring his words. 

“The uh, the alarm surprised me.”

“Me too. Though not to the same extent," he says smugly. 

He groans, stretching, his arm moving behind his neck. The answering heat in your chest could be because he’s ridiculously pretty, or because you’re in his wrinkled Rolling Stones shirt that smells undeniably of cologne, or because of the lingering sweaty warmth of the day. You’re not sure which, but you plead the latter. 

His shirt covers your underwear just about. You hope you won’t have to bend over at any point during the drill, lest you flash the small gathering of neighbours collected on the pavement an eyeful of your arse. Or worse. 

Remus displays a gentlemanly nonchalance. You’re drawn to his side, perhaps by an overwhelming gratefulness, and he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Do you think it’s a real fire?” he asks you quietly. 

“I mean, I think so? I don’t know. This seems super late to have a drill, but that might be why?”

“Or the building manager is a pervert.”

You don’t expect it of him; you burst into laughter, throwing your hand over your mouth. It does nothing to quieten your breathless giggles. 

“How’d you figure?” you ask, elated. 

He steps closer to you, the street lamp bright enough to showcase the light brown of his eyes as he nods towards a girl you think lives on the floor below. She, though wearing bottoms, is topless besides a sports bra. At her side, a man you see every now and then in the lift is in a dressing gown, clearly shirtless underneath. 

“You’re not the only scantily clad one here.”

“Scantily clad!” you echo. “I’m covered, aren't I?”

“Mostly.” You detect a hint of smugness that you take gladly as flirtatious.

“I don’t usually sleep like that, I swear. It’s just really, really hot, and-“

“Hey, sleep how you want, it’s no skin off my nose. You look better in my clothes than I do.” 

There's no mistaking his meaning. You warm all over. 

"I don't know," you say back, voice calm and completely unlike the terrible excitement growing in your chest. "I think you look pretty good." You smile, hopeful and earnest. 

He looks at you and tilts his head to the side. 

The blaring siren stops abruptly and the building manager shouts to let everyone know it's a false alarm. You linger on the pavement as the rest of your neighbours file inside, until Remus opens the door for you. You pause before you pass, close enough to see the white scar branching over his nose, its twin perpendicular over his cheek. 

"I'm still locked out," you say, shifting off of one foot and onto the other. 

"You could catch the BM," Remus suggests, sounding like he already knows you won't. "Or you're welcome to stay the night." 

"If you don't mind?" 

"I don't mind," he says steadily. 

"It's still too warm," you say, pushing past him gently to start up the stairs first, knowing exactly how much of you is covered up. "You might have to help me out of your shirt before bed."

You hear Remus' footsteps after you. You're unsurprised to feel his hand brush the back of your thigh as he overtakes you, or when he catches your eye, his own full of heat, and grabs your wrist, strides quick as he leads you up the stairs. You laugh breathlessly and follow. 

[lupinsweater]

Ooh for your celebration remmy with a cranky reader whose periods are kicking her ass?

tada! hope u like it thanks for requesting <333333

"Please don't touch me," you moan, feeling a little crazy as Remus grasps your hip, meaning to knead the flesh there comfortingly. He puts his hands up and mocks a surrender, moving away from you. "I'm sorry," you say then, feeling terrible.

"That's alright, doll. You want a bath?"

You shake your head. You want to say, why in god's name would I want a bath? I can barely move.

He looks like he can read minds as his mouth comes up in a smug smile. "I'll carry you," he offers.

"I don't want a bath," you say. You know you're being more flippant than he deserves. You can't help it. The pain is constant, an unrelenting cramp that makes your legs ache. Your whole body is tense and clammy and you look awful for it.

"A sponge bath?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

You bury your head in your pillow and sigh. You know he's only trying to cheer you up. Any other day you'd be so grateful for his compassion you'd be crying and fawning over how lucky you were to have him, but the pain made everything else unmanageable.

Remus knew this and didn't take any of it personally.

"If you need anything I'll be just down the hall," he says. You feel the mattress shift as he stands and a shoot of panic hits you in the chest.

"No," you protest into your pillow.

"What did you say?" he asks.

You lift your head and look at him through squinting eyes, feeling mildly pathetic as you ask him, "Will you stay? Please?"

He smiles big. "I'll do whatever you want me to."

He settles back down on his side of the bed and you put your head back down. He doesn't touch you and you don't want him to, though you turn in your screwed up position to be facing him. He reads his latest novel he kept on the bedside table in an amicable silence, only sneaking a hand into your hair when the cramps have you whimpering in agony. You don't mind them so much then, his touch a tether.

"I told you not to touch me," you say bitterly when the pain abates enough to talk.

"Sorry, baby," he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. His book falls into his lap as he smooths the edge of your hairline, the lines in your forehead. It feels nice. You frown, hating yourself and hating your period and wanting to hate Remus, but finding yourself unable.

"Sorry for being cranky," you murmur unhappily.

"I don't care," he says without pause. "Be as cranky as you like. I know it's awful," he says.

"You don't know," you say, words a snap if you'd had the energy.

"You're right," he says in amusement at your behaviour.

You move your head away from his grip and grumble. "Idiot," you say.

He huffs a laugh through his nose that infuriates you. You cover your head with your sweaty pillow pressed tightly over your face and sleep on and off, waking up only when he swaps your now cold hot-water bottle for a fresh one wrapped in two tea towels. He tries to get you to take more painkillers and you glare at him.

You convince him to cuddle you when you're feeling alright and then squirm out of his arms angrily half an hour later when your skin feels like it's burning.

You apologise when the cramps fizzle into a more manageable pain the next day and he won't hear it.

"I don't expect you to be all sunshine and daisies when you're in pain. Do you care when I'm mean, before…?" the full moon, he doesn’t say.

On the contrary, you kind of like when he's mean. You tell him so.

"I guess we have that in common," he says, smiling good-naturedly. Idiot.

[lupinsweater]

For le celebration what about une petite drabble about moving in with remus and it’s all fluffy and lovey dovey and sweet and maybe a lil spicy👀

So proud of you my love🥰🥰🥰

hi i hope this is okay! tytyty im so lucky to have you around <333

"Can you please stop trying to carry every box by yourself?" Remus asked you, face flushed. He was leaning next to the sink with a glass of water in his hand.

"Not likely," you said, arms burning as you lifted a box full of cookware onto the countertop.

"You'll hurt yourself," he chastised.

“How egregious that would be.”

He pinched your hips and laughed when you flinched away before forcing his glass into your hands. "Please, would you just… do me a favour and just stand there, alright? For five minutes."

"Two."

"Three."

You conceded by taking a sip of water. He nodded gratefully, kissed your forehead and disappeared out into the front garden to bring in another box. After your ordained break you were straight back to bringing in boxes. Remus groaned at your tenacity and cited only a deep-rooted tenderness for his overprotectiveness.

“Finally get you to move in with me and you’re gonna do your back in and be confined to your bed for the rest of our lives.”

“And you’d love me anyhow.”

“I’d love you anyhow,” he said, without a hint of bitterness.

You were tired by the time you’d finished, sun slipping down the horizon. Remus was exhausted and mumbling about aching knees. You set down a last box full of his novels in the living room, small but undeniably yours, and let out a suffering moan as you stretched up onto your tiptoes and rolled your shoulders. Remus had already collapsed on the gray loveseat. It was good as new despite years of owning it, never having someone to spend time with on it before. Now you did, and he was splayed sideways over the length of it.

“Selfish boy,” you chided.

He held out his arms without opening his eyes. You kneeled at his side, throwing your leg over his body as he tucked his arms around your back and pulled you down into his chest.

You settled your ear over his heart and squirmed your hands under his back.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he murmured back, hand in your hair. You looked up into his face, lines of tiredness seeping away as he rested his eyes. “As if you could, darling girl.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” you grumbled into his chest, listening to his breathing, feeling his lungs work underneath your touch.

You tried to match yours to his as he chuckled, hiking his leg up to rest his knee on your hip. You drifted a little to the side and he held you in place.

“Means,” he began, opening his eyes just enough to weigh your expression as he spoke, “you couldn’t hurt me if you tried. It was supposed to be romantic," he emphasised as you opened your mouth, intending on saying something scathing.

“Oh,” you mumbled, promptly shutting your mouth. He laughed.

“Yeah, oh.” He tightened his hands and pulled you up enough to tuck your head into the crook of his neck.

You traced a silver scar over the bottom of his throat lightly. His fingers inched under the back of your shirt and stayed pressed to your skin, massaging with little urgency.

"Remus?" you whispered after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"I'm so happy."

He wrapped his arm around your head and kissed the top of it. "Me too. You've no idea."

"I think I've got a little of an idea," you said happily  fixing him with your best doe eyes. "A smidge of one. An inkling."

"And why wouldn't you? My smart girl knows everything," he said, sounding saccharine fond despite his tiredness. His voice was hoarse with fatigue, words rumbling deep in his chest. They made your chest hum in turn.

You spread your fingers over his heart.

"Can you feel it?" he asked you.

You felt for a while and nodded. "Yeah," you whispered.

"How's it feel?"

"Fast," you said, a little confused. "Are you alright?"

"Always feels like that when you're around."

You rolled your eyes at his antics and shifted, thigh rubbing against his thigh and something else, smiling smugly into his neck when he hissed.

"And what about that?" you asked into his skin, trailing your hand by the fingertips down to where his t-shirt had ridden up

He sucked in a breath and clutched your waist in eager resignation, the sleep draining from his voice. "Same concept."

"And what concept is that?"

"Wicked thing," he said with no real heat.

"No comeback for that? But Remus, you're usually so quick-witted!" you said sarcastically, hand moving down further.

He grabbed your offending digits and pulled them to his mouth, dotting kisses over each, breath warm against them as he spoke.

"The concept is your depravity," he said, and when you gasped, startled and delighted by his insult, "and your tits."

This made you laugh more.

"Charming," you said, beaming, sure your eyes were shaped like hearts as he tilted your head back to kiss you. He was more tender than you'd expected, reluctant to let up until you were pulling away, gasping. "I was thinking the sofa looked much too new to belong to us," you said through inhales.

"You think so?" he asked teasingly. "I know a few ways to break her in."

You weren't sure if he was talking about the loveseat or you, and found you didn't mind either way.