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The apartment is dim, quiet in that tense, almost sacred way that happens after sundown in cities like this. Somewhere below, a dog barks. A tram rolls past on old tracks. But up here, on the third floor of this forgotten building with its peeling paint and water-damaged ceiling, everything holds still.
The only light comes from a crooked streetlamp outside, the glow seeping in through slits in the curtains. It cuts the room into slices — strips of gold across the floorboards, across the coffee table, across the heavy hunch of Bucky’s shoulders where he sits on the sagging couch like he’s holding the world in his back.
He’s quiet.
He’s always quiet. But tonight, he looks like a man moments away from folding in on himself. Like gravity's working harder on him than it does on anyone else.
You step barefoot across the cold floor, slow, deliberate — not out of fear, but care. His eyes lift before you speak. They find you in the dark like they always do.
Blue. Haunted. Braced for impact.
“Hey,” you whisper.
“Hey,” he murmurs back, voice gravel-low. “I’m not…good company right now. You don’t have to sit with me.”
You ignore him. Because yes, you don't have to. But you want to.
You climb into his lap — slow, gentle, no sudden movements — and he freezes.
You can feel the way every muscle locks up beneath you. The thick weight of his thighs between your knees, the corded tension of his stomach when you settle against his hips. Sweatpants soft beneath you, but the body beneath them is carved of stone.
He inhales sharply. Like you’ve hurt him. Like your touch shocks him into remembering he has a body at all.
“Easy,” you murmur, fingers brushing his jaw, thumb stroking the stubble there. “It’s just me.”
He nods, barely. His throat bobs.
His hands hover at your hips — shaking faintly, ghosting there like he’s not sure he deserves to make contact, but he wants to. Needs to.
You reach for them. Wrap them in yours. Guide them to your waist. Settle them there like anchors.
“There,” you say softly. “That’s better.”
He exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night.
And you feel it — the slow shift, the melt beneath the steel — as he lets himself touch you. You press closer. Straddle him fully, chest brushing his, breath warming his cheek. His hands don’t tighten, they cling.
You bury your fingers in his hair — that dark, shoulder-length mess he never has the energy to cut, still damp from his earlier shower, curling slightly at the ends — and stroke gently. Over and over. Each pass pulling him deeper into stillness. Into you.
“Bucky…” you whisper.
His eyes flutter shut. Just his name — from your lips — is enough to make his jaw tremble.
You cradle his face in your hands like he’s something precious. Your thumbs trace the curve of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw.
“You’ve been so good today.”
His breath stutters.
“What…?” he rasps, blinking up at you, pupils swallowing blue.
“You heard me.” You brush your fingers back into his hair, slow and tender. “You’re good. You’re trying. You’re taking care of yourself. I’m proud of you.”
The change is immediate.
His hands twitch against your waist. His whole body arches up — involuntary — like your words hit something raw in him and cracked it open. A broken sound slips past his lips. Choked. Half-moan, half-denial.
“Don’t—” he tries, shaking his head. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I always mean it.” Your fingers trail down the side of his neck. “You’re good...”
He groans. Low and wrecked.
His hips buck — desperate, uncontrollable — and you feel it. The hard, hot press of him between your thighs, twitching against your body, leaking through his sweats like your praise pulled it from him without effort. His breath is coming out ragged, lips parted like he can’t get air, like your praise is knocking it out of him.
“Baby…” he rasps, already ruined, already shivering. “Don’t—I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” You mouth it against his ear, breath warm and teasing. “Can’t handle being told you’re good?”
His moan this time is shameless. His thighs flex under you, iron-hard, shaking. You rake your fingers through his hair again — slow and loving — nails grazing his scalp just right. He arches into it, shuddering.
Not from fear. From want.
“You’re my strong boy,” you murmur, each word a kiss to his dignity. "My sweet boy. My good boy.”
He whimpers.
His grip on your hips goes bruising. His breathing’s ragged now — mouth open, head tipped back, a vein pulsing at his neck.
“Please,” he begs. Quiet. Like a prayer. “Just…please…”
“What do you need, Bucky?”
“You.” His voice cracks. “Your voice. Just—say somethin’ else. Please.”
Your heart aches for him. You take his face in your hands again. You see him — trembling and hard and helpless in your lap — and you love him all the more.
“You’re safe. You’re doing so good. And I am so, so proud of you, baby.”
His hips lift into you in a desperate, helpless thrust — once, twice — and you feel the heat of it, the way he’s so hard it borders on painful.
“—fuck—” he gasps.
Your fingers slip down into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug gently.
“Make a mess for me,” you whisper against his lips. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Keep being good for me, just like this...”
That’s it. That’s what breaks him.
He thrusts up again — sharp, needy, a growl in his chest — and you feel the moment it hits.
The heat. The pulse. The desperate, ruined sound he makes as he comes hard in his sweats, body twitching under yours, face buried in your shoulder like he can’t bear for you to see the way he falls apart for you.
He shakes. Clings. Gasps your name like it’s the only thing left anchoring him.
And you hold him.
You run your fingers through his hair. Down his spine. Across his cheeks, still burning with shame.
“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”
He whimpers again. Whimpers.
When it’s over, he’s shaking, breathing hard, gripping you like you’re the only real thing in the world. He can’t speak. Can’t look up. His cheeks still burn hot against your skin.
“’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice ruined. “Didn’t—didn’t mean to—”
You take his face in your hands again and make him look at you.
“Bucky,” you whisper softly, “I wanted it. Wanted you.”
He swallows hard. Then nods — tiny, fragile, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too much.
“You can come for me anytime you need,” you tell him. “Just from my touch. Just from my voice.”
His breath shakes. He bites his lip, eyes wide and glassy.
“You’ll say it again?” he asks, small and hopeful.
You lean your forehead to his.
“As many times as you want, sweetheart.”
And gods…he melts.