words of the wicked @theoracleofsin - Tumblr Blog

we are not alone in the universe

part 3

read part 2 here Prompt: After receiving very exciting news about his summer internship, Bucky convinces you to spend one weekend with him at the family cabin, where a fragile attempt at normalcy crumbles into a mess of tangled hearts. Pairing: Brother!Bucky Barnes x Older Sister!Reader Word count: 11.4k Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; siblingcest (brother/sister); age gap (reader is 4 years older than Bucky, both are over 18+); inexperienced Bucky Barnes; pining; unresolved emotional tension; smut; mutual masturbation; dirty talk; pussy pronouns; heavy kissing/making out; aftercare; shower sex; fingering; p in v; unprotected sex (reader & bucky talk about it); praise kink (brief); sex is interrupted by feelings; hurt with not a lot of comfort (for the ending of the chapter only); Space CutieS! Bucky is a space nerd, reader is also a space nerd; no use of Y/N; not beta'd Notes: well, where do i even start?? it has been a while since i posted a chapter for space cuties! real life was kicking my ass for quite a while, and i also made this chapter about twice the size of my previous chapters, which made me take much longer to get it finished. i feel like i might have rushed the ending a little bit, but overall, i am very proud of how this one turned out. i have so many ideas still blooming for these two and i cannot wait for you to see what's in store for bucky & his sis 💕💕 as always dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes !!

A random Thursday afternoon while Bucky is supposed to be studying for his astrophysics midterm is the moment the universe chooses to turn his world upside down. Sprawled across his bed under the glowing galaxy ceiling, laptop balanced on his stomach, he’s half mindedly scrolling through notes about epicycles and galaxy relaxation when the notification for a new email shows up on the corner of the screen.

Johnson Space Center. Subject: NASA Pathways Internship Offer - Summer 2026

There’s a real chance that his heart stops beating for a full five seconds before it goes back to beating, albeit completely out of sync. His fingers are quick to slide across the keyboard, open the email and just as quickly he’s reading the first paragraph.

Accepted to the NASA Pathways Engineering internship. June through August. Houston. Housing provided. Fully funded. Chance to shadow the Orion program.

His dream, described right there in a long email with details he can’t read when the words begin to blur. The one you planted in him when he was six and you were ten, lying on a blanket in the backyard with that cheap telescope between you. One he’s chased through every late night study session, every rocket model launch in the driveway of your parents home, every school essay that mentioned “the big sister who showed me the stars”.

Bucky should be ecstatic. Maybe yelling, calling Mom and Dad, texting Steve, maybe doing one of those stupid victory dances he used to do when he finally solved a physics problem you’d been helping him with when he was younger.

Instead he just sits there, staring at the screen until words stop making sense, because all he can think about is the fact that Houston is thousands of miles away, and you won’t be there.

Since the planetarium, the two of you have been closer than ever, in a way that feels all too vulnerable but nonetheless unavoidable.

Late night texts started again, him sending a blurry photo of the moon from his bedroom at 2.a.m., captioned “made me think of you”, and you replying with a voice note whispering about the history of some craters’ names. Every time the messages stretched longer, silences between them shorter. You’d catch yourself smiling at your phone in the dark, heart thudding when his typing bubble appeared, knowing he was lying in this starry bedroom thinking about you the way you were thinking about him. Not in a friendly, sibling way; rather, in the way you think about your first school crush, about your first love that is engraved into your bones and that you remember until your deathbed.

Sometimes you’d go for walks after work, bundled up against the February cold, boots crunching over salted sidewalks while he told you about his latest orbital mechanics problem. Other times you’d have lunch together, whenever you had a break long enough to leave the city and visit him for some quick sandwiches at the local café. There were knees brushing under the tiny table, both of you pretending not to notice the way the contact always lingered a second too long.

What you haven’t done since the planetarium is share a bed. Not once, not even for a quick afternoon nap. Neither of you tried anything, neither of you promised to stop, either, but the memory lived in your blood, and his, like oxygen now. You feel it every time you hug him goodbye, his arms wrapping around you a fraction tighter than they should, chin resting on your head just long enough for you to feel his heartbeat through his shirt. At your parents’ house, you catch him staring every dinner across the table, blue eyes a little too dark before he blinks and looks away once he realizes he’s been caught. All the thoughts of his thigh pressed between yours, the way he whispered “my moon” against your mouth like a prayer and a confession all at once.

Once more, you are both trying to keep a wall up, even if you don’t verbalize it. Try to keep conversations safe, you laugh at his dumb jokes and ruffle his hair like the big sister you’re supposed to be. He calls you ‘sis’ in front of your parents, and keeps his hands in his pockets when you walk side by side. But every second more you spend together, the harder it is to ignore the obvious. That afternoon at the planetarium didn’t help fix anything; it just made the ache deeper and impossible to outrun.

Now you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him in the middle of a crowded sidewalk just to see if the world would actually end. And he catches himself reaching for your hand before remembering he’s not allowed to.

The Friday afternoon after he’s received the news, Bucky’s standing in your doorway with the printed NASA email burning a hole in his pocket. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe from nerves, but either way, when you open the door, he looks at you with those same wide blue eyes that used to stare up at you in wonder when you pointed out constellations.

“Hey, can I come in for a second?”

You step aside to let him into your apartment, and the moment the door clicks shut, he doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands there in the middle of your living room, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

“I have a surprise,” he starts. “but you can’t ask any questions about it. Yet, anyway.”

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. “That’s kind of a weird way to start a conversation, Buck.”

A nervous smile tugs at his lips. “So, I asked Mom and Dad if I could have their cabin for this weekend. They said yes. I’d like us to go there together, just the two of us. We can leave right now, I have the car outside, and I can wait while you pack.”

The words make you stand there, staring at him, while you process the information. The cabin in the woods.

It’s the same old family cabin your parents have had since you were little, a small, cedar-shingled place tucked deep among the pines, with a big stone fireplace and a wide loft bedroom that overlooks the nearby lake. Every summer and many winter weekends when you were kids, the four of you would pile into the car with snacks and board games and drive up there for a few days. You and Bucky used to race each other down the narrow path to the dock, build snow forts in the backyard, and roast marshmallows until your fingers were sticky.

But what you both used to love most were the nights. There was almost no light pollution that far from the city and the sky would open up like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet. You’d drag Bucky outside after dark, wrapped in blankets and wearing oversized coats, and lie on the old wooden deck, holding your tiny hands, staring up at the sky.

Now Bucky wants to take you back there, just the two of you, for an entire weekend. Memories flash in your mind even without you wanting them too: his hands on your waist under the Christmas tree, the way he trembled beneath you and the sounds he made when he came while still trying to name stars.

“Bucky…” Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “I don’t think spending a whole weekend alone at the cabin is a good idea. We’ve… been trying. You know that.”

“I know we’ve been trying. We don’t have to ruin that, I just… this is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

You hesitate, biting the inside of your cheek. The responsible part of your brain is screaming that this is dangerous. Two days in a secluded cabin with no parents and no easy escape, just the cold, and the fireplace, and every forbidden feeling you’ve been trying to bury.

“Bucky, I really think we should think about this…”

“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Please, sis. This means a lot to me.”

You can see how much this matters to him, even if you don’t know why yet. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, as he waits for your response. You simply let out a long breath. The love you’ve always felt for him, the safe sibling kind, twists painfully with something you’re terrified to name.

Finally, “Fine,” you say, words coming out softer than you intended, as if showing him that your ‘no’ was never going to hold up anyway. “I’ll go, but only if I drive.”

Bucky blinks, surprise flickering across his features before a little relieved laugh escapes him.

“You don’t trust me on long drives?” he asks, familiar teasing tone creeping back in even though his eyes are still shiny with emotion.

“I’ve seen how you drive when you’re excited about something. Last time you almost hit a mailbox because you were telling me about some new exoplanet discovery. I’m not risking my life just because my little brother gets starry-eyed behind the wheel.

He huffs a laugh, tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Fair. You can drive, and I’ll even let you pick the music.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already turning toward your bedroom to start packing. As you throw clothes and toiletries into a bag, your hands shake slightly. You tell yourself it’s just the cold clinging to the apartment, but deep down, you know the truth: you’re not sure how many more times you can be alone with Bucky before things break apart for good.

The drive up to the cabin is a few hours of careful conversation, how your new exhibit is getting good reviews, his midterm grades, Mom’s last attempt at knitting him a scarf that ended up being way too short. You keep the topics safe, the kind of things siblings are supposed to talk about, while songs play on the radio, ones you both know. Bucky laughs in the right moments, but his fingers keep tapping restlessly against his thigh, and every so often you catch him glancing at you a little too long when he thinks you’re focused on the road.

The farther you drive, the more the trees grow thick, road narrower, until familiar landmarks begin appearing. The old wooden bridge over the creek, the rusted mailbox at the turnoff, the final winding dirt path that leads to the cabin.

When the truck finally crunches to a stop in front of the small cedar-shingled building, it looks pretty much the same as it always has. The late afternoon light filters through the tall pines, casting long shadows across the clearing. Air is cold and crisp, sharp enough to bite at your cheeks the moment you open the door, but there’s no fresh snow on the ground today, just a thin layer of frost clinging to the grass and the edges of the wooden porch. The lake behind the cabin is dark and still under the gray sky, thin mist hovering above the water and making the whole place feel secluded, like the rest of the world is very far away.

A few dried leaves skitter across the porch as you step out, and the familiar scent of pine and damp earth fills the air. Your parents must have come up a few days ago to turn on the heat and stock the fridge, because warm golden light already glows from the windows.

Bucky is already grabbing his and your bags from the back of the truck and heading toward the cabin, and you follow him up the creaky steps, finding the old brass key under a nearby pot, in the same place it always was. When you unlock the door, it swings open and you step inside, only to be wrapped by the warmth of the living room like a blanket. The place is exactly as you remember it: big stone fireplace with some wood ready to be lit, worn plaid couch facing the wide windows that look over the forest.

With a thud, Bucky sets the bags down near the couch and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little unsure in the quiet space.

“Still feels the same, doesn’t it?” he says softly.

You nod, shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the familiar hook by the door. Your fingers linger on the wood for a second, but you don’t say anything.

The kitchen is stocked with the usual supplies, like canned goods, some fresh vegetables (whoever stocked the wood surely brought that too), hot chocolate packets, the old red kettle ready to be put on the stove. Same old kitchen supplies, plates, cups. Everything unchanged, frozen in time, the way only childhood places can be.

But you and Bucky aren’t kids anymore. That realization settles heavy in your chest, and you stand there in the living room, cold air still clinging to your clothes even in the warmer inside of the cabin. This place holds too many innocent memories, and now the walls feel dangerously intimate, the quiet feeling too loud.

Bucky crosses the room to the stone fireplace and crouches down in front of the hearth. The wood is stacked and ready, so he simply strikes a match, small flame flaring bright for a second before he touches it to the kindling. It catches quickly, orange light flickering across his face as the fire begins to grow, crackling softly and filling the room with the comforting scent of burning wood. He stays crouched there for a moment, watching the flames take hold, shoulders still a little tense, before he glances back at you over his shoulder.

“I can make us some hot chocolate,” he offers quietly, voice gentle how you’ve always been used to.

Then he stands, brushes his hands on his jeans and heads toward the kitchen. You hear the familiar clink of the old kettle being filled at the sink, the click of the stove turning on. While the water heats, he pulls two mismatched mugs from the cupboard. In the living room, the fire grows stronger and the warmth slowly spreading chases away the last of the outdoor chill. You sink down onto the edge of the worn plaid couch, watching Bucky move around the kitchen with his usual slightly nervous energy.

A few minutes later he returns, carrying both mugs with an almost shy smile that sets your heart aflutter.

“Here,” he says, handing you the one mug with a chipping rocket pattern. “I managed to find some marshmallows, too.”

Gentle fingers brush his as you take the mug from him, and he sits down on the other end of the couch, not too close, but not as far as he probably should. Firelight dances across his face, highlighting the faint flush lingering on his cheeks.

“I missed this place,” he admits. “Being here with you. It’s been a while since we’ve been up here, with college and your work and everything.”

You take a slow sip of the hot chocolate, sweetness spreading across your tongue but doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

“So… do you wanna tell me now why we came all the way up here?” You start, unsure whether he’s ready to finally talk about it. But he is. He sets his mug down on the coffee table, elbows restng on his knees as he leans forward slightly. Then he reaches for his pocket, grabs the piece of paper before sliding it to you, his expression a mix of excitement and fear.

“I got the internship,” he says, almost whispering it. “At the NASA Space Center in Houston. Three months this summer, and it might turn into something permanent after graduation.”

Pride blooms in your chest, overwhelming, thinking about the little boy who used to fall asleep to your stories about Apollo missions, all grown up now, telling you about how he’s taking his first step toward his life’s dream.

“Houston,” you repeat, his same excitement now mirrored in your voice. “Bucky, that’s… that’s everything you’ve always wanted. I’m so happy for you.”

He nods, but his smile is small and a little pained. “Yeah, it is. But it’s also seventeen hundred miles away from you.”

The fire continues to crackle, Bucky’s eyes stay locked on yours.

“That’s why I wanted us to come up here. Just needed this weekend with you before things change.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you and lace your fingers together without thinking, touch both familiar and dangerous. And as you sit there with your fingers intertwined, the truth settles over you like a second layer of skin.

Things had changed forever on Christmas Eve.

That night, when the mistletoe hung above your heads and Bucky’s lips had brushed the corner of your mouth, something inside both of you had cracked open with no magical glue to put it back together in sight. And later, in his starry bedroom, you had slept together, taken your little brother inside you, felt him tremble and whine and fall apart beneath you, and in doing so you had shattered every family boundary that was ever meant to exist. Blood, trust, innocence, all of it fractured in one stolen night. Whatever fire you lit that night had grown into something living and hungry, something you both tried to ignore but couldn’t extinguish.

Maybe the distance will be good, you think.

Houston is seventeen hundred miles away. Thousands of miles of highways and state lines and empty sky between you. Maybe that’s exactly what you both needed, space to breathe and remember how to be just siblings again, to let this forbidden fire cool and fade into something manageable. Three months apart could maybe be enough to soothe the ache, quiet the phantom feeling of his body against yours, let the guilt transform into something quieter than this constant, throbbing need.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Even as the thought forms, it feels like a lie.

Because sitting here with his hand in yours, firelight painting his face in soft gold, you can already feel the pull tightening instead of loosening. How are you supposed to welcome the distance when the thought of him seventeen hundred miles away makes your chest feel hollow?

You don’t ask Bucky, or yourself, those questions for the rest of the evening. It passes in gentle quiet, both of you managing to behave stupidly well for two siblings who have messed everything up twice already, in the most unexpected of settings. After finishing the hot chocolate, Bucky suggests making dinner together, and you agree, both of you moving around the small kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times before in your parents' home. You chop vegetables for soup, Bucky heats up some canned chili and toasts thick slices of bread. Conversation while you work stays safe, focused on more details about the internship, projects he might work on, and you listen with genuine pride blooming in your chest.

After dinner, you settle on the couch again, shoulders brushing as you watch the flames of the fireplace dance. Bucky’s hand finds yours once more, fingers lacing together without either of you commenting on it, because the touch remains innocent, just hands, just occasional glances that linger for a second too long but have no continuation beside that. Everything is nice, is soft. You feel like a kid again, just with a bigger heart now and a mind that won’t rest.

Until it’s time to go to bed.

The loft bedroom is the only real sleeping space; the one with the big quilt-covered bed and the wide window overlooking the lake. Neither of you suggests taking the couch, because at this point, it’d be a nonsensical inconvenience. It’s unspoken, but mutual: you’ll share the bed. Just like when you were kids and thunderstorms scared him.

You change into pajamas separately, you first in the small bathroom and then Bucky while you make your way to the bedroom, in your sleeping shorts and an oversized shirt, already setting up the pillows and setting some clothes from your bag in a nearby armchair. When he comes back, he’s wearing gray sweatpants and old NASA t-shirt that’s a little too tight across his shoulders now, because he’s starting to grow it out. Pretending you don’t notice the outline of his groin through his sleeping bottoms takes quite some effort; pretending you see it but it doesn’t make you want to drop to your knees is just a herculean task.

The bedroom is quiet, lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand and the faint silver glow of the moonlight reflecting off the lake through the window. You both slide under the heavy quilt of the very inviting bed, that feels just as warm as it looked from the outside. For a few minutes you’re quiet, the only sound being the distant hoot of an owl outside and the soft creak of the old wooden frame as you both settle. Then Bucky shifts again, inches a little closer to you, and his voice sounds hesitant in the dark.

“… Can I cuddle you?” he asks quietly. “Like we used to.”

Your heart stutters, but you try to not make anything of it. Just some cuddling under the covers, nothing else. You’re still siblings, you still care for each other.

“Yeah. Come here.”

He moves closer immediately, and you lay on your side as he slides one arm under your pillow and wraps the other around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against his chest. It’s strange to you how clearly you can feel it, the way his chest is broader and firmer against your back, how his arm drapes heavily over your waist, how his legs are longer as they tuck behind yours. Back on Christmas Eve you had already noticed he’d filled out from college, but lying here like this, tucked securely inside the cage of his body, the change feels even more pronounced. For the first time, you feel smaller than him, even though you’re the older sibling.

It feels sweet and innocent for long enough. Like maybe you could fall asleep like this with no other thoughts propagating through the air of this bedroom.

That is, until you feel it.

Unmistakable, pressed against the curve of your ass through the fabric of his sweatpants, and already half-hard. Your muscles tense and Bucky freezes the second he realizes it’s because you can feel him, his breath catching sharply in his throat.

“Shit,” he whispers, genuinely mortified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m really not trying anything, I swear, I just can’t fucking help it.” He starts to pull away from you, embarrassed and awkward, the shy version of him you’ve always known front and center again. His arm loosens around your waist like he’s ready to scramble back to his side of the bed and apologize profusely for the rest of the night.

“Wait… Bucky,” you whisper, already reaching back to catch his wrist before he manages to retreat completely. “It’s okay, just… don’t pull back from me.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, just stays in the same place for a moment, breathing uneven. Even with him quiet, you can practically feel the war raging inside him; shame, desire, the desperate need to be close clashing violently with everything that is wrong about what you’ve done together.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, words coming out in a trembling tone. “Even when I try. I promise I keep trying, but I… being here, in this bed, it’s making it worse. I—” His words cut off midway, like he knows he’s about to say something he can’t take back and is not willing to let it settle into the spine of tonight just yet.

But after another long pause, your back still pressed to his chest, Bucky’s hesitant voice comes again.

“… Do you think we can do something? Not sex. I know we shouldn’t do that again. But…” he whispers. “… maybe we could just touch ourselves while we watch each other? That’s not as bad, right?”

The suggestion hangs in the dark between you, shocking in its vulnerability. His arm tightens slightly around your waist again, maybe like he’s afraid you’ll pull away in disgust, and his forehead drops against the back of your shoulder, hiding his face even though you can’t see it anyway.

“I just need some relief,” he continues. “Being this close to you is driving me crazy. And I don’t wanna ruin the weekend by pushing for more, I know we can’t, I know we shouldn’t, and… and you can say no, it’s fine, I can just go to the bathroom for a bit or something, maybe a cold shower can help…”

“Bucky.” Saying his name like an interruption whenever he begins rambling has become a habit. You don’t hate it that it has become that. He follows through with a self-deprecating little laugh.

You swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. Logically, you know this is a terrible idea. There’s little difference between having him inside of you or masturbating while watching each other, at least as far as family boundaries go. You shouldn’t do either. But some part of you (apparently, the part that’s winning over your brain every time you’re near Bucky these days) has been aching for weeks and still remembers exactly how he sounded when he was inside you. And that part wants more.

“… Okay. We can do that.”

Bucky lets out a stunned exhale, obviously not expecting you to agree to this.

“Really? You’re sure?”

His arm loosens around your waist just enough that you can turn to face him. The moonlight coming through the window paints his face in soft hues, and you know there’s just enough light for you to see each other’s faces and the slight flush of his cheeks.

Both your hands reach for the quilt and slowly push it down to your waists. Bucky hesitates for a long moment, so do you, but he’s the first to move, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs free, already full hard and flushed red at the tip, leaking heavily over his slit. One shaky hand wraps around the base, gripping himself tightly like he’s trying to keep some semblance of control even when he’s desperately spiraling in front of you.

You follow his lead with a shudder, sliding your sleeping shorts and panties down your thighs and kicking them off under the covers. Cool air kisses your heated skin as you spread your legs, and you bend one knee and fold it outward, opening yourself up completely to his gaze. The position exposes your cunt obscenely, showing how slick has already gathered heavily between your folds, making them glisten softly.

That whole imagery hits Bucky like a shot straight to his dick. He lets out a choked whimper.

“Oh my god… I wish you could see yourself,” he whispers, and you swear you almost see his cock twitch in his hand. “So wet. She’s so pretty like that.”

His hand starts moving slowly, long strokes from the soft hair at the base to the tip, thumb swiping over the leaking head on every upward pass. His gaze is locked between your legs, completely transfixed by the sight of your spread pussy calling to him.

“You’re dripping,” he breathes, hips twitching involuntarily into his fist. “Is that… is that all because of me?”

You just nod, shaky breath as your fingers slide through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit slowly at first, then with more pressure, just at the right angle to let him see everything. Bucky’s strokes grow a little faster.

“Fuck, I keep imagining how warm and tight she’d feel around me right now,” he whines, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them again, unable to stop looking at you, your face, the way your fingers are moving. And just as he lays there, in front of you, panting through his arousal, his words register slowly in your mind. How he keeps calling your pussy her, giving her life in a way you hadn’t thought of before.

“Why…” you ask, voice shaky with arousal and amusement, “why do you keep saying ‘she’ like it’s its own entity?”

Bucky’s hand falters for half a second, a fresh wave of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. But he doesn’t stop stroking himself. If anything, his grip tightens as another bead of precum rolls down over his knuckles.

“Because… I think she might be,” he admits. “She’s got me bewitched. I’m a guy of science but the second I think about her, I’m gone. It’s like she has her own gravity, pulls me in. Makes me stupid.” His strokes grow a little faster, eyes still glued to the way your fingers move over your clit. And you thrive off that attention, too, of having his blue eyes glued to your body like you’ve put a spell on him. So you decide to give him more.

Keeping your knee folded outward, you slide two fingers down through your folds and slowly push them inside yourself. The wet sound feels loud in the quiet room, and Bucky’s breath hitches immediately.

“Fuck, that’s… you’re evil,” he almost laughs, hand stuttering on his cock for a moment before speeding up again. “She’s so greedy, look how she’s sucking those fingers in.”

You let out a soft moan as you curl your fingers, stroking that sensitive spot inside while your thumb continues circling your clit. The position keeps you completely open for him, letting him see every slow thrust of your fingers disappearing into your glistening cunt. And he does see. Watches with his breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, hand twisting at the head of his shaft on every upstroke. His strokes have grown messy and desperate, but he’s still holding something back, although not for long.

“I don’t wanna push it,” he whispers, voice strained. “but let me kiss you. Please? While we do this.”

You would have let him slide in raw inside of you right now if he asked you. So without hesitation you scoot closer and press your lips to his, tentative at first, before it quickly deepens as the pleasure builds between you. His mouth is warm and hungry, tongue sliding against yours with a quiet desperation that makes your fingers move faster inside yourself.

Bucky moans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips, his hand pumping his cock in urgent strokes. He pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth, every word almost swallowed by your lips.

“You taste so good,” he whimpers between kisses. “'I’m gonnna… fuck, I’m gonna cum…”

His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face, holding you to him while his hips start rocking into his fist to chase the feeling. And just like that, while his mouth finds yours and kisses you hard again, his body tenses suddenly. A broken moan spills into your mouth as his orgasm hits him, cock pulsing in his hand as thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach and onto yours, sticky where your bodies are pressed together. He kisses you all through it, whimpering softly with every spurt, hips jerking unevenly as he rides out the pleasure.

Even after he finishes, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his lips against yours, breathing hard, forehead resting gently against your own as the last tremors run through him. “I’m sorry… I made a mess,” he murmurs, aware of the sticky mess in both of your stomachs.

You don’t care. You kiss him again, fingers still buried inside yourself, moving faster now that you’ve felt him fall apart against you. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, pressure building faster than before, pushing you oh-so close to the edge.

“Come on, moon, let me see you cum,” he says against your lips, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “Good girl, just like that.”

Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, all too overwhelming. Your back arches off the bed as your walls clamp down hard around your fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat, muffled against Bucky’s mouth. He doesn’t kiss you through it because he’s instead chasing your sounds, the whines leaving you desperately as you ride your own high.

Pleasure floods your body in hot waves. Thighs trembling, cunt fluttering and gushing around your fingers as you finger yourself through the peak. You ride the waves until they slowly start to fade, leaving you boneless and panting against Bucky, and finally your fingers slow to a stop, slick coating your hand and dripping down, making everything wetter and messier.

Bucky stays close, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he gently reaches for some tissues on the nightstand and in complete silence he cleans you first, reverent touches wiping away the sticky evidence of his release from your stomach and the slick between your legs. You do the same for him after, fingers slow and tender as you wipe the streaks of cum from his skin. When you’re both as clean as you’re going to get without a shower Bucky pulls the heavy quilt back up over your bodies and without a word opens his arms. You slide into them instantly, letting him wrap himself around you completely.

Your legs tangle together naturally. One of yours slips between his, the other drapes over his hip, pulling him flush against you. His arms wind around your back, strong and secure, while yours slide around his waist, fingers splaying across the warm skin of his lower back. Your chests press together, hearts beating against one another, faces so close that your noses brush.

Bucky leans in first. His lips find yours in the dark, a slow kiss, lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to lead anywhere else. Just soft presses of lips, gentle brushes of tongue, little sighs shared between you when you part for air before colliding again.

Your bodies shift in unison, pressing closer, hips settling against each other, legs tightening their hold. Every small movement feels synchronized, a gentle rock, a whisper of a word neither really try to figure out, slow glide of skin on skin under the quilt. His hand slides up your back, cradles the nape of your neck as he kisses you deeper. You answer by threading your fingers through his hair, holding him to you.

There are no words. Nothing you could say could quite make sense of this moment, anyway. The kisses grow slower, heavier, blurring into something almost dreamlike. Too emotionally raw, not quite what you’d see on a movie screen, but sensual nonetheless.

Eventually, exhaustion and warmth win. Bucky’s hold on you never loosens, but he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, presses one last soft kiss there before his breathing starts to even out. You, on the other hand, stay awake a little longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and simply pretending.

Pretending that Houston isn’t waiting for him, that he isn’t your little brother. That the two of you are just a normal couple who met in an ordinary way, fell in love in an ordinary way, who are allowed to fall asleep tangled in each other like this without feeling guilt creeping up through every crevice of your body.

With that aching fantasy wrapped around your heart, you finally let your eyes close.

Pale winter light filters through the wide window overlooking the lake. You wake up first, still tangled with Bucky, his arm heavy around your waist, one leg slotted between yours, face still buried in the crook of your neck as if neither of you moved an inch throughout the night, or if you did, you were pulled back into your original orbit.

For a moment you just lie there, listening to the distant call of birds outside. Then you lean in, press a kiss to his cheek, and he stirs awake, humming sleepily as he tightens his hold on you. When his eyes open properly to find yours, he only whispers a quiet ‘morning’ before catching your lips in a lingering kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then a few more lazy kisses, then a kiss to your cheek, another to your forehead, to the tip of your nose. You feel him a little bolder than usual, maybe emboldened by the way last night ended.

“Wanna shower?” he asks. “I think there’s only enough hot water for one proper shower. We should share. …Y’know, to save water and all.”

A paper-thin excuse, one you see right through, but you nod yes anyway.

You head to the small connected bathroom together, naked but making no attempt to hide yourself. Bucky turns on the shower, lets the water heat up while you grab clean towels from the nearby cabinet. When the steam starts to fill the room, he takes your hand and guides you under the spray first.

Warm water cascades over your bodies, and for a while you simply stand there, letting it wash away the remnants of last night. Until Bucky steps closer, his front pressing flush against your back. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin. You feel him lean in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the water runs down both of you. He doesn’t immediately do anything else, maybe instead waiting for your reaction, whether you’re still willing to let him push further this morning.

Your silent permission comes in the form of your body going pliant against his, leaning back against him and that encourages him to grow bolder.

One arm slides fully around your waist, pulling you tighter against him while his other hand trails down your stomach. His fingers glide through the water running over your skin until they reach between your legs, settling but not yet moving.

“Bucky, what are you doing?” Your voice barely comes out, breath already caught in your throat. Despite your question, you know perfectly well what he’s doing; what’s surprising you is his sudden confidence, the way he’s taking without stuttering through it, without letting his inexperience become a hinderance.

“Making you feel good, moon,” he whispers, two thick fingers sliding finally through your folds and pushing inside you in one confident motion.

You gasp, forehead lolling forward against the cool tile wall, as the immediate stretch burns through you, feeling perfect despite any conflicting feelings that remain just barely under the surface. His fingers curl slowly to stroke the sensitive spot inside you, head falling to your shoulder. Open mouth presses wet kisses to the skin, mixing with the warm water dripping from above you, quiet hums whispered against the muscle.

Curling on every inward stroke, his fingers thrust deeply but slowly, keeping a rhythm that makes your knees weak. Still, his arm is banded around your waist and keeping you from breaking apart, holding you upright as your legs begin to tremble. Behind you, and through the haze of your own pleasure, you still manage to feel Bucky’s cock fully hard, pressing thick and heavy against the curve of your ass. It throbs every time your walls clench around his fingers, and he grinds forward slowly, not exactly chasing release, but just rubbing himself against you in time with the rhythm of his hand, just enough movement to provide some relief.

His fingers never slow down, never falter, thrusting inside of you until you’re falling apart, until your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids and thighs trembling uncontrollably. Slick coats his hand and drips down your thighs, washed away instantly by the hot water, and his hand only stops when your body starts to slump, soothing thrusts through your aftershocks until it halts completely.

And then, with his usual gentleness, he slowly withdraws his fingers and brings them to rest on your stomach, holding you close as the water continues to rain down over both of you.

After the shower, both of you dress in comfortable layers; thick sweaters, jeans, wool socks, and take over the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Bucky cracks a few eggs into an old cast-iron skillet, you handle coffee, and by the time you’re both sitting by the small wooden table by the window, the conversation is nothing heavier than how the lake looks different every season and whether Mom’s knitting phase, which started in this very cabin, will ever produce anything truly wearable.

When breakfast is cleared, you step outside into the crisp Saturday air. The sky has cleared to a pale blue, sunlight slanting through the pines and turning the frost on the grass into tiny diamonds.

“Should check the woodpile,” Bucky says, already pulling on his jacket. “Fire’s gonna need feeding if we want to keep it cozy inside.”

No fighting that. You fall into step beside him, walking the path to the shed that is the same narrow dirt trail you used to race down as kids. Now you walk side by side at an easy pace, boots crunching over fallen needles and the occasional patch of frozen ground. Bucky points out a squirrel darting up a trunk with impressive speed, and you tease him about the time he tried to rescue a baby bird only to get dive-bombed by its mother. He laughs, cheeks pink from the cold, and you hold his wrist in your hand, make him stop in his tracks and almost kiss him right there, somehow wishing to make that flush darker. You end up deflecting, telling him he had a leaf in his hair before you continue down the path.

Both of you take turns loading up the old wheelbarrow with split logs, but Bucky insists on doing most of the heavy lifting, his breath coming out as a fog in the crisp air as he stacks the wood. You tease him about showing off, and he shoots you a lopsided grin over his shoulder, which combined with his flushed cheeks makes your belly twist a weird way.

“Gotta make sure my moon doesn’t strain anything,” he jokes, standing too close when it’s your turn and his hand brushing the small of your back as you bend to grab another log. The wheelbarrow fills quickly, and the two of you push it together back toward the cabin, shoulders sometimes bumping with your steps along the uneven path.

The rest of the morning slips into lazy domesticity, you making more coffee and Bucky digging through the old cabinet of board games tucked under the cabin stairs only to emerge victoriously holding a Monopoly box worn at the edges from years of family weekends. “Think you can handle getting crushed?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows as he sets it up on the coffee table in front of the fire.

You snort. “Bold words from someone who still owes me imaginary money from the last time we played this like, six years ago, Buck.”

The game starts innocently enough, you building up properties steadily while Bucky’s luck is comically bad. Keeps landing on your hotels over and over, groaning dramatically each time as stacks of colorful paper money leave his side of the board. By the time you’re deep into the afternoon, the fire crackling steadily beside you, Bucky is ridiculously broke. Most of his properties are mortgaged, and his little silver car is currently sitting in jail.

“This game is rigged,” he mutters, staring at his pitiful collection of singles.

You laugh, legs tucked under you on the couch for added warmth. The living room feels good enough with the heat from the fire, but you’ve had to interrupt the game of Monopoly midway through to put on some hilarious pink fuzzy socks because your feet always seem to be running ten degrees below your normal body temperature.

“Have you considered that maybe you just suck at this game?”

He glances at you, blue eyes narrowing in that mischievous way that always used to spell trouble when you were kids. Then, while you’re counting a massive pile of cash and he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to anything else, he leans forward, quick as a fox, and snatches a few $500 bills from the bank.

“Bucky!” You lunge for his hand, but he’s already laughing, shoving the stolen money under his thigh.

“What? Everyone knows banks are corrupt anyway, I’m just redistributing wealth.”

The game dissolves after that, you playfully wrestling him for the stolen money until he manages to overpower you simply by wrapping one hand around your waist and pulling you to him before pressing a kiss to your cheek that sends your emotional system into overdrive. Monopoly lays forgotten on the coffee table as the both of you eventually go back to the kitchen to prepare the world’s most complex dinner: a couple of cheese and ham sandwiches which you assemble messily before carrying them back to the couch.

“Look at us. Responsible adults, driving all the way up here, chopping wood, eating sandwiches for dinner. Mom and Dad would be so proud.”

Bucky chuckles around a bite of his sandwhich. “We’re like the most responsible people I have ever met.”

Time slows, dissipates, does something else entirely and by the time it’s completely dark out, both of you are stretched out on the wide plaid couch under a thick wool blanket, remnants of your earlier session of board games and sandwiches pushed aside on the coffee table. The soothing sounds of the crackling fire in front of you fade easily into the room, and Bucky’s arm draped around you, with his hand tracing idle circles on your skin, makes you feel as much as home as if you were back in your apartment.

Actually, maybe he feels more like home.

Conversation melted into warm silence a while back, and now you’re simply two people with tangled legs and hearts hoping neither of you is foolish enough to continue what you’ve tried to stop time and time again.

Coming to this cabin alone had been a mistake, Bucky knew it, you knew it, yet you did it anyway. So you shifting in his lap slightly just to make yourself more comfortable, him leaning his head down until your noses are brushing and you turning your head just enough that your lips find his once again, isn’t a surprise, it’s just inevitability.

Lips mold carefully, a natural tilt of heads, lips moving in perfect synchrony while your hands curl into the soft fabric of his sweater and his find your cheek, cradle the back of your neck. The blanket stays over you both, trapping shared heat and, if you’re lucky, trapping whatever feelings are bubbling under the surface and keeping them caged just between your bodies and this old couch. Another kiss, and he bites down on your bottom lip, pulling on it until you moan and only then does he release it with a grin; another kiss, and he ends it by brushing both his lips against your upper one, chasing it before pulling back slowly to look down at you.

One of his hands slips beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against the skin of your stomach, stroking upward until his thumb grazes the underside of your breast and makes you arch into the touch with the softest sigh. His eyes watch you closely as you move, and he leans down a fraction.

“Hi,” he whispers, and you can’t help the tiny smile on your lips.

“Hi,” you whisper back. An exchange so ridiculously sweet that both of you let out a soft breath of laughter into each other’s mouths before kissing again. His hand continues its journey under your clothes, finally cupping your breast fully and thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. Your body presses closer, one leg sliding higher and over his hip, which drags a whine out of him.

Bucky sits up just enough to help you pull your sweater up and over your head, the motion ruffling your hair just slightly; not a second after he’s on you, fingers reaching forward and smoothing out your hair, pushing a few strands behind your ears. “Always so beautiful, my moon,” he says, before reaching down and peppering soft kisses across the skin, lips traveling over your clavicles, then down the valley between your breasts, teeth every so softly grazing the skin, teasing but never going through with any touch that could be a little rougher. Eager, but not quite impatient, your hands reach for him next as he ducks down your body, bunching his sweater in your fists and dragging it off of him when he moves his head cooperatively. The motion exposes the hard planes of his chest, faint definition of muscle that he earned during college. When the sweater is off, he crawls up your body again and presses his bare torso flush against yours, skin on skin, heartbeats thudding together in a room too small for the size of what you’re sharing together.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties then, and you lift your hips so he can work the fabric down your thighs, past your knees and off your ankles. Once they’re gone, his hands glide back up your legs, spreading them gently so he can settle fully between your thighs. You return the favor, sliding your palms down his stomach until you reach his pants. Bucky moves his hips, lets you push the fabric out of the way, down, until his cock is freed, already hard and flushed, leaking at the tip and brushing against your inner thigh as he kicks the pants the rest of the way off. Firelight paints the curve of his shoulders and one side of his face in gold, and you admire the sight while your naked bodies seal together under the blanket, all of you pressed to all of him, so close that you can even feel the short, coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your skin.

Another shift under his body, and this time, it’s to try to roll him over so you can climb on top. To your surprise, Bucky catches your waist with both hands and pins you back down into the couch cushions.

“Not tonight.” His voice is surprisingly steady when he says it, as if he’s been practicing how to be like this, for you. “I wanna make you feel good. This time just… lay there and do what you always do best. Just look pretty for me.”

You open your mouth to protest, the usual excuse of you being more experienced, the older sister, that you should be the one taking care of him, already on your tongue, but Bucky kisses you quiet before you can get any words out. You already knew Bucky made up for his lack of experience with his enthusiasm; it had been exactly like that the last two times you had been together. And this time it’s no different. His mouth kisses down your neck, sucks gently at the swell of your breast until you’re squirming beneath him, and one of his hands slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds to find you already wet and wanting. A thumb circles your clit with soft pressure and then two fingers push slowly inside you until you’re moaning his name and your back is arching off the couch in pleasure.

Only when you’re trembling and soaking his hand, when he feels maybe his fingers are no longer enough to stoke the fire inside you, does he pull back, his heavy cock nestling now between your bodies as he looks down between the two of you.

“I… I didn’t bring any condoms,” he begins to stammer, brows furrowed in concentration, as if thinking too hard about it will make a box of Magnums suddenly materialize next to you. “I wasn’t expecting… well, I mean, I was hoping… no, not hoping, not like that, but you know… I just, I wanted it, but I didn’t think we would actually do this again. So I didn’t bring any.”

You cup his flushed face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you pull him down until your foreheads rest together.

“It’s okay. Do you think… do you think you can pull out? Before you finish?”

His expression shifts almost instantly, relief instead flickering through his face. He nods quickly, familiar awkward earnestness shining through.

“Fuck, yeah, yes…” he breathes, voice a little shaky. “I promise I’ll pull out. I’ve got you, moon.”

The hand that had still been resting between your bodies guides the blunt head of his cock to nudge against your entrance, and you feel him teasing, a few times, rubbing the tip slowly over your folds without pushing in. Your eyes meet his, eyes furrowed in a ‘really?’ look before he sheepishly grins, and finally begins pushing in, bare, until he sinks the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in your warmth.

Bucky drops his head to your neck, hips rolling slowly as he starts to move.

“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “Fuck, I didn’t… I imagined having you like this, without a condom, but I didn’t imagine it would feel this good.”

Rolling thrusts rock you gently into the couch cushions, the blanket that had been covering you previously beginning to slip down his waist. The first few movements are a little awkward, a bit unsure, as if he’s searching and trying to find his own rhythm. He finds it, you think, when he angles his hips in a certain way that makes his cock hit a spot inside you that makes you moan louder, while his pelvis grinds against your clit.

Then he holds it right there. Hands keeping you close, one braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to keep you spread open for him. All you can do is cling to his back and moan his name while he worships you under the golden light.

After a few strokes, Bucky sits up slightly, hooks his hands behind your knees and lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders. It catches you off guard, so much you almost want to tease him for it, or praise him for it, but either option is lost because the new angle makes him sink deeper and instead what comes out is a sharp gasp at the intense pleasure, your hands flying to grip his arms.

“Bucky, oh my god…” Moans, gasps, words that sound more like whines, your eyes closing the same time Bucky brings a thumb to your bottom lip and pries it away from the confines of your lips. And in that moment, his gaze drifts to the side and catches sight of your feet still covered in the fuzzy pink socks you’d put on earlier. The soft pink looks almost ridiculous against his bare shoulders and the very adult way your bodies are joined. A soft chuckle rumbles out of his chest, cutting sweetly through your and his heavy breathing.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the side of your ankle, right above the fuzzy pink cuff. Lips trail slowly up your calf, too soft and sweet even as his hips keep rolling steadily into you. “Keeping the socks on. Hope your pretty little toes are warm in there.”

You are vaguely aware of him teasing you, but the gentle kisses and the grinding thrusts are making your head spin, so your fingers dig into his biceps as pleasure coils tighter inside you. It doesn’t help that every few seconds he’s whispering something about you ‘looking so good like this’, praising the way you’re taking him so well. The new angle is devastating, every deep stroke pushing you closer to the edge. Feet covered in pink fuzzy socks bouncing slightly on his shoulders with every thrust is an absurdly sweet detail that somehow makes this feel more intimate, the same feeling you’d had the night before when you were in bed together. Like this could be a regular night in a normal couple’s life.

“Bucky, I’m so close,” you say, and you are, thighs trembling against his chest, his breathing ragged when he leans down and folds you further to press a messy kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he gasps against your mouth, words tumbling out in the heat of the moment. “God, I love you… I’m so in love with you.”

There is a language cinema speaks when fate arrives at the door. Time thickens like honey. The frame pulls close, hungry for detail: a hand mid-reach, a mouth half-open, the exact moment understanding crosses a face.

Someone who holds their breath until it’s over, another one who can’t look away even when their fingers are coming to cover their eyes. Music swells, filling every corner, and then it’s gone. Silence drops like a held breath finally released because some moments are too large for sound.

And so all of it stretches, right here. World narrowing to a single point, the heat of. him moving inside of you as those words spill from like a star collapsing.

Your body reacts before you do, walls clenching around his cock in an involuntary response, because the last thing you should be praising is those words coming from his mouth. But your body likes them. Straight in your gut, fueling the fire in the pit of your stomach, you feel it: please, Bucky, say it again.

Still, panic floods your chest like ice water.

“Stop,” you choke out, voice breaking. “Bucky, get off me.”

He freezes instantly, buried deep inside you, his eyes widening in shock.

“What—”

“Get off,” you repeat, sharper this time, pushing at his chest as your heart hammers. “Please, Bucky, get off me.”

Bucky scrambles to move. but he pulls out immediately, moving back to kneel between your legs with a devastated look on his face. His cock is still hard and glistening with your arousal, and his chest is heaving.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—I wasn’t thinking, it just came out, I didn’t mean to… I mean, I did mean it, but I didn’t want to make you—”

“Please stop talking,” you whisper, sitting up quickly and pulling the blanket over your naked body like a shield, as if suddenly the thought of him seeing you naked is too much, too inappropriate. Bucky, as if understanding that distance you put on immediately, quickly grabs his boxers and puts them on before getting off the couch and pacing the small space next to you.

I’m so in love with you.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. “You can’t say that. You can’t… you can’t say that and say that you mean it.”

He’s absolutely wrecked, cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shiny with embarrassment and the remnants of his arousal. “But I mean it. I’m sorry, I just do. I love you. I can’t not say it.”

Bucky stands there in the firelight, wearing nothing but his boxers hastily pulled on, and it would be a little distracting if you weren’t focused on trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest. “I’m so in love with you,” he repeats, quieter but no less certain.

You clutch the blanket tighter around your body, failing miserably at keeping your heart steady, so much you think it’ll bruise your ribs from how fast it’s beating.

“Bucky, stop. We can’t—”

“Why? Why can’t I say it? Because it’s true, I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever made the stars make sense. And I’d give up Houston tomorrow if you asked me to, if you told me to stay here with you. So don’t ask me not to say it.”

You swipe at your cheeks angrily, trying to brush away the stubborn tears that insist on falling. “That’s why you can’t say it, we can’t… we keep saying we’re trying but we’re not. Every time we’re together, alone, we make it worse. This whole weekend, we’re making it worse.” You wrap both arms around your knees and pull them up to your chest under the blanket. “We should stop. For good.”

Bucky swallows hard, frustratedly running a hand through his hair while his shoulders remain tense.

“I can take the couch tonight. You should sleep in the bed.” The offer is gentle, despite everything, but it’s also a quiet message: this conversation is over for now.

Part of you wants the distance, while another part hates the idea of him sleeping alone on this old couch after everything that just happened. You just look at him, not answering yet, just watching him; him, James, your Bucky, your bestfriend, your brother, who used to be a boy that chased the stars you pointed out to him, now here with his heart bleeding openly. As if realizing that you want to say something, that you want to give him an answer that can’t quite leave your lips yet, he gives you a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I didn’t wanna ruin the weekend. Just wanted one more good memory with you before I left for Houston.”

Night was long and restless.

As Bucky had offered, he took the couch downstairs while you ended up on the bed upstairs alone. Even though you had wanted to call him back upstairs, the words never made it past the lump in your throat. Sleep came in fragments, haunted by the echo of his confession. You’re still distraught; of course you are. The words I’m so in love with you keep replaying in your head, impossible to silence.

You realize, possibly too late, that you won’t know how to look at him anymore without feeling like the ground is shifting beneath your feet. That it is Sunday morning, and you have to pack to leave for the city, and that both of you have an hours-long journey ahead of you, alone in a car. By the time you get dressed and get downstairs, Bucky is already awake too, folding the blanket you both had been using the night before, which he had slept wrapped in. He glances up, nods as a greeting.

Then neither of you speaks.

Both you and Bucky move around the cabin like ghosts of yourselves, gathering clothes, folding blankets, packing the toiletries you’d brought for the weekend. Sounds are amplified in silence, the zipper of your bag suddenly too loud, a creak on the wooden floorboard you hadn’t noticed until now. A few times, you catch him looking at you, but he looks away quickly when your eyes meet.

Bucky finishes packing the last of the groceries your parents had left and carries both your bags to the door, then stands by the window for a moment, looking out at the forest surrounding you.

“I need some fresh air before we head back,” he says quietly, which you interpret as him letting you know that he needs some time alone before an hours-long drive with you by his side the entire time. “I’ll go for a short walk, won’t be long.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Pulls on his jacket, slips his boots on and steps outside, closing the door behind him a little too harshly for his usual behavior.

While he’s gone, you finish tidying the last few things, wiping down the kitchen counters and making sure the fireplace is completely out, always moving mechanically and trying not to think too much about anything. And you manage, mostly, until Bucky comes back twenty minutes later, cheeks and nose flushed pink from the walk, hair slightly tousled and a small bundle in his arms that stops you mid-motion as you wipe down the counter.

A tiny, white as snow kitten, clearly a few months old by the look of it, nestled against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his jacket with curious blue eyes. Its fur is fluffy, a little messy in the way kittens always have their fur a little messy, a little pink nose and one tiny paw batting lazily at the zipper pull.

“Found him… her… I dunno. Hm, in the woods,” he says, voice a bit rough from the cold. “Huddled under some brush near the trail, shivering, no mom or siblings in sight. I couldn’t just leave it there.”

The kitten lets out a tiny, squeaky meow, as if backing up his story, and rubs its face against Bucky’s jacket. Something in your chest cracks open, which might be the exhaustion of the sleepless night setting in, or maybe the unbearable tenderness of seeing your little brother cradling something so small and fragile.

You set the cloth down slowly. “Bucky…”

“It’s supposed to get colder tonight. This baby won’t survive out here alone.” He steps closer, and for the first time since yesterday’s argument, you are looking into each other's eyes without finding another point in the cabin to look at. “We should take it back with us, I can keep it at the house until we figure something out. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t mind.”

Until we figure something out. We, like it’s your shared problem now. Drawn by the kitten’s soft purring, you cross the room and reach out, one finger gently scratching under its chin. The kitten moves its head, tries to sniff your finger and then bumps its head against it demandingly.

“It likes you,” Bucky murmurs, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “Figures.”

For a moment, the tension eases, and you feel like just two siblings who found a lost cat in the woods by your parents’ cabin. Nothing else is complicated.

So you do the only rational thing: you agree with him. Grab an old blanket that you had already put away and use it to wrap the poor kitten in it while Bucky loads the truck with the last bags. When everything is ready, including a makeshift nest for the cat on the center console, you get on the driver’s side while Bucky finishes closing up the cabin.

By the time you both drive back to the city, truck rumbling down the winding dirt road away from the cabin, the kitten purring like a tiny engine, silence has settled again between the two of you. No other words are spoken on the way back home, except for the time you stop to get some food and a temporary litter box. His trip to Houston in the summer looms on the horizon, as does his confession that you can’t shake off your bones; but for now, you focus only on the ride home, and the tiny life that the universe handed to the two of you.

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