This wasn't meant to happen at all. But snippets of this wrote themselves, so I had to join them together and give them a proper home. I give you: Bucky's point of view.

"Never have I ever…fucked somebody with a strap-on."

It takes Bucky a few moments to parse that one. It's not lingo he's used to, but luckily for him it's also straightforward enough to figure it out. Especially when Natasha takes a drink and eyeballs the rest of the group.

The 21st century just keeps on giving.

"Holy fuck," Clint whispers, and the game continues around Bucky, the annoying buzz of Stark Junior running his mouth background noise to Bucky's mental picture of Darcy with the thing. Strap-on? He's not sure if he's game for its intended purpose, but Fantasy Darcy looks incredible wearing it. Like a goddess, her pale skin lit by firelight, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and offering him teasing glimpses of her naked chest. She's posed with one hip jutted, the contraption hiding her the juncture of her thighs from him, but her aura sparks with power and confidence.

This entire game is an exercise in torture. And Bucky has lived through more than his fair share of that.

He's only here because Darcy is, even though he knows she's as uncomfortable as he is. He watches her, wondering if she's thinking of him the same way. When he was picturing her with her lips wrapped around him, staring up between her lashes with a naughty glint in her eyes, did she have him flat on his back in her mind while she rode his mouth?

The only benefit to this stupid game, other than the delicate flush alcohol brings to Darcy's cheeks, is that it serves as a useful piece of recon. While the Darcy of his fantasies is bold about what she wants, in real life she is more reticent (though he hopes that's something she'll shed when she's really comfortable with him, when he's done everything he can to convince her that he wants to give her everything she craves, that he'll never be anything except in awe that she sees something in him). Tonight she is telling him things she would never put into words. Mostly that her past lovers have been disappointments.

But he never imagined, as he takes a reflexive drink at Jane's turn, they were that disappointing.

Everyone is staring at Darcy, her silent proclamation that no man has ever done the decent thing deepening the blush on her face, and he is powerless to stop staring too. Torn from his reverie where his face is buried in the promised land, he hopes his indignation shows when she glances at him.

Does he imagine the hope that flashes across her features when her gaze meets his, or is it his fevered imagination? The way she is curled in on herself, trying to fend off the prying of their friends, suggests it's the latter, but it's already sparked an idea.

More than an idea. A resolution. A silent promise to his girl, and though he's tried not to push her, has kept things between them as sweet and unhurried as he can, this changes things. She deserves more than his unfettered libido, but she also deserves more than she's ever been given.

Only she slips away before he can act.

They've got a date tonight. Another casual date, one of a long line of dates where he does his best to coax smiles out of her and work up the nerve to kiss her.

Except, for some reason, the nerves are gone. He's spent weeks bottling out at the last second, and here he stands, tying his hair back so it's out of the way when he gets down to business, newly confident in his change of strategy.

Because this isn't about him. It's about her.

Doesn't mean his heart isn't thumping as the AI lets him into her quarters, where she's still primping in her bathroom. It's the first time he's seen them, and he distracts himself with taking in details of the room: bright rugs on the ground, knick-knacks everywhere, everything a little messy and lived in. Through a door, he spies her bed, and suddenly his mouth goes dry.

"Change of plans?" she asks from behind him, and he turns his head to where she is on the threshold of the bathroom. Her hair is a fluffy cloud around her shoulders, and he'd like to run his fingers through it. He always has the urge to run his fingers through it.

He has no idea what to say, struck dumb by how stupid an idea this is—what, turning up in the girl's space and planning to maul her because he's got the urge to wear her thighs as ear muffs?—until he notices the way her gaze flicks to his biceps, then away, like she's ashamed of looking.

He likes her looking. He wants her touching. But she's been so patient with him, waiting for him to be ready for more.

He's ready. But he needs to kiss her first.

"Something like that," he replies, crossing to her and eliminating the space between them. She's backed into the door, staring up at him with wide eyes, and this is the closest they've ever been to each other. Her body heat seeps into his, and with each breath her chest brushes against his. He bends his head, meeting her eyes to make sure she wants this.

There. Hope. It flickers through, timid but genuine, and he closes the last few inches to kiss her.

He's never kissed anyone like this, and distantly wonders if he should ease into it, but weeks of denying himself have rendered any chance of this being chaste impossible. She fills every sense, taste and scent and hearing at the broken little gasp she makes when he sucks her bottom lip. Her hands have him pulled tight against her, and it's taking everything he has not to rut into her like the dog he apparently is.

When he lets her go, his control fraying faster than he'd like, she stares up at him with mussed hair and a kiss-swollen mouth, and he's this close to dropping to his knees and hitching her thighs over his shoulders.

"What was that?" she asks.

"Showing you how good I am with my mouth."

The noise she makes is a good sound, a holy sound, and he has to kiss her again, to continue his audition. She may yet turn him away, but he needs her to know what she'll be missing if she does.

There is skin to explore and taste, and promises to offer, words to calm her and make her yield. Words are not his best thing, not for many years, but between what he manages to string together and the other skills of his mouth, she eventually opens herself to him.

Real Darcy is more hesitant than Fantasy Darcy. She doesn't trust him yet, but only because she doesn't know she can, and because nobody has ever taken the time to earn her trust this way. But the work is worth it, when he finally gets his fill of her. When she is sprawled above him, boneless and spent, and he can take pride in a job well done.

"I didn't come here for that." He tells her when he rises from between her legs, with a mouth full of salt and musk, ignoring her silent expectation of more. This is the important part, where he proves that he still intends to court her. Sadly, though, it involves leaving her rooms. It means he has to wash the evidence of their encounter from his skin. "I'll meet you at the movie room in twenty minutes?"

"What?" She sounds a little drunk, and his ego does a victory lap at the effect he's managed to have on her.

"Twenty minutes, time to clean up," he explains, and she is where he left her when he returns from the bathroom. If he doesn't get out of here quickly, he's going to struggle to keep up the chivalry. Her whole body is flushed, warm and soft all over, and he wants to know what it feels like wrapped around his. But not today. "Stevie says Pearl Harbor is a travesty I have to witness myself."

"O-okay."

He does not flee. But he does leave faster than is dignified.

She keeps her distance from him when they watch the terrible film—how did this thing get made?—close, but not touching. Only years of sniper training and instinct keep him still, keep his fingers from creeping around her hips and pulling her close. Not to get under clothes again, but to nuzzle in close and have the weight of her leaning against him. Maybe he'd try for a little necking (he doubts that particular film-watching past-time has fallen out of favor) but she holds herself away from him. Stiff, and fidgety.

He does not push. They are in a room where anyone could walk in, and Darcy's private. He knows that from the drinking game, and from all the hours he has spent in her presence. And the team they are part of would be merciless, relentless. If she wants her space in public, he won't complain.

Her company is more than enough. He'd rather watch the way the colors and shadows play across her face anyway.

It's something he bears in mind over dinner the next day, and gradually she unwinds in his presence again, relaxing until her tongue and thoughts run free.

It's only when he's away from her that the urge to touch becomes unbearable, turned inward so he molests himself in the shower the way the nuns used to threaten would make him go blind. There, an endless tumble of fantasies play out behind his eyelids, leading to his next ridiculous idea.

He knows it's unconventional. He knows their first time together should be something a little more traditional: face-to-face, while he rocks above her, maybe, watching how every movement plays out on her face—and oh God, does he want to do that. But he can't get the list of things she didn't drink to out of his head.

So he writes the list down.

And every dirty fantasy he's had since begs him to at least see if she's willing to experience some of the things he's scrawled onto the paper.

So he gives her the list.

For once, the villains of the world save his skin, giving him an excuse to leave it in her quarters without having to face her while she reads it. He mulls over it for the entire mission, running down the list while wondering what she'll cross out, what she'll leave. If she doesn't throw it back in his face when he returns, offended by his presumptions and failure to romance her adequately.

When they're back at the facility, he asks Friday to confirm the list is still in her rooms, and gets the AI to read it back to him. She confirms the list has been edited.

Then he has to see it for himself.

The corners are a little ruffled, like she's held it a long time, and she hasn't just struck through some of the things. There are little scribbles added: a smiley face here and there, an exclamation mark and an "EWWW!" He laughs, picturing the way her nose must have wrinkled when she wrote this, and commits the amended list to memory.

Now he can't leave, not until his fingers have graced Darcy's skin again.

She's home before long, and he waits until the door is closed behind her before he gathers her close, pulling her up against him while he nuzzles into her hair. It's soft, and floral, and the antidote to a lifetime of gunpowder and blood.

"No threesomes? Nat will be disappointed."

Darcy giggles, the sound traveling through him and lighting him up in ways he could never explain. The idea that he still has the power to make someone laugh is intoxicating. But his hands have a mind of their own, eager to feel more of her skin.

He can't kiss her from this angle, but he can touch her, filling one hand with a breast and slipping the other beneath her clothes, between her thighs. It's faster moving than he intended, but she inches her legs further apart and leans into him. He takes her weight gratefully, exploring her sightlessly with his fingers. She isn't ready for him, not at first, but he listens to her breathing—the way it hitches and swoops at certain movements—and soon his fingers are coated.

"Got any preferences?" he asks, trying to coax more candor from her, but all she offers is a slight shake of her head. Her head has lolled to rest against his shoulder, and now he's got a great view of the way her teeth are sunk into her bottom lip.

He's got the list in his mind's eye, and there are only really a few options suitable for the evening. It's hard to choose, especially without her input, but he decides to let things lead where they will.

Becoming envious of her teeth, he turns her in his arms so he can tug at her bottom lip himself. He has to pull his hands free, but it leaves him able to pull her flush against him, claiming her for another hot, needy kiss.

He owes her so many soft, slow kisses, but they are for another time.

Now, he walks her back towards the bedroom door, relying on instinct to keep them from tripping. When they are over the threshold, he spares himself a moment to glance around. It's too neat in here—she's tidied, expecting his presence, and it's not right at all. He wants all of her, messy corners included.

She's latched onto his jaw, sucking and scraping lightly with her teeth, and he grinds into her. For the first time, one of her hands has reached up to circle his upper arm, and the other has found its way under his t-shirt, splayed across his belly. He is breathing in short, sharp pants. No one has laid hands on him like this for decades, and here she is, desiring him but hesitant.

He covers the hand under the shirt with his own, dragging it upwards, so she knows he wants more. Needs more. Needs her skin to wipe every bruise and blow from the memory of his own.

She seems to get it, exploring the ridges of his abdomen for a moment before pulling away, tugging at the hemline of his shirt before he yanks the damn thing off. Then she drinks him in, eyes devouring and mouth following. When she reaches the puckered skin at his shoulder, she is gentler, her gaze offering him a flash of sorrow before she reclaims his mouth.

There's a flurry of movement, a mutual, awkward undressing before she's naked in front of him. Fully naked this time, and he resists the instinct to turn into a grabby teenage boy. He's forgotten that he's naked too, though, and she apparently feels no such restraint. Her fingers are curled around him, stroking, before he has the chance to brace himself.

"Fuck!"

She laughs and keeps up the movement. He narrows his eyes in response, and in one smooth motion has her on all fours on the bed.

He'd say something about turning the tables, but his mouth's a little busy.

Only when she's fallen apart, back arching while she whispers his name, does he get up from his knees. This time, he's still ready for her, but it's a close thing. He's glad for the latex, when he retrieves it from his pants' pocket in the tangle of fallen clothes, and that's not a thought he ever thought he'd have. But this way, he'll be a little less sensitive, and hopefully a little less quick to fall apart.

Darcy is kneeling on the bed, watching as he rolls it on and chewing on her lip again. "Reverse cowgirl?" she suggests.

He had to look that one up on the internet, though it's obvious when you think about it. It's also not his top choice out of the options, but she's asked for it, so he'll go with it. So he nods, lowers himself onto the bed and shuffles back until he hits the headboard. Then, with an arm around her waist, he helps her into position.

He was wrong about the latex. It's no help at all. Not when he's got Darcy leaning back into his chest, her thighs pressing against his own, and she's wrapped tight around his cock. It's an overload of sensation, and he ruts up into her, making her squeal and push down against him.

There are a few frantic moments of fighting for a rhythm, until they've got one going which suits them both. He's got a handful of breast again, and the other buried between her thighs, hoping to hurry her along before he embarrasses himself. He's swept her hair away from one shoulder so he can nuzzle in, because his mouth has to be doing something, and strokes her with urgency.

He's about to start a litany of old Dodgers stats in his head, when she falters, fluttering around him and keening. It's enough: he gives into the heat at the base of his spine, surging upwards and letting go.

There's plenty to be said about having an armful of pliant, blissed-out Darcy, especially in his own euphoric state. She's snuggly, curling into him when body parts have been extricated, and he can't resist the urge to run his fingers lightly down her arm, across her belly. He could lie like this for hours, bringing that lazy smile to her face, and it's got nothing to do with sex.

At least he's earned himself a place in her bed now, one he returns to as often as she'll have him. There's the list, but there are also nights he has to deviate, has to gather her against him in ways its constraints won't allow.

Taking her to bed is one thing. Leaving her bed is another. He wants to be able to spoon up behind her, or gather her to his chest while they drift off in post-orgasmic chill. But it always has to end, and even her imploring eyes can't keep him by her side. Not when giving into them could end with her being injured.

He is not the same man at night. When sleep claims him, he becomes a wraith, lost to the horrors of his past.

He does his best to make up for abandoning her with long kisses and more time with her during the day. He'd try flowers, too, if her allergies didn't make them a poor choice of gift.

When he catches sight of her around the facility, she looks as wrecked as he feels. The more he has, the more he wants, and it's made worse by their distance outside the bedroom. (Well, apart from when he took her on the helicopter landing pad, ticking outdoor sex off the list). The urge to touch her—to stake a claim in front of everyone they know—is all-consuming, and while he thinks he's keeping it together in public, Stevie's comments after he destroys one punch-bag after another suggests otherwise.

"Darcy?" he asks, and Bucky ignores him to settle another bag on the hook. "You two have got a strange thing going on," he continues.

"We're dating," Bucky corrects Steve. "Not that strange. Unless you've never done it, then I understand it can appear confusing."

Steve ignores the verbal jab. "Do you talk much?"

Bucky shrugs. "I let her do most of it. Don't have anything interesting to say."

Steve gives a noncommittal hum, and it means he has more to say but isn't willing to do it.

"Spit it out, punk."

"You could tell her how you feel."

"She knows how I feel."

"About being with her openly?" He sighs when Bucky ignores him to thump the bag until sand seeps out of the seams. "She's a perceptive girl, Buck, but she can't read minds. If she knows that you want that, she might surprise you. She may be making decisions on what she thinks you want."

Bucky doesn't remember asking for his opinion.

They've already achieved shower sex—twice—but there's nothing in the rules to say they can't keep doing something they've tried. Bucky has Darcy backed into the tiles, his mouth edging down her neck towards her breasts, and his hand beginning to coax what he hopes is the first of several orgasms out of her. She's so pretty when she comes, mouth slack as her back arches, and he's aiming to watch it several times over. Her enthusiastic moans suggest she's okay with that plan, too.

So he's not expecting her question.

"What are we?"

He glances up, expecting her expression to enlighten him, but her eyes are shut tight. Like a puppy waiting to be kicked, and he has no idea why. The question makes no sense, either.

While he's trying to make sense of it, she flees the bathroom, and he has to follow her out into the bedroom where she's hiding her skin from him. It's a symbol, of her backing away and closing down around him. He just doesn't understand why she's doing it.

"Darcy?" he asks, at a loss.

"What are we?" she repeats, before letting loose a string of phrases that don't belong in her mouth, because they don't describe them. "Fuck buddies, friends with benefits—I don't know what they called it back then—"

"You're my girl." How can she not know that? They've been dating for months.

"This thing we've been doing—well, maybe we should have talked it out first. Because it always ends up going wrong, one person ends up deeper than they should, and I should have told you from the beginning that I was way deeper than it obviously looked—"

"Darcy," he cuts in, moving closer, the urge to touch her skin as much a comfort for him as he hopes it is for her. "You're my girl. Not a fuck buddy." He hates saying the words, and there's a dawning sense that maybe Stevie was right after all. Maybe he's assumed too much.

"Am I? Because we don't do anything together except have sex. We might actually be on a rung below fuck buddy."

All he can do is stare at her for a second. He is halfway to completely gone for this girl, already wondering what kind of ring she'd like—if she'd wear it—and here she is thinking she's a convenience.

He fucked up. Badly.

"We go to dinner every night we're both available," he begins, trying to put together a different kind of list, a list of all the ways he's enjoyed her company fully clothed. "We watch movies together. I let you talk me into going bowling, I joined in with drinking games so you could babysit Jane. I have taken you on no less than two picnics." Was the world so backwards that men did that for women they didn't care about? He couldn't bring himself to believe it. "I thought it was pretty clear we're dating."

"We do all that stuff as friends! Outside of this room, you don't even touch me."

He laughs, only there's no humor to it, but the wounded expression in her eyes soothes his hot frustration. He leans in close, thinking of all the ways he could have showered her in affection if only he'd not been such a dunce. "Fuck, Stevie's right, I am rusty at this. Forget people expect me to put stuff into words." He brushes hair away from her cheek, so he can see all of her face, those big eyes staring at him unblinking. "Darcy, I was trying to let you set the pace. Thought you wanted to keep it quiet so nobody stuck their noses in our business, and honest, I don't want anyone knowing enough to use you against me. But if you want to hold hands, cuddle up to me when we watch things, all that sappy stuff—at least in the facility—then I'm more than ready to."

"You won't even spend the night."

She sounds so hurt, and the memory of this is going to make it even harder to drag himself from her arms even though he knows he must. "Sweetheart, I'm no good at night, not enough to trust myself around you. Not yet. But I'm working on it." He gives in to the lure of her little pout for a moment, before continuing. "And if you think you're in this deeper than I am, you've been paying less attention than it seems."

The pout's still there, and he's powerless to resist its call. He won't be happy until he's kissed it away, so he does his best to do that, nipping and licking until he can feel the tension leaching out of her.

"You are my girl, right?" He can't keep his fingers off her, but it seems she feels the same, leaning into his touch.

"I'm your girl," she confirms, biting her lower lip, and his body is fighting two conflicting reactions: reigniting lust, and soaring happiness. It's been a whirlwind five minutes, and he's glad they've put the confusion to rest, but he knows she still has her doubts and insecurities. She will continue to put his needs first, before ever voicing her own, and that's not okay. He needs to know what's going on in her head. He needs her to know that what she wants matters to him.

There are ways of teaching her that.

"Good. How about we continue this in the shower? I think this whole mess proves you still need to learn to ask for what you want…"