ABOUT ME — hiii you can call me meep! I’m soo glad you’re here hehe a little about me is I’m a part-time adult, full-time B.B. lovergirl<33
WARNINGS — this is strictly a 18+ page, MDNI. I don’t typically write any extreme tropes, but please of course ALWAYS read warnings!! TY! My asks are always open, shoot me a message! I can’t promise I’ll get to requests as I have a series ongoing and many WIPS…but always willing to hear you out:)
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ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggie—"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okay—"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I said— "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"O—Okay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
You both know she's been listening to every word.
The walk to the café is silent.
The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."
Bucky lost his nerve.
"So, Friday… at seven."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell me—"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Bucky—"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
wc: +9.4k
summary: Your friends arranged a blind date for you. The problem? It's been so long since the last date you had that you're spiraling. Enter, the owner's son of the bookstore you work at, Bucky Barnes, a reformed playboy who offers to help you with his dating advice.
What can go wrong? It's not as if you had been crushing on him for longer than you would want to admit.
warnings/tags: +18 MDNI. bookstore au, no use of y/n, fluff, smut, friends to lovers, blind date, bucky is a nepobaby, the pitt crossover? Mel King and Cassie McKay are your friends... yes, from The Pitt, oh, and the date is with Frank Langdon, sue me. Dating inexperience, requited unrequited love, secret crush, falling in love, reader overthinks, reader has hair, jealous bucky barnes, Alpine, p in v, oral sex (f), missionary position, praise kink, dirty talk, edging, creampie, unprotected sex, petnames
a/n: I know I'm late, but school was kicking my ass, but here it is! Enjoy! beta read by @w1nter-fairy and @buckysdecaflove
part of elixirs arcade writing event - @elixirfromthestars
elixirs hold 'em: high card
Bookstore AU + Person A arranges for random Person B to call them during a date as an escape call - they fall in love. One of them is very romantically experienced, while the other one is not.
THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. If you're a minor or an ageless blog and you interact with this work, you will be blocked !!
Read on AO3 | Masterlist and wips
The distinct smell of books flooded your senses as you stepped into the bookstore that Monday morning, holding a take-out cup of coffee from the nearby coffee shop. It was comforting, as it had been since the first time you walked in, and as it had been this past year working there. Barnes' Book Corner was an old establishment, owned by the same family for generations.
As always, the weight on your shoulders lifted, relaxing your posture as you took a deep breath. It was strange how your workplace was also a place that could be the source of your comfort, a place where you could find solace.
It had been a miracle that you had seen the job offer poster just as the owner's son was putting it up against the front window. The moment you entered the bookstore, you were convinced that the universe worked in mysterious ways, because there was no other place you would rather work in.
Bucky Barnes, the owner’s son, was the one in charge of interviewing you, since he was the one who was currently managing while his parents prepared for their retirement. To your surprise, after you answered a few questions, he hired you on the spot, confirming the serendipity of the whole situation.
From there, one shift after another, your friendship with him bloomed. Bucky was a very fascinating individual, especially once you went past his reputation and his usual brooding exterior. He was a few years older than you, but your school days overlapped enough for you to learn that Bucky was a playboy, always on dates, with a girl under his arm during the frat parties.
Your shifts went by between pleasant conversations and attending to customers, Bucky being a constant across your days. However, said friendship had rarely left the confines of the bookstore. Being in charge wasn't something he took lightly, so he poured his soul into his job, which translated into extra hours and zero social life outside the job.
It also helped that Bucky was a sight for sore eyes. Sharp jaw, devastating smile, piercing blue eyes that could fight the sea from their beauty. More than once, you had found yourself ogling at him as he worked around, carrying boxes that made him flex his biceps and reach the top shelves, making his shirts ride up and flashing his skin. And his brain? God, he was smart and funny, always with a copy of a book near him, and ready to drop the most nerdiest comment possible.
Yeah, you may have had a crush on him years ago, and sometimes it came back from time to time, but who could blame you? He was magnetic. Handsome and charming. Dangerous combination.
“Morning, boss.” You said after stepping behind the counter, leaving your stuff in its usual spot.
“You’re early,” Bucky said over his shoulder without looking at you since he was putting up some books on the highest shelf.
“Wow, you said that as if that's a shocker.”
“It is.”
You made an exaggerated gasp, making him huff a laugh. “Excuse me? You're talking to the employee of the month, a title I'm holding since I started working here, mind you!” You pointed at the board were said title was over your smiling photo. “If I’m always late, I wouldn't have it!”
“Sweetheart,” he said, the nickname he always used with you. “Besides me, you're the only employee, and I can't have it since I’m — how did you call me the other day?” His smug smile made your heart flutter, but you decided to ignore it.
“A nepobaby.” You completed. “You’re so rude, I don't think I will give you the coffee I bought for you, I’ll have to drink it.” You said with a mournful tone, pulling the coffee closer to you.
That made him turn.
He narrowed his eyes at you, leaving the book in his hand back into the box. “Did you say coffee?”
You nodded.
“I bought it for the best boss in the world, but I don't see any of your parents here.” You shrugged as your eyes scanned the back of the store, as if waiting for his parents to materialize on the hall that led to the break room and back office.
“Is that from the coffee shop around the corner?” He said, nearly drooling, noticing the cup sleeve.
Another nod as you logged in to the computer at the front desk. He almost dropped the book in his hand as he placed it back into the book cart and rushed to the counter.
"You're an amazing person, have I told you that?" Bucky said, forearms resting over the counter as he leaned forward.
"Mmm, maybe." You said.
"You're the best employee of the year as well." He added, his eyes tracking the coffee cup as you moved it slightly in his direction.
You hovered your hand around the cup, "Enough for a raise?" You asked, raising a brow.
He hung his head forward, defeated. "You know I can't clear that yet," he lifted his head slightly and leaned even more, lowering his voice as if he was sharing a secret. "But I can put in a good word with my father."
You shrugged, "I know, I had to try. Drink it before it gets cold, it's your order." He raised a fist in victory when you placed his cup near his hand.
"What about you?" He said, closing his eyes as he got a whiff of the coffee scent. "You didn't buy a cup for yourself? We can always share."
"No need, I already drank mine there. I had an early breakfast with a couple of friends."
He scrunched his nose, "The good group you actually enjoy going out with or the one you haven't got the strength to drop and keep going with them even if they make you feel bad?"
You slowly turned to him with your jaw dropped, "That's it, give me that cup back!" You said, reaching your hand.
"No! It's mine!" He leaned back, raising his cup high so you couldn't grab it. You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the monitor, "I didn't lie, though." He mumbled against the cup once he brought it down.
You sighed, "The good group."
"Thank God. Last time you went out with them was what, after the wedding of one of them last year, right?" You stopped typing.
"Yeah? How do you even remember that?"
He shrugged, "You were stressing out the week prior about your dress, something about not being the right color in the preview, and you also asked for a day off, remember?"
"It was not my fault that they took the photo with bad lighting! The burgundy looked way darker than it should have."
"Believe me, even if it wasn't the right color, you still looked beautiful." He winked and turned around to return to his spot next to the cart, missing the way your skin flushed.
Maybe you do need to get laid.
Which reminded you of the conversation you had with your friends that morning. The reunion went as it always does: each one of you did a recap of the highlights of the last few months, quick jokes between anecdotes over a cup of coffee, and your breakfast election.
Looking back, the topic of your love life was going to be on the table by default. Both of your friends were happily married; one had two kids, while the other was newlywed and expecting. Kids and marriage shanninigangs were the main theme during their turns, so when both turned to you, the "single" sign was already hovering over your head in neon lights with bright arrows pointing at you.
"So what about you? Any cute guy coming to the bookstore?" Mel asked with a playful glint in her eyes, her eyebrows waggling as she rubbed a hand over her growing belly.
You narrowed your eyes over your cup, "Not really."
"Anyone that catched your eye? Any… coworkers perhaps?" Cassie asked, taking a bite of her pastry.
"I don't have any coworkers — well, Bucky… he's my boss, uhm, quasi-boss, more like my manager, if I'm being honest." You rambled as you took a piece out of your pastry with your fingers. "But no one special."
Cassie and Mel exchanged a look, while you obliviously continued eating as you stared out of the window.
"When was the last time you went out on a date?" Mel wondered. "Was it that date with Scott?"
You rolled your eyes, "Don't remind me of him. But yeah, I think so."
Cassie looked at you with her jaw dropped, "Girl, that was before my second pregnancy, and Harrison has 3!"
You winced.
"Wait, but that was the last date. Seriously, your last relationship was with Dylan?" Mel said with a frown, as if reciting the timeline of your lovelife would change the facts.
You rolled your eyes. "Yes, why are you acting as if you didn't know this?"
"I mean, I suspected it, but we rarely talk about your love life! Let alone your sex life!"
"Wow, we are not discussing my sex life." You side-eyed the crowded coffee shop, proper of the hour. "At least not in public and definitely not sober."
"Come on, girl, you are not the type that likes hookups, you're telling me you had slept with someone after Dylan?" You scrunched your nose. "You see my point?"
"I'm fine, I promise. I prefer it this way. I'm happy enjoying my single life and my toys."
Mel shook her head; her face reminded you of how she looked every time there was a debate in class. "Seriously? Haven't you wondered what it would be like? Having someone to share your life, someone who loves you and makes you laugh just as hard as they make you come."
Even Cassie choked on her drink at her words.
"Jesus Christ, I won't believe anything that comes out of your mouth. Hormones and your honeymoon phase glow are talking for you." You said with a fond smile.
Mel blushed, "Yeah, maybe you're right." She chuckled. "However, my point stands."
You rolled your eyes and focused again on your food. After a few moments in silence, Cassie reached her hand, placing it at the side of your plate, forcing you to look up at her.
"What would you say about us arranging a blind date for you?" Cassie said, using the same tone she used when she tried to convince her children to eat some veggies.
"A blind date, really?" You narrowed your eyes at her.
"Yeah, who better to arrange it than your two best friends? We are both in happy marriages, so that's enough to make us more than qualified. We know what you like and what not. We can totally find you a great prospect."
"In what moment did my life become a season of Bridgerton?"
Mel cleared her throat and, holding her cup of tea high, she said with her best British impression: "Dearest gentle reader, you shall be the diamond of this season."
"Easy there, Lady Whistledown." You said, with tears in your eyes from laughter.
"So, what do you say?" Cassie said, laughter still bubbling in her voice.
You considered it for a second. You didn't lie about being happy, but you wouldn't lie that you haven't been wondering what it would be like to have someone. Getting back to your lonely apartment was getting bitterly sad.
"One date. And if it doesn't work out, you two will drop the cupid's work."
Mel squealed, clapping rapidly. "We promise. Oh my God, I can't wait!"
"We won't disappoint you," Cassie said with a bright smile, placing her hand over yours on the table and giving it a few taps. "Better start planning the wedding."
You rolled your eyes, taking a last bite of your pastry and getting up to order Bucky's coffee, knowing that he would kill you if he found out you had gone there and didn't get him something, leaving your friends scheming on the table.
・・・・・
Two days had passed when you got the message. Your shift had just started a few minutes ago, and surprisingly, Bucky hadn't arrived yet, so you were still waiting for him to bring the new arrivals boxes to the front of the store. Without much to do, you took your phone out, and the moment it unlocked, as if it was part of a prank from the universe, the notification popped up.
Mel
You have a date!
Next Saturday. 7 pm.
I'll text you the location.
You
???????
Cassie
He's great, you're gonna love him.
You
Okay??
Mel
He's so nice!
Just make sure to wear something pretty.
Show that curves, babe ;)
You let out a grunt of frustration. This was insane. You had thought they were going to forget, truly. Or struggle to the point that they themselves would tell you that they would give up, since the dating pool looked more and more pathetic nowadays. But two days? In two days, they found someone willing to have a blind date with you. You brought your hand to your mouth and started biting your nail — an old habit that you had thought you had left behind back in college.
A date.
A fucking date.
You hadn't dated in years. The last one had been a nightmare. And before that, you had been in a long-term relationship, where a 'date' consisted of watching a movie or having take-out in his dorm.
What if you fumble this date?
What if, because of your inexperience, you scare a perfect guy away?
"Why the fuck did I agree on this?" You mumbled, burying your head in your hands.
In that instant, the bell over the door chimed, announcing a customer, or so you thought.
"Who's ready for a blind date!" Bucky exclaimed, holding a bag with rolls of gift paper sticking out of it.
Your eyes widened, and your elbows that had been resting on the counter slipped, making you almost lose balance and almost hit yourself on the face. "What?"
Bucky raised the bag, brows knitting together at your reaction. “The dynamic that my mom insists on us doing? The blind date with a book? Did you forget?”
“Oh, yes, that, sorry — yeah, I remember.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes! I — What do you need me to do?”
“We need to wrap the books that are in that box on that table and write the clues on the front. Are you sure you're okay? You can take the day off if you need.” He sounded worried as he scanned your face.
“No!” You exclaimed, horrified, the last thing you needed was going back to your lonely apartment and spiraling alone. “I’m fine.”
He hummed, “I will act as if I believe you.” He approached the counter and leaned in. “But, just remember, you can trust me with whatever you need, okay? I’m your friend.”
You smiled at him and nodded, “Thank you, Bucky.”
He reciprocated your smile and, after tapping the counter, he strutted towards the table he had organized after hours the day before. “Come on, these books won't wrap themselves.”
You took the list of books with the preselected clues from the printer and joined him.
For the next hour, you fell into a system, while Bucky wrapped the books and placed a sticky note in the front so you could know what title it was, while you were in charge of writing the clues and drawing doodles as decoration on the front of each book.
It was probably the tenth time in less than an hour that you had written “Enemies to lovers” and "Fantasy romance," when Bucky called your name.
“Are you sure you're okay? You keep bouncing your leg, and I think you’re gonna rip the top of that pen if you keep biting it.”
Your leg froze mid-bounce.
Your mouth opened and then closed again.
After a sigh, you closed your eyes. “I’m gonna tell you, but please promise me you won't laugh.”
He left the book he was working on on the table, “Hit me.”
“My friends… they just texted me that they arranged a date for me.”
He blinked.
“A date?” He said slowly.
“Well, a blind date.” You pointed at the pile of books next to you. “Kinda ironic if you ask me.”
His eyes fell to the book in front of him and frowned.
“What?” You asked.
“Nothing, nothing.” He shook his head. “I just… I’m trying to remember the last time you mentioned something about dating.”
“Well, you can keep digging, but to be honest, I think this is the first time we've touched this topic — at least on my end, I’ve heard many things about your dating life.” You chuckled, hoping that he would take the bait and forget your situation.
“You shouldn't believe rumours.” He squinted his nose.
“You forget we went to the same school,” you said, “Still, since I’ve been working here, I’ve seen you leave early for dates or like that time that girl came looking for you to give you back your wallet that you left in her house.”
He frowned. “That was before. I haven't gone on dates in 8 months.” He made an emphasis on the time passed.
“Oh, really? I haven't noticed.” You said and went back to scribbling on the book in your hands. You felt his eyes still on you, and sure enough, when you lifted your head, he was staring at you with his brows raised. “Shit, that sounded wrong. I mean that I truly hadn't noticed, that was not sarcasm. I do pay attention, it's not like I'm distracted while working, I’m just focused.” You rambled until he started laughing.
“God, you do overthink.”
“That's what my therapist said.” You shrugged while you felt your cheeks burning.
“Is that what is happening here? You overthinking the date?”
You exhaled, exhausted, “I'm overthinking everything. What should I wear? What should I even say? How much is too much? What's expected? I haven't been on a date in years, and before that, dates weren't something that I paid any mind to, and they definitely were far from decent, if I even could call them dates. None of my past boyfriends cared enough to take me on a real date.”
You squirmed, trying to push back the memories of the many times you cried yourself to sleep, thinking that you weren't enough for any of them.
“My friends care, and they say this guy is a great catch, so what if I fuck up? I don't have a problem being single, but… i just don't want to lose something that is good only because of a stupid, bad date.”You ranted.
“That’s… so much pressure.” He softened his voice, empathy written in his features.
“Yeah, imagine having to deal with it.”
A beat.
“You don't have to do it alone, you know that, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're worrying about going on a date, and here I am, someone who has gone to several dates. You can rant to me about what you're overthinking, and I can help you. Think of me like Yoda but for dating.”
“And I'll be your Jedi?”
His eyes glinted with enthusiasm.
“Yes! You're getting it!”
You snorted, “I don't know if you're insane for suggesting it or I’m even more insane for actually considering it.”
“Is that a yes?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
You sighed, “Fuck it, let’s do it. I don't have anything to lose.”
Bucky punched the air, “Yes!”
“Why are you so happy?” You chuckled, watching as he did a weird celebration dance.
“Can’t I be happy for helping a friend? Think of this as a payoff for the many times you have helped me out.”
“A raise would be nicer, though.” You muttered under your breath.
He stopped dancing and pointed at you. “I’m working on it!”
You rolled your eyes and pointed at the pile next to him. “Go back to work, those books won't wrap themselves.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He said, raising a hand to his head in the form of a salute.
Yeah… this might be a bad idea.
Later that day, you were eating your lunch when Bucky burst into the break room. He sat across from you and, with a smile that promised trouble. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his ankles as he stretched, and his hands remained threaded together over his stomach.
“Tell me more about you.” He said.
“I’m on my break.” You buried your fork in your plate and brought it to your mouth. "I don't function unless my break is done."
“And you need help. Part of being on a date is being comfortable talking about yourself and listening, so let's practice." He explained.
“Okay…” You looked down at your plate with a frown.
He raised his eyebrows expectantly, “I’m listening.”
You let out a deep breath. “I don't know. I suck at this.”
“Come on, tell me anything. For example, why did you decide to work here? We have never talked about that.”
“It’s stupid.” You mumbled.
“It's not, I promise.”
You locked eyes with him, debating yourself if you should tell him the truth or go with a simpler, less uncomfortable reason. But the more you looked into his blue eyes, the more you remembered who was in front of you — yes, your almost boss slash former crush, but also your friend.
So you went for the truth.
“When I was younger, my parents had a rough patch; there were always fights at home and… I don't know, I was old enough to get out of the house without their supervision, so I went out and walked around until one day I found this place, it was… quiet, peaceful. A safe place.” You said, looking down at your food. “I used to come here every day until they decided to divorce and my dad moved out.”
Your eyes burned, tears threatened to spill as you remembered exactly how you felt those years ago.
“So last year, I was on my way to an interview at a corporation. A boring desk job. Can you believe? And then as I was passing by, I saw you placing that sign.”
“That's why you had a job application with you,” Bucky mumbled. You raised your head to look at him, and when he realized he had said it out loud, he blushed. “Sorry.”
You let out a wet laugh. “Yeah, that's why. The moment I crossed that door… I felt exactly like I did back then. I felt safe, like I was coming back home. It was a no-brainer after that.”
His eyes softened, he reached towards you and placed his hand over your wrist. “I’m glad you found this place.”
You felt your throat tightening; the way he was looking at you was doing things for you that you didn't want to entertain with, so you looked away, removing your hand to pick up your bowl and lean back into your chair.
"Anyways, don't you think that's a topic for a second date, at least? A lot to unpack for a first date." You attempted to joke.
"It's your decision. If you feel comfortable about it, at the end of the day, it's a part of your life."
"I'll have it mind." You glanced at him, and for a second, you thought he was leaning in, but you heard the bell that announced a new customer, interrupting whatever he was thinking of doing.
He closed his eyes for a second, cursing under his breath, and then got up. "I'll go, you finish your lunch."
You nodded, and then he was gone.
The day passed by with more stolen moments whenever the flow of customers died down. He would approach you at the front desk whenever the customers left the shop or in case some were just looking around, and he didn't need to be placing more books or taking some out from the storage. In case you had switched places, he would find you wherever you were in the store and trail behind you as he asked questions.
Some were rapid-fired, especially when he saw someone approaching from the corner of his eye:
Cats or dogs?
Sunrise or sunset?
Sweet or savory?
Early bird or night owl?
If there was time, he made more open questions:
If you had a superpower, what would it be?
What would you do if you won the lottery?
Favorite song and album, and why?
“Okay, so let me see if I’m understanding, so he is going to marry another girl —” He said while you counted the till after he placed the closed sign.
“He wants to propose.” You corrected.
“Tomato, tomahto. He wants to propose, gifting her a star.” You nodded. “And the star is a girl.”
“Yup.”
“And he falls in love with her.”
“Eventually — it's a really good movie.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I don't know, there's something appealing to watch their journey together and how even if they annoy each other from the start, you see them fall in love without them realizing, or at least trying not to think about it.”
“So you're a romantic.” You expected to see a mocking expression, but instead, there was a look in his eyes that you could only think of as genuine curiosity.
“I guess you can say so.”
He hummed, and after he nodded to himself, he took his phone from the table and pocketed it.
“Bucky?” You narrowed your eyes at him. He was moving in silence, something he rarely did, let alone in the middle of a conversation.
"Do you mind closing tonight?" He said, reaching for his jacket behind the counter.
"Where are you going?"
"Unimportant." He put on his jacket. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Unbelievable." You muttered. "And I fucking lost count." You groaned and started over.
・・・・・
It was early, you had just flipped the sign to OPEN just a few minutes ago, and now you were busy accommodating some books when you heard the door open.
“One second!” You called out, taking the last book of the cart and putting it in its place.
“Good morning.” Bucky was waiting for you next to the front desk, leaning against the wood.
“I thought you were a customer.” You said, rolling the book cart with you.
“It’s still early. Here, let's switch.” He turned back, took something from behind him, and walked towards you.
He took the cart and handed you a takeout cup, same one you had bought him the day before.
You inhaled the scent of fresh coffee and mentally scolded yourself for not taking a detour to buy your own cup.
“It's for you, by the way,” Bucky said as he rolled the cart away.
“What?”
“It's your order. Drink it.” He chuckled when he saw the confusion on your face. “What? Sweetheart, don't look at me as if I never do good things for you.”
Maybe it was because you had your guard down, but you flushed.
You didn't answer him; you hid your face and drank from the cup. Only one sip was enough for you to widen your eyes and look at him with surprise.
“It is my order!”
“Of course it is.” He said with a smile, placing the cart in its place and moving to continue the morning routine.
“How?” You took another sip and closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of the beverage travel inside you.
“Remember that time, when my parents were here, and I volunteered to bring all of you coffee? Well, I didn't forget your order.”
“That was months ago. I had less than a month here.” You said with surprise.
He shrugged. "I pay attention."
Bucky walked towards the computer and began checking the emails, taking your place at the front desk.
"I see that."
"Oh, by the way, I saw the movie," Bucky said casually over his shoulder. “The one you mentioned was your favorite?”
“Really?”
He nodded, focused on the screen, “Good movie, I see why you like it. And you were right about them.” He turned to face you, “Their journey truly was appealing, but damn, the number of times I just wanted to shake some sense into them so they could see they had what they needed in front of them.” He made a gesture of strangling the air.
You chuckled. “Exactly!”
You kept talking about the movie and other hobbies while working; it felt natural talking with him. Even if during your first month you had tried to keep it professional, Bucky’s charm had been disarming.
You hadn't even received your first check when he was making you laugh and talking about everything and nothing at the same time.
Now, with this whole date situation, Bucky realized that there were many things he didn't know about you, and maybe it was selfish, but he was determined to know you — not his co-worker who could talk about him about the frequent customers, who could keep up with his humor and make him lose his composure while doing inventory and restocking — the real you, the one that lived outside the bookstore when you were out of the clock.
・・・・・
Three days before your date, while both of you were taking boxes out of the storage room, Bucky became bolder.
“Are you planning to have sex with him?” He said casually, holding the door open of the room with one hand and carrying a box with his metal arm so you could go through.
You almost dropped the box in your arms if it hadn't been because he was close enough to keep the box steady with his hand.
“Careful, you don't want to get injured so close to your date.” He said with a teasing smile.
“James Buchanan Barnes!” You scolded him.
He winced. “Full government name? Damn.”
“Why are you even making that question?”
“I swear I’m not a perv.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He snorted. “You mentioned when you were rambling about the date, remember?”
Your eyebrows jumped.
“Well, not explicitly.” He added after seeing your expression. “But you said you were worried about expectations, where the limits are. I thought you referred to that.”
You opened your mouth, but words got stuck in your throat.
“You really have a good memory.” You said instead, placing the box you were carrying on the counter to open it. You tried to use the box cutter, but you struggled to make it glide over the cardboard.
“And you're deflecting, I thought we agreed to be honest.” He approached, towering behind you. “Let me do it.” He said, hovering his hand over yours that was holding the box cutter.
Your breath hitched. He was too close; you could feel his breath fanning on the exposed skin at the side of your neck, and if you took half a step back, you would have his chest against your back.
Instead of taking the blade from your hand, he wrapped his hand over yours, applying enough pressure so the blade could cut through the material.
“We need to change the blade,” He mumbled, removing his hand and with it the box cutter. He put the blade next to the box but didn't move; instead, he placed that hand on the counter, half cagging you.
You gulped, suddenly feeling your mouth dry.
“I’m not deflecting.” You tried to make your voice steady, keeping your eyes trained on the box before you, trying your best not to move back.
He chuckled.
“Then answer.” His voice dropped, low and gravely.
You wetted your lips with a glide of your tongue. And in an attempt to appear nonchalant, you turned around, a decision that quickly made itself noted that it was a bad idea.
You had to tilt your head up to look at him. Suddenly, it felt as if the space between you had shrunk. It didn't help that his metal hand landed on the counter too, fully caging you.
“I — I think it will depend.” You choked.
“Of what?” His eyes scanned your face.
“If there's chemistry. And if he wants to.”
The muscle of his jaw jerked.
“What about you? Do you want to?”
“I don't know yet.” You whispered.
“Would you kiss him?” His eyes dropped for a second to your lips, and then went back to your eyes.
“If things led us there." It was the turn of your eyes to focus on his lips, "Sure.”
“If he had you in this position as I do, would you go for it? A kiss?” He asked when you looked back at his eyes.
“Probably.” There was that again, that glance at his lips.
He hummed, his eyes going back to your lips.
If it hadn't been because the counter was supporting you, you were sure that your knees would have given out.
And then he moved, turning around and going back to taking out boxes.
What the fuck was that?
Before your mind could spiral, he talked again, this time from a much safer distance.
“Whatever you let him do, remember that you're also in control. You can say no. Don't take any step if you don't feel comfortable. Don't give a fuck about his expectations.” Bucky said sternly.
“And if you feel that he's pressing you to do anything that you don't want to, or if you just don't want to be there anymore — you can always reach out to have an escape call.”
“My what?”
He said your name, stopping by the doorframe of the storage room. “Please tell me you have talked with your friends. They are arranging a blind date and not even offering to be your escape call?” He sounded offended.
“I’m confused.”
“You know, when you're on a date, and you want to leave because it's boring, uncomfortable, or you just don't want to be there anymore — a friend can call you.”
You shook your head.
“You should tell them.”
You fidgeted with your fingers.
“I can hear the gears inside your head turning. What's the issue?”
“They know this guy. I don't think I’d need an escape call. Besides, it's on a weekend, they're busy with their family plans.”
“Sweetheart, it doesn't matter if you're going on a date with the best bachelor around; you need to have a safety plan.” He said before getting inside the room.
You sighed. He was right.
"Would you do it?" You said.
"Can you repeat that? I didn't hear you." Bucky said, emerging from the room with two boxes in his arms.
"Would you be my escape call if I need it?"
His eyes softened, and he approached you, stopping right in front of you. "Of course, whatever you need."
You mirrored his smile, and, without thinking about it, you wrapped your arms around him and hugged him.
"Thank you, Bucky." You mumbled against his chest.
He reciprocated the hug, resting his head over yours.
"Not a problem. That's what friends are for."
・・・・・
Days with you, Bucky realized, passed by quickly. This arrangement had pulled you both much closer, so much that Bucky dreaded that it was going to be over soon — sure, you would still be friends like you had been since you started working with him, but he really hoped that the easiness and openness with which you had been interacting these past days would remain.
The day had finally arrived; tonight, you would have your date, and he would see if all the advice and practice had paid off. While Bucky did his morning run around the neighborhood, he realized something, a feeling that he had been having these past days, and had grown more frequent, appeared again, a pang in his chest whenever he thought about you being on a date with another man.
The feeling had come previously, building up softly, creeping until it became painful. Each time he noticed the glint in your eyes when you rambled about something that was on your mind, when you would laugh so hard that your whole body swayed and rested on his side, your smile… soon another man would be on the receiving end of it.
His mind went back again to that day that he had you caged against the counter; he had been so close to kissing you, and after your confession… thinking about this unknown man that would be close enough to do what he had stopped himself from doing, to think that he would be able of feel your lips against his, to touch you, and if he got lucky, he would be able to hear his name out of your lips as you came undone.
Jealousy.
Bucky Barnes was jealous.
He wished that you had a good time, purely because he knew you deserved nothing less than that. But a good time meant that you would like whoever was going to be sitting across from you during your date.
Bucky got to his apartment, his mind still building scenarios, and he got to his shower after checking that Alpine had her bowls of food and water full. Hours passed by with him trying to keep his mind occupied, until his phone rang.
"I need your help." You said the moment the facecall connected.
He could only see your face partly as you moved across your apartment. Bucky noticed that your hair was done; you had opted to let your hair down, making it flow with each movement you did — he wanted nothing more than to bury his head in the crook of your neck.
"Hello to you too, what do you need?" He said quickly. Internally cringing to himself at his earnestness.
He saw how you bit your lip, second-guessing your decision to call him in the first place.
Bucky called your name.
"I told you whatever you need, I'm here. Tell me what it is."
You sighed, placing the phone right in front of you so you could see him properly, still only showing your face.
"I just hung up a two-hour call with my friends, I did my hair, and went through my whole closet." You grunted. "I don't have any idea what to wear. Their only advice is cleavage and a miniskirt, but I'm not sure."
"You want me to drive you to the mall?" Bucky glanced at the clock on his wall, "If we hurry up, maybe you can find an outfit."
You chuckled, "I appreciated, but I do think I can make out something out of my clothes, but —" you wetted your lips with the tip of your tongue. "I called you because I want your opinion on my options… you're also a man, I could use your feedback."
"Of course, sweetheart, show me." He said, interrupting your rambling, especially since you were already flushing.
You smiled at him, and then the image became a blur as you placed the phone against something so he could see you from head to toe. He wondered if this was the same angle that you were using with your friends from the quickness with which you set it up.
"Okay, I think you'll be able to see the look." You mumbled as you stepped away from the phone and then spun around. "What do you think?"
You were wearing a white blouse, paired with a pencil skirt that hugged your curves.
He hummed, "Where is said date?"
"It's a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, not too fancy and not too casual." You said.
"Next outfit then, you look like you're on your way to a job interview."
You gasped, offended. "Is the skirt, right?"
He nodded. "Yep. Next, sweetheart."
You exhaled and then disappeared from the frame.
"Ready? This is the next option." You said, stepping in front of the phone.
Bucky had to stop himself from dropping his jaw and making his eyes go full-on cartoon heart eyes. This outfit was simple, but it was so… you. A black top, with a jacket over it, paired with a long skirt — a long skirt with a slit that went up to your thigh.
"Are you there?" You called out when you stopped spinning.
Bucky blinked and cleared his throat. "Yeah, still here, my connection buffered for a second." He lied. "I think that looks perfect. It's very you."
"You think so?" You leaned towards the phone and smiled; that, and the glint in your eyes, was disarming.
He nodded, "Excuse me for a second." He got up from his couch and went to the kitchen. As he served himself a glass of water, Alpine jumped to the counter and meowed at the phone.
"Is that you, Queen Alpine?" You said. "Long time no see, beautiful."
Bucky frowned, "Do you know my cat?"
"Your mom asked me to go feed her when you went out during your vacations." You explained.
"I thought she had done it." He said as he picked up the phone again and returned to his living room.
"She tried, but Alpine kept acting weird. She asked me to go with her, and it turns out your girl loves me. She let me pet her and ate while I was there."
“She’s smart.”
“That she is.” You agreed. “So, this option?”
“I like that one. But it's your choice.”
“Great, it's my pick too. I have to go, now that I know what I'm wearing, I can do my makeup.”
“Remember, if you need to get out of there, call me, no matter what time it is. I’ll be waiting. Text me when you arrive and get home too, please.”
“Will do. Thank you, Bucky.” You said and then sent him a kiss, “Talk to you later, bye!”
And then you were gone.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch.
Did it make him a bad person that he wished you had a bad date only so you could call him and hear your voice again?
At 6:55, his phone buzzed.
You
I’m here, apparently he's parking his car.
omg he's here
Bucky
Good luck
You left a heart on his message a beat later.
And so his torture began.
Bucky paced around the apartment without much direction. He went to his room and undid and did his bed again, he did his laundry, did the dishes, and started cleaning the apartment — all that with Alpine meowing at him from her spot on the window. Every few minutes, he put his phone out and stared at your text thread.
At 8 pm, he took the keys to his car out of the bowl near the door and put them in his pocket.
“If she needs me, I need to be able to get out quickly.” He said out loud, earning another meow from Alpine, even she could see through his bullshit.
That train of thought made him take a quick shower, change clothes, and put on his shoes.
He wondered if that guy made you laugh.
If he was letting you talk or interrupting you.
If he noticed whenever you wanted to keep talking about something or when you wanted to change topics.
If his eyes dropped to your lips, and if you did the same with his.
Bucky closed his eyes and groaned.
Why the fuck didn't he ask the name of the restaurant? Why didn't he offer to pick you up? Ah, yes, he didn't want to make you think he was a weirdo. Well, now Bucky was suffering the consequences of second-guessing.
By 9:30 pm, he wanted to cry because you hadn't called him yet, and that meant one thing: you were enjoying your date.
And if that was true, that meant that Bucky had lost his chance.
The truth was that Bucky had been harboring feelings for you for what felt like an eternity — even though it had only been less than a year since he had truly interacted with you; he had seen you before, of course, living near and having overlapping time at the same schools. But he was a coward. He liked what you two had, the easy-as-breathing type of friendship, a type of trust and reciprocated respect.
He tried to date other people, only to fully stop a few months ago, once he realized he felt like shit during and after each date. As if each attempt were a direct act of betrayal to you and to his feelings. He had convinced himself that having you as a friend was enough to make his heart stop aching, enough closeness to alleviate his yearning.
And it had been.
Until now.
He buried his face in his hands. He just hoped that this guy, whoever he was, would take care of you, love you the way you deserved.
It was close to ten pm when he gave up and decided to take his pity party to his bedroom. He would stay up until you texted him that you were safe and sound back in your home, but that didn't stop him from throwing himself on his bed and drowning himself in his misery.
He had already said good night to Alpine when he heard someone knocking on his door. Alpine perked her ears and let out a meow.
"Easy, Al, it's probably the neighbor," Bucky said, and then padded to the door.
He opened the door and froze the moment his eyes landed on the person outside.
You.
"Hi, do you mind if I come in?" You said, burying your hands inside the pockets of your jacket.
"Y-yeah, sure, of course, come in." He stuttered and moved aside.
He closed the door behind you.
You whistled, "This place looks and smells good." You said, looking around, then your eyes landed on Alpine. "Hi, Queen!"
Alpine meowed, jumping from her spot at the window and padding to you. You knelt on the floor and brushed your hand over her fur. "Such a pretty girl!"
Bucky was at lost of words, he blinked repeatedly.
Had he gone to sleep, and was this a dream?
"Totally real." You said, standing up and turning around with a smile on your face.
"Did I say it out loud?" Bucky asked.
You nodded, biting your lip and trying to muffle your laugh.
"How was your date?" Bucky wondered, after clearing his throat.
"The date was great, actually." You assured. "His name is Frank, he's a doctor, well, a pediatrician." You added.
"That's good." He croaked, rooted in his spot near the door.
"It is. He's a great guy." You sighed, and then you started pacing around the living room, your eyes scanning the room as you moved around. Bucky could only keep his eyes on you, still confused about what you were doing in his apartment. "The food was amazing. He was a good company too. Your advice helped a lot." You said the last part over your shoulder. "I really felt that the conversation flowed, I felt more confident too."
You turned to see him, and then slowly approached him. "But every single moment I kept thinking about something, and it didn't leave my mind since the moment I hung up our video call."
You stopped a few steps in front of him. "The whole time I kept thinking about another person. I kept comparing his questions to the way he would respond. The way he looked at me." You took a step forward until you had to lift your face to meet his eyes. "The way he made me feel."
"Who did you compare him to?" He whispered.
You tilted your head, a smile pulling the corners of your mouth. "I think you know."
"I — It will really help me if you say it out loud." He said, and you chuckled.
You took another step forward.
"I kept wishing that I was on a date with you." You said softly.
His breath hitched.
"I was wishing the same." He mumbled.
"Thank God, because if you didn't, this whole thing would have been so humiliating."
It was his time to chuckle. His eyes dropped to your lips and back to your eyes. "Can I kiss you?"
"Please."
Bucky lifted his hands and grabbed your face. The moment your lips touched, it was as if fireworks went off inside the room. He leaned into you, making you step back until the back of your thighs brushed the couch.
"Bucky," you whimpered against his mouth.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself down. Your breathing was ragged, as well as his.
"We shouldn't…" He choked out, with a pained look on his face, his control hanging by a thread.
"I want to." You said, reaching your hand to cup his cheek. He turned his face slightly, leaving a kiss in your palm and leaning into your touch. "I want you, and I need you, Bucky, only you."
He opened his eyes, his pupils were dilated, black pools of desire stared at you, and you were sure your eyes mirrored his need.
"Please." You begged with a whisper.
"Fuck." He cursed, the thread of control snapping like a twig.
And then he was on you. He kissed you, a possessive hand held you by your waist, pulling you to him as his tongue brushed your lip, asking for permission to deepen the kiss. Your hand traveled over his broad chest and slid under his shirt.
"I want to feel you." You whimpered. "Please."
"Not here. Come on." You thought he was going to move away to guide you, but instead, he braced an arm around your waist and the other under your knees and lifted you, carrying you towards his room.
With your hand, you guided his face back to you, joining your lips into another kiss as he walked blindly with you in his arms. You were lucky that he didn't bump into the wall or stumble during his path to his room. You assisted him, opening the door without breaking the kiss, and once you were inside and he had kicked the door closed, he let you go to lower you.
He removed his shirt, and you took off your jacket, and between kisses and giggles, the clothes pooled on the floor quickly until you were left in only your underwear, lying in the middle of the bed. He stared at you from the foot of the bed, and when he didn't join you in bed, you propped yourself on your elbows.
You felt heat flushing your skin as you realized he was staring at your uncoordinated underwear. The look on his face was pure hunger as he slowly approached. His hands found your ankles and slowly, oh, so slowly, crept up, leaving goosebumps in their way.
"You weren't planning this. Him having you like this." It wasn't a question. His voice was low and husky.
You shook your head.
"Good girl." He grinned and then, in a quick motion, grabbed you and pulled you down the bed. He held your legs open wide as he positioned himself between your legs and knelt on the floor.
You whined as he began kissing your thigh, getting closer and closer to your core, only to retreat and repeat the motion with your other thigh. "You look so beautiful like this. I've been wanting to do this the moment I saw that skirt on you." He said against your skin. "I thought of kissing every single inch of your skin, higher and higher," he left a kiss over your clothed cunt, "until I got here."
He looked up at you and rested his cheek against your thigh. "Would you let me taste you?"
You were panting as his hands traveled up and stopped at your underwear. You nodded, desperate.
"Use your words, baby." He said, and then let a playful bite in exposed skin.
You gasped. "Y-yes, yes, please."
He smiled and left a kiss on your thigh. "Good girl."
The moment his mouth latched onto your core, you moaned his name. His tongue drew circles around your clit, but his eyes remained on you, watching in awe every gasp and reaction his actions caused.
"Such a sweet pussy, and all mine." Your thighs closed around his head, your back arching as he pushed you closer and closer to your climax.
And then he stopped.
He moved away from you. When you lifted your head and looked at him, offended, you found him standing up and stroking his cock, a devil grin on his face.
"I wanna feel you coming around my cock, baby." He purred, dragging the tip of his cock between your folds, your slick mixed with his saliva, making him glide with ease.
"Please." You begged, mewling each time his tip brushed your clit.
"Please, what, sweetheart?"
"Put it inside, mmh."
"Do you want me to fuck you?" He cooed, "Make you mine inside out?"
"Yes, Bucky, yes."
He dragged his cock downwards and then pushed inside you, slowly, letting you accommodate him. "Fuck" He cursed, hanging his head low as he fought the urge to thrust inside you. "Relax, baby." With his thumb, he made tight circles around your clit.
"It's been so long," You said, struggling to take deep breaths as he pushed inside inch by inch.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm gonna take really good care of you."
Once he was buried to the hilt, he leaned to kiss you. You latched onto him, one hand on his back and the other on his nape. Slowly, he started grinding his hips; each stroke brought more and more pleasure, until you were clawing his back. His shallow thrusts grew more desperate until he was pistoning into you with force.
His lips traveled down, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your jaw and neck.
"Bucky," you moaned.
"That's it, baby, you're taking me so well." He groaned against your neck.
Your back arched, and you digged your nails into his back.
"I'm…mmph."
"Let go, baby, I got you."
You came with his name on your mouth, locking your legs around him.
"So beautiful, my beautiful, perfect girl." He praised you as he fucked you through your orgasm. "Shit, sweetheart, I need to pull out."
You shook your head. "Cum inside me, please." You pleaded.
"Sweetheart." He furrowed his eyebrows, pushing away his own orgasm by pure will.
"I'm on the pill. I need you, Bucky."
"Fuck." His control snapped like a twig, his rhythm became erratic as he came, and the overwhelming sensation pulled another orgasm out of you, your walls spasming around him. "That's it, baby, take it all. Good girl."
He stayed inside you until your heart stopped hammering in your chest. He collapsed over your body, leaving kisses all over your face that made you giggle.
"You know what this means, don't you?" Bucky asked, bracing his forearm next to your head so he could look you in the eyes.
"Tell me."
"We need to plan a date."
"A date?"
"Yes, baby, it's time that you have the proper date that you deserve." He said, and with his hand, brushed your hair away from your face. "What do you say?"
"I'll love that." You nodded and smiled at him.
"Perfect, you won't regret it."
He left another kiss on your cheek and then buried his face in the crook of your neck, half draped over your body.
"Bucky," you called.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I have a question." He pulled away again.
"Tell me."
"Since you'll be my date… that means that you can't be my escape call, right?"
He huffed a laugh, leaning his head and leaving a playful bite on your shoulder.
"Hey, careful! No wonder Alpine bites everything that crosses her way. She got it from her daddy." He nibbled at your skin again and then, in a quick motion, turned until he was on his back and you were on top of him.
"To answer your question, yes, I can't be your escape call."
"Buu, bummer. You'd better behave on our date then." You mumbled before kissing him.
"I don't know, sometimes misbehaving leads you to wonderful places." He said against your lips as his hand traveled down and grabbed your ass, making your hips jerk and grind over his thigh.
You squealed, "You're trouble, Bucky Barnes."
"So I had been told, but you'll get to love it."
"I think I already do." You whispered.
"Good," He cupped your cheek. "Because I already love you, too."
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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warnings: MDNI, cheating trope (not on bucky), a touch of angst, insane levels of pining, slight dirty talk, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, pussy pronouns if you squint
author's note: i'm so proud of myself because i wrote 10k of this in a single day... i don't even know what happened. 🚬 that hasn't happened in SO long. anyway i hope you enjoy! we are SO back! 🥰
It was still late spring, not quite summer. Sometimes, the days carried the brisk chill of wind, plucking petals from flowers and new leaves from trees, before another warm day could make its presence known. Bucky couldn't really complain. He'd take whatever weather was on offer, as long as it meant that he was out of college for a few months. He was tired of writing articles and doing research. All he really wanted was to waste the daylight hours relaxing. Still, he took up a summer job delivering newspapers. It wasn't glamorous by any stretch, and the pay could have been better, and he had to get up well before sunrise, but when he was finished, he'd have the whole rest of the day to do whatever he wanted.
He also got to see a different part of town, outside the heart of the city, which he was more used to. His route took him to the big, rich people mansions, the types of homes that he couldn't even dream of going to for any other reason. It was interesting to see how the other side lived, to say the least.
It was pretty uneventful at first. On some days at the beginning, he didn't even go to bed before he got to his route, out most of the night with other kids he'd come to know through classes. He wasn't really a partier, but he enjoyed letting loose after a tough round of exams. Other times, he'd be hopping out of bed, struggling to throw on some pants, before racing out the door, grabbing his bike from the garage, and making his way to the warehouse to pick up his deliveries.
The big houses were nice, polished. He almost expected to be stopped and frisked when he went past the manicured lawns. He'd carefully toss the rolled up papers onto front steps, thrown over gates when they were locked. He darted through sprinklers and morning dew for others. His hands were always black with ink by the time he was done, the papers still fresh and warm from the printer. He'd come home to smudges across his face from when he'd wiped away sweat. He'd learned to stop wearing white t-shirts, after that.
One such house was all white. It had a shiny white Lexus in the driveway. It was made of white stone, with white shutters. White chairs with white pillows adorned the porch. The door was mostly glass front, set into painted wood, but he'd never gotten close enough to see inside, to see if it was just as boring as it was on the outside. He wasn't all that interested, if he was honest.
It was a morning much like any of the others when Bucky strolled through the unlocked gate. He walked right up the path, admiring the Lexus as he passed it. He stopped at the porch and tossed the newspaper with ease onto the welcome mat. He'd gotten very used to it by now. He was about to turn away, but noticed the lace of his boot was untied. It was when Bucky was crouching down to retie it into a haphazard knot that he heard the click of the door's latch, then the creak of it opening, followed by a soft, "Oh!" of surprise.
His eyes made a slow trail from the mat to a pair of dainty feet, red polish on the toes. Up a long, toned expanse of leg, up, up, up, to a white fur trim. The trim belonged to a tiny silk robe, which was open at the front, revealing a matching nightie of ivory. You were blinking at him, the newspaper pinched between your nails by the elastic band. The weak morning light didn't hide the giant rock on your left hand. Your hair was in an artfully messy pile atop your head, face devoid of makeup, but your skin was smooth, unblemished. What a gorgeous thing you were.
He didn't think you were much older than him. In fact, you couldn't be older than thirty. He wondered if the Lexus was yours. But your ring glimmered, like it was signifying wealth, and he thought it must be your husband's. Clearly, he had money to be living in a house like this, and paying for a diamond that size. Bucky was still holding the bows of his lace between grubby fingers, and he dropped them unceremoniously, clearing his throat. It was an unspoken rule of the job that he remain unseen. In fact, the only person who ever saw him with regularity on this route was the old man three streets down, who would stand in his worn blue bathrobe and wait for Bucky to hand the paper straight to him.
"Sorry," he coughed, straightening up. "Didn't mean to startle you."
He was at the bottom of the three steps leading up to you, but he was almost at your eye level from this angle. "Oh, it's no bother. I suppose I'm up earlier than usual." You gave him a soft smile, teeth framed by blush pink lips. You tucked a piece of loose hair back behind your ear, but it was unruly, brushing against your cheek again. "Thank you." You wiggled the paper for emphasis.
He dipped his head, mouth dry. You looked like a goddess, to him. He never thought that someone who looked like you would prefer an old fashioned, crinkly newspaper that stunk of ink. You looked more like the kind of girl who would read articles online, instead, in a café that sold twelve dollar drinks. But he didn't know anything about you. He didn't even know your name. He just knew that you looked pristine, clean, untouched. He wondered if all the white was your idea, or your husband's. He could just about see past you, into a foyer of white marble floors and a sweeping staircase. You didn't close the door right away, though you'd stepped back through the threshold. Your hand rested on the shiny silver handle.
He gave you a small smile before backing away. It was only after he'd heard the door close that he belatedly wondered if he had any ink on his face. It would be just his luck.
The next day, Bucky fostered a quiet hope that he would see you again. He just wanted to look at you, one more time. Were you as pretty as he remembered, or had he just been sleep deprived? Maybe he'd just caught you on a good day.
It was unlikely that he'd see you again. In fact, he didn't. He even walked up the path more slowly than usual, biding his time. But no, as he placed the newspaper on the mat, there was no sign of life beyond the glass and wood.
He believed it must have been a fluke. After all, it had barely been five in the morning, the day before. Most people usually weren't up that earlier, especially not housewives. Still, he took stock of the property again as he reached the gate. Same shiny Lexus. No kids' toys—you must not have had any, not yet. He doubted your house would be quite so white and clean if you did.
The following day had him mildly surprised. No Lexus. It was Monday. Usually, when clients went away on vacation, they would phone the distributors and be skipped for the length of time they were gone. Papers wouldn't go to waste and pile up, yellowing with age and cluttering porches, that way.
Well, someone had gone, but who? And for how long? He was on the bottom step when the door opened, and there you were. There were no silky underthings this time, just tiny cotton shorts and a thin t-shirt. He saw a sliver of your belly, the waist of the shorts low and the shirt a touch cropped. Your hair was down today, a little bit wild, but not in an unattractive way. You stood in the archway, your hand against the frame. "Good morning," you said. Your eyes sparkled like your ring did.
Bucky was still holding your paper. He was aware that his palm was sweaty, and suddenly wondered if the ink was going to smudge all the more because of the heat of his hand. He flug it at the mat more clumsily than he usually would. You didn't seem bothered. "Morning." He agreed—it was morning indeed.
You bent to grab it, then stood straight. You seemed totally relaxed, unbothered by his presence. "It's going to be very hot today. I hope you can finish before the sun's really up." You kept the same conversational, friendly tone.
"Oh, um, yes. I'm in the second half of my route by the time I get here." He stuttered out. He hadn't been planning on talking to you.
You tilted your head curiously. 'Is it always you that does this neighbourhood? Or do you switch out with other boys?"
Boys. Indicating that you must have thought he was just a boy, too. He wasn't. He was a man, he thought defensively. He was almost 22. "I'll be me all summer. Just until I go back to college. I'll be a senior in the fall." He added the last bit on with pride, trying to demonstrate that he was quite the adult, thank you very much.
You smiled, and it was girlish. You looked very young, indeed. "Oh! I remember being in college. It must have been, what—five, six years ago now?"
So you were older than him, but not by very much. You had a fond look on your face. He wondered what you got up to when you were in your early twenties. Had you been a party girl, or a more studious type?
"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you a lot this summer," you said, and he came back to the conversation, caught off-guard.
"You will?" It sounded stupid to his ears as soon as he said it. Obviously, yes. He was delivering papers to your address all summer. That was clearly what you had meant.
You nodded, unperturbed. "Yes, when my husband's away, I'm up pretty early."
You both turned to look at the empty space in front of the garage. "Is he away a lot?"
"Oh, yes. He's always travelling," you laughed, "but he brings me trinkets, so I don't really mind. I like being alone, actually."
"Oh." Bucky was mildly stupefied. He'd never leave a woman like you alone for more than a minute, let alone weeks at a time.
You'd been holding the newspaper against your chest the entire time you'd been talking, clutched in one hand. Now, you'd switched it to the other, and Bucky realized with startling dismay that there was a gray smudge across one of you breasts. Well, it looked like the ink had transferred, after all. "Well, I better get going. Sun and heatwave and all," he said, looking at the sky instead of you.
"Right. Well, thank you. Have a good rest of your day!" You said with another sunny smile, before closing the door. Bucky sighed with relief, glad that you couldn't hear it. He thought you might have been more likely to give him heatstroke before the sun's rays could.
You were correct. Over the next week, Bucky saw you for four out of the seven days. You properly introduced yourself on the second day, holding you hand out to shake, but he'd held up both of his apologetically. Ink had marred every single line along his palms. Your laugh had been bright, musical, and you'd said instead, "Well, at least tell me your name."
He did, and he almost sighed dreamily when you repeated it back to him. "Bucky," you mused, like you were tasting a piece of candy and trying to decide if you liked its flavour. You must have, because you tossed the paper through the open door behind you and continued to chat with him for another five minutes before apologizing for babbling on, and sending him on his way.
He could get used to seeing you every day. You'd started leaving bottles of water, the fancy kind in glass, on the tiny side table next to one of the chairs. One morning, you weren't around to greet him, but a basket of muffins ranging from blueberry to banana to chocolate chip sat next to the water, along with a note in bubbly handwriting: "Bucky, please take one for the road! I know you probably didn't have any time for breakfast."
Even when you didn't see him, you thought of him. He liked that, the idea that you liked him enough to be so considerate. It was sweet. He'd started racing thought he first half of his route so that he had a few extra minutes to spare when he got to your house. One day, he hesitated to ask you, but ultimately did, "I know you said you like being alone, but don't you ever get lonely? This is a big house to have to yourself all the time."
You shrugged and the strap of your nightie, another thing made of silk and lace, slipped off your shoulder. "Sometimes. But I don't feel so lonely when I see you every day." That was the same day that you asked him if he drank coffee, to which he said yes. You seemed to have a naturally curious disposition.
The next day, you were still in ridiculously tiny pajamas, but you were out on the porch already. In your hands was a white towel, slightly damp. When Bucky got to you, he looked between you and the towel, puzzled. Your hair was dry, so he didn't know why you had it. Until you stood and motioned to his hands. "Can I?"
Oh. Was it too childish to believe that his heart had fluttered? He relented, holding his hands out, and you wiped away the ink on his skin. You couldn't completely remove what had gotten under his nails, but he was decidedly cleaner. Your hands looked so small next to his. The towel was now a study in shades of gray and black, and you tossed it over the back of the chair, before turning towards the little table and cupping your hands around a mug that still held steam. "I don't know if you have much time, but it's fresh. The beans are from Columbia."
His chest felt tight as he took the mug of coffee from you, and then watched you grab at your own. But you didn't take a sip until after he did, your eyes seeming to twinkle. "What do you think?"
"It's good." It was, but he didn't know how else to describe it. And besides, he was more focused on you than the rich flavour of the drink.
But you smiled anyway, your lips half hidden by the cup. "Good." You repeated it back to him, not at all offended by his lack of enthusiasm.
Was it wrong to have a bit of a crush on you? Bucky didn't think so. He hadn't done anything. Neither had you. You were just very kind, and as you'd said, all alone. He had no idea what company you kept during the day. For all he knew, he was the only contact you had while your husband was gone. He was fairly certain you were a stay-at-home wife. As long as things stayed cordial like this, it shouldn't become a problem. You'd never invited him in, after all. And you still wore your wedding ring. But still, Bucky couldn't help but think of you hours after each encounter, like a part of him was still standing on that porch, right beside you.
Bucky was beginning to think he might have manifested you into being. He was certainly not one to be at the farmer's market at eleven in the morning on a Sunday. He hadn't seen you that day, and had planned to come back home and sleep until the afternoon. But his sister and mother had nagged and said they wanted to go, and that they needed an extra set of arms to carry all their finds. So there he was, a little groggy and annoyed, standing in front of a set of stalls with disinterest. He'd lost his family ten minutes ago, and was in absolutely no mood to look for them.
He thought it a trick of the light at first, the glimmer in his eyes. He narrowed them, looking for the source. It was a wedding ring, catching the sun between the canopies of the booths. A ring he'd seen before. There you were, face buried in a cluster of sunflowers. You had a floppy hat on, cut off shorts and a tank top, different from your usual indecent pajamas. You were holding your curtain of hair away from your face so that you could properly smell the flowers. Then, like you'd sensed him there, your head turned in his direction. Surprise melted into what looked like delight. "Bucky? Hi!"
You abandoned the sunflowers and made a beeline for him, stopping just shy of your sandals touching the toes of his beat up sneakers. "Hi," he parroted back. The market was noisy, but he had no idea what anyone else was doing or saying in that moment, everything but you reduced to a blur.
"I didn't take you for the market type," you teased, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.
He couldn't hide his grimace, to which you let out a giggle. "I'm not. My… uh," he cringed, not wanting to admit it, but no lies came to mind, "my mom and sister are here somewhere."
"Oh, are you spending the day with them? That's so sweet." You cooed.
Oh. He stood a little taller. Maybe you thought him dashing, a thoughtful man who valued family time. "Oh, well, you know… anything for them."
"Well, until you find them, do you want to have some lemonade? My friend is selling some a couple booths down." He could just barely make out the white and blue striped sign with a lemon wedge painted across its side. Two small tables with fold out chairs were right in front of it.
"Uh, sure." He said.
He tried not to smile when you curled your fingers around his arm and pulled him along.
Being around you made Bucky feel slightly drunk. There was something about you that made his skin buzz. No wonder you were already married. Any man who overlooked that chance was surely a fool.
You'd both sipped lemonade, the air stiflingly warm. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck. He didn't care. You talked to him like he really was a friend, like you had been planning to meet him there to catch up. You'd been a communications major in college, it turned out. You'd been to his campus a few times for rival football games. You'd been the good girl in the library, papers and assignments finished well before the due date. He couldn't be surprised; the image fit.
When you asked him about his own college career, he was stuck between feeling juvenile, and feeling accomplished. You asked him like an equal, not like he was a someone's kid brother. He appreciated that. He thought you might see potential in him, beyond throwing newspapers at lawns and avoiding overzealous golden retrievers.
He was upset when the spell broke. He could see Rebecca coming his way, though she hadn't noticed him yet, and your phone rang at almost exactly the same time. "Oh, shoot. It's my husband, sorry." Your face was set in an exaggerated frown.
He smiled tightly, the spell breaking, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Gotta go anyway. Nice to see you."
You waved at him with a grin, though you were listening to your husband, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, and Bucky made a hasty escape. He had almost imagined that you were out together or something. But you had an entire other half somewhere across the world who still made the time to call you, who showered you in gifts. Bucky could barely afford to buy a round at the bar, let alone a huge brick house. Still, he couldn't help picturing what it would have been like to stroll past all the stalls, hand in hand with you.
It was with total surprise that Bucky received a gift from you. It was wrapped in white tissue paper, which he took care to rip off, the box held steady in your hands. He felt like anything he touched that you had once handled, he needed to be gentle with.
He frowned in slight confusion when he revealed the brown tweed hat. "I know it's a bit of a gimmick, but I thought it was cute." You said with a shy smile. "I saw it at the market after you left. A newsboy cap!"
It was a bit silly, yes. But Bucky wouldn't trade your wide grin for anything when he put it on his head, covering his unruly hair. You put the box on the table and clasped your hands under your chin, eyes bright. "Oh, now you really look the part."
There was no teasing in your tone, only genuine sincerity. He tipped the brim at you experimentally, and that beaming smile of yours was like a shot to the heart. "Thank you." He said. This strange little friendship you'd built up meant something to him. A lot of the girls he knew from college really only cared about studying or partying, and there didn't seem to be much in between to discuss. It was different with you. You seemed to find joy in the little things.
"You don't have to wear it if you don't like it, of course," you added, fingers reaching up to touch the rim of the hat, "but it suits you."
He imagined for a moment your fingers trailing from the hat to the side of his face. Your smooth, soft hand on his cheek. If he kissed you, would you stand on your toes to reach him, or would you pull him down to your height?
It was a stupid thing to wonder—it only made him ache. It wasn't something he could do, the gleaming diamond winking in the light a harsh reminder.
"My husband's coming home tomorrow.' You said, an abrupt change in the conversation. Did he hear a forlorn tone woven into your words? Or was he just wistfully hoping?
"You must be happy." He was relieved that he didn't sound as wooden as he felt.
The pause was just the tiniest bit too long. "Oh, yes. He's only back for three days, though. Then he's going to Asia for five weeks."
Five weeks was a long time to be away from someone. Bucky didn't think he could bear being away from you for that long, and he just saw you in passing, really. Besides, after the summer, he wouldn't see you again. He was a fool, but not foolish enough to believe that you'd want to stay in touch with him when he went back to school in the fall.
Either way, Bucky knew that when your husband was around, he wasn't likely to see you. He resigned himself to knowing that the next few mornings would feel utterly dull.
You might have been missing in action, but you still left things on the table for him. A paper bag with muffins or croissants. A bottle of water. Once, there had been a tiny tube of sunscreen, along with the note, "I noticed that you're getting a little bit red on the arms. Please make sure you protect yourself!"
Was this what love felt like?
He missed seeing you, and it had only been a couple of days. You had become a part of his routine. He didn't want the summer to end, didn't want to say goodbye to you. He thought, bitterly, that it would hurt. More bitterly, he thought the idea of the farewell causing him pain was stupid. You'd probably be fine, back to your perfect life, which really hadn't been disrupted at all. But his had been turned on its head.
He eyed the Lexus with a scornful glare. Of course, it wasn't your husband's fault that he'd met you first, realized what a catch you were, and put a ring on your finger. Still, Bucky couldn't stop his irrational distaste for the man he'd never seen. He could have stood behind him in line at the grocery store, for all he knew. But he doubted your husband did things as mundane as that. He probably had a personal shopper. There he went, making assumptions about the object of your affections… but it was impossible to turn off.
The day he was to see you again, Bucky tried to tamp down the thrill thrumming through his body. Your husband wouldn't be around today, no, but it didn't mean that you would be waiting at the door. You never had been totally consistent—sometimes you did still miss each other.
It was quite unfortunate that the sky felt close and low with its dark gray clouds. More unfortunate that it opened up, a great sieve of water washing the pavement and Bucky, soaking him to the bone, three houses before yours. The papers were safe, wrapped in plastic. But Bucky watched black in run in rivulets from his hands, up and down his arms, dripping onto his shoes.
He suddenly hoped he didn't see you. He probably looked pathetic. His t-shirt clung to his torso like a second skin. His jeans felt awful. He was only lucky that six of the houses after yours were on pause, meaning there was a street he could skip almost entirely, save for the one green house on the corner. He could get home quickly and take a hot shower.
When he got to the gate of your house, he squinted through the rain at your porch. And then his eyes went wide as he saw you there, holding the door open, motioning with your hand, the movement frantic. He scrambled to grab your paper, and barely heard you saying, "Forget it! Just come in!"
He did as he was told, half jogging down the path and up the steps. He hadn't realized how loud the rain had been until he was standing in your foyer, dripping water, the door closed behind him. The hush of the weather against the roof was now a more comforting rumble.
"My goodness, you poor thing!" You were fussing over him already, fluffy white towel at the ready, patting at his hair and face. "They should really cancel the paper service during a torrential downpour! People can miss a day—it's not that important."
"It's okay. It's just water." He said, though he couldn't deny how much he enjoyed you fawning over him. You were careful as you wiped at his face, then grabbed one of his wrists to wipe down his arm. The towel came away smeared in grime.
Dabbing at his shirt did absolutely nothing—he could feel the dampness of his skin under it. Finally, you tsked and put your hands on your hips. He tried to ignore that you were in that silk nightie again. "You know what? You're about my husband's size. I'll get you some dry clothes. Wait right here."
You turned and dashed for the stairs, only pausing when he said, "No, it's fine, don't worry."
"Oh, Bucky, come on. I insist. You can bring them back tomorrow. I just can't stand by and let you finish your route in those clothes. You'll catch a cold." You weren't quite scolding him, but the seriousness in your tone was more adorable than anything else.
He swallowed. He didn't want to wear your husband's clothes. But if it meant being in your presence a little longer… "Okay." His voice was quiet. So quiet it was almost blocked out by the rain. You smiled, satisfied, and disappeared up the stairs.
He lingered in the foyer. The ceiling was high, the lighting warm. It had to be, because everything was white. It would feel clinical if not. White walls, white floors, white carpet runner—he had no idea how that stayed clean. A gilded mirror hanging by the coat closet. A tall vase of flowers on the side table. A glass dish of decorative stones. The little puddles of water that had gathered by his feet were pale gray.
You came back with a pile of neatly folded clothes in your arms, jeans and a t-shirt, not much different to what he had on. You walked right past him, like you knew he would follow. Bucky trailed after you, until you stopped at a door.
"Here, change in the powder room. Give me your clothes and I'll get them washed and dry. You can pick them up tomorrow, okay?" You dropped the clothes on the counter and lightly pushed at his back, forcing him to step in.
When he was alone in the bathroom, Bucky looked at himself in the mirror. Water still clung stubbornly to his eyelashes. His hair looked wild from when you'd run the towel through it. Every muscle on his torso was outlined by his shirt. He changed unceremoniously. You were right, the clothes fit, though the shirt was a little bit tight—he guessed your husband was more lanky than he was.
He couldn't help but to feel like he didn't belong. He was too filthy, too unkempt, to be standing in a house like this. What good were these fresh clothes when he'd be going back out into the storm in a few minutes, anyway? They'd get just as drenched as his own. He contemplated struggling back into his wet clothes, denying your hospitality. But then there was a soft knock on the door. "Does everything fit?"
He twisted the crystal doorknob. You looked up at him—you seemed so small in his shadow. He didn't answer, because you gave him a quick once over, then nodded to yourself. "Good. Follow me; leave your clothes. I'll get them later."
He felt wary, though he did as he was told. The living room was incredibly formal. Finally, he saw some touches of colour. Baby blue armchairs, a painting of orange flowers. You thrust a cup into his hands. "Drink this tea. I don't care if you don't like it, I swear it stops colds in their tracks."
It was funny to hear you sound authoritative. It didn't really fit your image, in your flouncy robe with your soft bedhead. "Yes, ma'am." he murmured. He couldn't really taste the tea—it was so hot that it burned his tongue.
"Can you stay here for a bit? Wait out the rain? I'm sure the other clients would be understanding when its storming like this, right?" you asked, mirroring him, though your own cup contained coffee.
He hesitated. Yes, he probably could. But was that really the best idea? You gazed at him imploringly. He already knew that he was a lost cause. "Yeah. Um, sure."
"If you get in trouble or something, you can give your boss my number. I'll talk to him, I'll explain." This was said with the air of being able to smooth things out with money. That was probably something you were able to do with ease.
The silence lapsed, only you and him and the patter of rain, a singular clap of thunder. You floated away like a cloud to look past the sheer curtains at the window. You sighed then, shaking your head, and glided right back to his side. "I thought we were going to skip out on summer storms this year. Guess not."
"It's not that bad. We need it. A lot of other neighbourhoods have all got brown, dead grass." He said. He didn't mean to lay the implication that the rich suburbs, like yours, could splash money around to have their sprinklers running 24/7.
But you nodded in understanding, not offended. "I'll take a storm over a heatwave." You finished your coffee, then looked pointedly at his cup. He sighed theatrically before tipping it back and draining it, to which you looked pleased.
You were only gone for a short time, dipping into the kitchen to deposit the mugs in what was likely a state of the art dishwasher, before you were with him again. You stood facing each other. Bucky couldn't tell if he was imagining awkwardness, or if he really was feeling it. "Well," he said, rocking back on his heels, "I'd better get out there."
You nodded, but neither of you moved. "Yes, I guess you should." The only sounds were of the muffled rain, and the ticking of the big clock in the corner of the room. You assessed each other. "Do you have to?" you asked, quiet as a mouse.
You weren't really asking—you knew he did. But the unspoken question was, do you have to leave me so soon?
This house would probably feel so cold and lonely with the weather like this, no sun shining in through the windows. You'd be by yourself in this echoing maze of hallways. Would you play music so it felt more lively? Would you curl up with an old movie? Bucky sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I have to."
You nodded once more, and he thought you might be chewing the inside of your cheek. "Okay."
Yet again, you both stayed still, instead standing in the living room like a diorama in a museum: here we have two people on the precipice of something that could tilt their worlds on their axis.
Bucky thought he was probably going to hell for this, but if he got a taste of heaven first, he didn't think he minded so much.
It was with slow certainty that his hands came to rest on your face. Slower still was him moving forward to make the gap between you smaller and smaller. Slower still, the build up like a war drum in his chest when his mouth moved six inches, three inches, one inch from yours. Then, the gentlest kiss, softer than a butterfly's wings.
If you were startled, it wasn't obvious. There had been no gasp of surprise, just your head tilting slightly under his palms, to better meet his height. You didn't touch him, not at first, but your lips parted under his as smoothly as a knife slicing through butter. Bucky's head was a mess of static and chirping birds and his heartbeat in his ears, which kicked into double-time when he felt the first touch of your fingertips on his chest.
All at once he crushed you to him, his hands leaving your face and landing at your hips. Silk as fluid as a river bunched up under his palms as he pulled you closer. All thoughts had left him except for the one that felt like a bright, neon sign: he was kissing you.
He didn't know if he'd bitten your lip too hard, if that was what made you come to your senses, or if your own thoughts had travelled down the path and ended at the same sign. You pulled away with a breathless gasp, your hands light on his chest, your head ducked in repentance. "Bucky…I—I really like you, but—"
His arms fell away from your body. He suddenly felt cold, like he'd been standing in the rain again. But. Your hands were shaking a little, from where they'd coiled themselves together, held in front of your ribs like a shield. And there was the 'but', staring him right in the face: that oval shaped diamond on your finger, polished to a despicable shine. Right. You belonged to someone else, and not him, never him. Only for those few short moments had you both forgotten that fact.
Abruptly, he straightened, body no longer bowed towards yours like a tree offering shade. "Right. I need to go, anyway." He moved to stride past you, and flinched at the delicate flutter of your hand against his arm, like you wanted to stop him.
"Bucky, wait, it's okay—"
"Thanks for the clothes." He cut you off, face hard. "I'll bring them back tomorrow."
Because he couldn't just make a mistake like this and not see you again, of course. He'd be forced to reckon with what he'd done for the rest of the summer. He only hoped you had the sense to stop waiting for him at the front door.
He couldn't help but notice, as he all but threw himself across the threshold, that you'd followed, a forlorn white shape, ethereal as an angel, and that you watched him cross the path through the glass. The rain had lessened, more of a gentle patter. He wished he could forget the distinct, grayish marks on your hips, where his hands had been, where he'd left a mark.
Bucky hoped to any God that would listen that you wouldn't be waiting for him the next day. He never wanted to see you again. That was a lie, of course, and even though thinking it sent a bolt of pain through his head, it was easier to come to terms with than the idea of seeing pity on your face. Because that was what he expected. For you to think, poor little college kid, lonely and single. He must be desperate for someone to love him.
Did you even enjoy his company? Or had he been a complete idiot this entire time? Did you seek his friendship because you really did want a friend, or was he just an easy way to pass the time while your husband was away? He no longer felt certain. A small, hopeless part of him rebelled against the idea. You wouldn't have sat with him at the market, wouldn't have brought him that stupid hat, the one he kept on his nightstand, if you didn't care about him at least a little bit, surely. But people did strange things when they were lonely. Maybe it was all a game, for you.
He cursed under his breath when he got to your house that day. You were sitting on the chair on the porch. There was a plastic bag sitting beside you, which he guessed contained his clothes—your husband's were in a similar bag, hooked to one of his handlebars. You wore a big t-shirt, presumably with shorts underneath, but he couldn't tell, folded into the chair as you were, your chin on your knees, arms around your shins.
The sun was weak this morning—it had rained into the night, only clearing up when Bucky had stepped from the shower before his route, and the grass was as wet as if someone had dumped a bathtub onto the lawn. he wanted to just drop the paper and go. He supposed he could manage a curt "Morning," a nod of his head. But he wished you weren't there.
Even more, he wished he couldn't feel the unsteady tick of his heart at the sight of you, the twist in his stomach that said he was actually overjoyed that you weren't hiding away from him in that big, empty house.
"Hi, Bucky." You said, voice quiet, steady. You didn't unfold yourself from your seat until he was at the top step. He tried to stop his eyes from flicking to you, only watching in his periphery, but the way you said his name, the way you always said it, had him unable to resist looking your way.
He didn't answer, the paper slipping from his hands, the bag he was supposed to exchange with you strangled by his fingers. You'd stood to drag the other chair, the one across the porch on the other side of the door, back to your side, back to the little table, which had… Well. It was a spread, to say the least.
Toast, jam, butter. Those were in little silver dishes. Bacon, sausages, eggs, arranged like a smile on the plate. Coffee, water, juice. All somehow fitting on the small table, set for two. "I was hoping you had enough time to eat with me." You said. Your hands were clasped in front of you again—he was beginning to learn that was a nervous tic you had. Your twisted the ring around on your finger, anxious. It was the only time he'd ever seen you so uncertain.
He felt guarded, wary. Of course, he did have time. You remembered, as did he, that many of the neighbours after you had paused their subscription. He had nowhere to immediately be, not today. It broke his heart a little to imagine what you'd done for the rest of the day, yesterday. Broke it a little more when he thought of you getting up even earlier than you usually did, well before the sun, to start arranging all of this. For him.
He still hadn't said anything, so finally he murmured, "Yeah," then cleared his throat, because the word had come out in a croak. " I can."
It was silent, save for the loudest pair of birds in the world, perching somewhere on your roof. It felt awkward. Usually you filled the quiet easily, babbling away or asking him questions. But you nibbled on the corner of your toast, eyes fixed on the center of the table, though he caught your gaze more than once drifting in his direction. He knew he should say thank you, but the words were stuck in the back of his mouth. He didn't think any semblance of normal conversation could be had until one of you brought up what had happened the day before, though he didn't think either of you wanted to. In fact, in this moment, he'd rather walk over hot coals.
"I hope you know I'm not upset," you began, tentative. Your finger traced the rim of your plate. "It was… nice. To be kissed like that. It's not something I've felt, in recent months."
The words hung in the air. He was quietly stunned by your admission. It hadn't been what he'd expected, not at all. He waited, unwilling to say anything, unwilling to risk it until he knew where you were going with your line of thought. He heard your nail tap against the porcelain. "I really… I really do want to be friends with you, Bucky. I've grown pretty fond of you. I like seeing you every day. I hope that what happened won't change that."
And then you looked up at him, your eyes honest and open and so devastatingly hopeful that it nearly tore him in two. Now he was in a bind, because how could he deny you when you looked like that? "Are you going to tell your husband?" He didn't know he was going to ask the question until it was out.
Bucky thought you might look contrite, but your face remained unchanged. "No. It will only upset him for no reason. There's nothing he can do, anyway. He's not in the country, and it already happened."
"He couldn't, I don't know, get me reassigned? Fired? Pretty sure it's against company policy to go around kissing clients." Bucky muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Your hand touched his arm, gentle. "Bucky."
He looked to you, and immediately felt regret at the way he'd spoken. "We just have to remember that there's a line, that's all." It may have sounded vague, to anyone passing by. But he knew what you meant. He wished he could erase the line, trample it until it was dust. "Unless… you don't want to. I don't want to make things hard for you. If it;s easier to stop being friends with me, I'll respect your decision."
He bit his tongue. As much as that would be the right answer, it wasn't one he could accept. You were in his life now, and that wasn't something he could just give up. Instead, he countered. "And when summer's over? When I go back to school? We won't see each other after that." He lifted his chin in a challenge. How much did you really care? Now was the time to prove it.
At this, your expression brightened. God, it hurt. "I'm in the city all the time. My friend owns a boutique right by your campus. You can't get rid of me that easily." Playfulness had entered your voice, then.
He raised his eyebrows. Really? You'd go out of your way to see him? Just like that? "Oh." He exhaled, surprised. "Okay."
You pushed the pitcher of juice closer to him. "So, that's a yes then?" Your optimism was impossible to ignore.
"I guess it is, kitty." The pet name stumbled forth like a foal bursting from a barn and into sunlight. You had reminded him of a sweet, docile kitten since the first time he'd met you, all soft edges and easy smiles and dappled sunlight.
You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head and letting out a yawn, as if now that the hard discussion was over, you could expose how little sleep you'd gotten. You reminded him even more of a cat, body long and loose like that. "Good. I play for keeps, you know. I'm a very loyal friend. It's my best quality."
Friend, he mused, privately. Well, if that was the capacity to which he could enjoy you, then so be it.
It turned out to be true, your claim of loyalty. You'd sent him along with a croissant and a bottled water, as well as your phone number. You'd even posed sweetly for the contact photo, hands folded under your chin as you beamed, your bedhead an adorable addition. Bucky's own contact photo was much more stoic.
It hadn't even been two hours since he'd finished his route, laying heavily on his bed, that he got a text message.
FROM: kitty - a couple friends and i are going to the beach this afternoon, would you like to come? i can pick you up!
He sat up with a swiftness that should have given him whiplash. He didn't want to respond right away, not wanting to seem too eager. He didn't want you to pick him up, either—it felt embarrassing to tell you the address to his family home. He hadn't even known you had your own car. He surmised it must be kept in the garage all the time.
He paced his room for a good five minutes, but eventually the itch in his fingers was too much. He was thumbing out a response before he could think too hard.
FROM: bucky - sure, but i can meet you there, i'm not at home so it will be easier.
It wasn't true, obviously, but he thought he would die of mortification if you rang the doorbell and his mother answered, only to see a beautiful, sunny angel on the shabby welcome mat, come to collect him.
Bucky almost wished you hadn't invited him. He spent entirely too long messing with his hair in the mirror, as if you hadn't already seen the disorderly spikes of it earlier that day. He didn't even know what to bring. Was it a party, or was everyone just relaxing? Did your friends know about him? What if they were all married couples and he was an awkward plus-one in your husband's absence?
It turned out, he needn't have worried.
Your car turned out to be a Jeep in pearlescent blue. Bucky saw it in the small strip of parking spots overlooking the beach. He'd expected it to be more crowded, the the wind was a little too cool, the sky a little too gray, to attract the usual suspects. Your license plate had a bedazzled frame around it. A long chain made of beads and crystals hung from your mirror. There was a sticker on your rear window that said, "I break for turtles!"
You were standing in a semi circle of people, that same wide sunhat from the market on your head, a white, flowy dress over what was probably a devastating bikini. A picnic basket was slung over your arm.
He'd taken the bus, unwilling to bring his bicycle, and even more unwilling to take the station wagon, but he'd been dropped off a stop before this one, because he felt too embarrassed to be seen taking public transit. You'd probably never stepped foot on a bus, at least not in your recent years.
When you saw him, peering over your sunglasses, your face looked like a cherub's. The smile was enough to make his pulse jump, more so when you pushed good-naturedly through your group to meet him halfway, looping your free arm with his, and dragging him along. "Everyone, this is Bucky!"
"Pleasantries were exchanged, and everyone herded their way down the sun washed wooden stairs and onto the sand. A Bluetooth speaker was set up, towels thrown down, a folding table and some camping chairs scattered about. You'd brought a grocery haul's worth of food, and chatted easily with your friends.
Bucky stood just off to your side and observed. It seemed everyone was around your age, not too far off from him. None of the girls wore flashy rings like yours. He thought it safe to assume that you were the only married person on this stretch of beach. "Oh, Joaquin?" you called to one of the guys, "I left the volleyball in the trunk. Can you get it, please?" You tossed your keys in his direction, and Joaquin nodded and jogged away.
You turned to Bucky. "Joaquin actually graduated from your school last year. He's friends with Wanda's brother; they were on the same softball team."
It was interesting, to see how the connections between all your friends were made. He felt ashamed that he'd judged who you hung around with before he met them. By all circumstances, they seemed as normal and working-class as he did. As the hours wore on, he grew to like Sam and Joaquin quite a lot. They didn't treat him like a kid. Instead, they talked about video games and the bar that had the best chicken wings on football nights. He and Joaquin were able to lament about the college cafeteria, its lack of variety.
You circled your group like a bumblebee, each friend a flower whose pollen you stopped to admire. But always, you seemed to make your way back to him. He was only lucky that he hadn't been right beside you when you and Kate decided to brave the ocean, believing that it might be cold at first, but it would surely warm up. He missed you pulling your dress over your head, revealing an orange and pink patterned bikini. The strings had yellow beads that danced over your hips. He thought he was going to break his neck when he saw you running, hand in hand with Kate, to the sea. It was impossible to look away.
He'd already known you had a gorgeous body—you'd never been shy about your scanty sleepwear, but it just made it all the harder for him, he thought with a sigh. He hoped his ogling wasn't too obvious, and instead put all his energy into the volleyball game instead of your shrieks of laughter, mixing in with the sounds of the gulls overhead.
When you made your way back to land, a Minnie Mouse beach towel wrapped around you, you smiled up at him. You were squinting—your hat and sunglasses had been left behind on the table. "Are you having fun?"
"Yes." He said, surprised with himself. Days like this were what summer was all about, but he hadn't done anything remotely similar at all, so far. Your smile was soft, one he'd never seen before. Like it was private, just between the two of you. "I'm glad."
"Yo, Buckaroo!" Bucky's head swivelled in Sam's direction, halfway down the beach. "Come on, man, we're getting ice cream. Need the extra hands!" And so Bucky allowed himself to be corralled by these new people, new friends, up the beach and to the van selling cones for a dollar, the saltwater smell of your hair still in his nose.
It was scary how normal it became, to see you each morning when he dropped off the paper, and then to meet you and your friends somewhere in the city. Sometimes it was at a cozy apartment. Sometimes it was an activity, like bowling or karaoke. Sometimes everyone was there, sometimes not. But Bucky felt very alive, especially with you right beside him.
He was again surprised, always surprised these days, it seemed, when one night, out on the fire escape of Pietro's apartment, taking a breather—the air in the living room had become stifling—Yelena joined him. He liked her, because she was never afraid to bust anyone's balls. She was a bit of a bulldog, despite her short stature. He'd trust her to back him up in a fight. "I think you fit in well, Barnes." She said, arms folded over the safety railing.
Bucky was sitting on the sill of the open window. "Yeah? Thanks, Belova."
"You gave us our friend back. It's like we gained two instead of one."
He frowned at that. He knew she was referring to you, but he was confused by what she meant. "Who, Kitty?"
She rolled her eyes when she looked at him over her shoulder. "Yes, Kitty," she let the nickname drag on her tongue, the 't's sharp, like a rattlesnake's tail. "She was sort of becoming a shut-in. Her house is a little far from the rest of us, as I'm sure you've realized. And her husband never likes her to invite people over when he's not there. He's sort of a neat freak. You would know; you've seen how clean everything is over there."
Ah, so the austere shades of ivory were indeed the work of your elusive husband. Yelena went on, turning to face Bucky, leaning her elbows back on the railing as she tipped her head to the night sky. "He only really lets us come over when he's hosting a formal event. And those are boring as hell."
Bucky stayed silent, not loving the picture of your life that he was starting to see. "Do you think she's happy, though?" He finally asked.
Yelena dropped her head to look at him. Her eyes were piercing, even in the dark. "I wonder all the time. Right now, I would say yes. But when he's back? That question becomes harder to answer. You've done something, though."
At this, Bucky felt himself freeze up. Had you told Yelena that he'd kissed you? But he was able to release the tension he carried when Yelena added, "I think you woke her up. I don't know how to explain it. So thanks for that."
He was saved from replying when he felt warmth against his back. You weren't touching him, but you were right behind him. "Pizza's here. You guys coming in?"
You hadn't heard the conversation, it seemed. He tilted his head back to look at you. Even upside down, you were beautiful. He was sure you could see his heart in his eyes. "Yep." He said.
You smiled and squeezed his shoulders. "Don't listen to what Sam says about pineapples on pizza." Then you were gone, Yelena squeezing past Bucky to follow. He stayed there for another minute, looking at the stars, and thinking of you.
You were going out this morning. It was supposed to be brunch, with all of your husband's female relatives. You hadn't said it out loud, not to Bucky, but he had the distinct feeling that you were dreading it. He knew you'd be leaving sometime after he stopped by your house. "Do you think you could come back, though? When your route is done? I need an opinion on what to wear and I just know that none of the girls are awake yet." Your hair was in rollers, your flouncy robe on once more. You were blowing on your fingernails gently, a fresh coat of baby pink polish painted on.
"Do you really trust me to choose?" he asked drily, but you were sincere when you said, "Yes, of course."
It was really nothing at all to cycle back to yours, at the end of his route. You'd told him the door would be unlocked—dangerous, he thought, but it had been true—and called your name. "Up here!" your voice floated back.
He took the stairs two at a time. He was sure that he was leaving muddy shoe prints on the carpet runner. He found your bedroom with ease, though he'd never been upstairs before. Your room was huge, cavernous. He saw through one open door the curve of a giant bathtub. Through another, rows upon rows of clothes. And in the middle of the room, at the end of the bed, was you. You were still in your pajamas, but your hair was free from rollers, looking gorgeous and soft and oh, how he wanted to run his hands through those perfect curls. You were holding up a pale blue dress, with a few others in varying colours laid on the bedspread.
"I just can't pick," you wailed, dramatically tossing the blue one over the others. "There are too many choices."
He kept his hands behind his back, because all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you, temptation threatening to rear its ugly head. "Don't you have a favourite?"
"Yes," you mumbled, though you didn't sound happy about it.
"Well, why can't you wear that one?"
You sat down, not caring about wrinkling the array of fabrics. "Ah, well…" You bit your perfect pink lip, "No matter what I wear, I know that it will be wrong. My husband's mother is, well… she can be a bit…"
"A bitch?"
Your eyes flew up to his. "I was going to say 'difficult', but, yeah," you sighed, "that works too."
"You're already married to her son. Shouldn't the time for impressing her be over?" Bucky asked, frowning. He didn't know all that much about marriage, and knew even less about being married into a rich family, but he would have thought that it meant everyone welcomed you with open arms. He knew for a fact that his own family would love you.
"It's not that simple, I—" You frowned too, twisting your ring. "You know I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, right? I only went to college because I was on scholarship."
The air left him in a sharp whoosh. No. In all the conversations you'd had about school, you hadn't shared that detail. "Oh."
He could suddenly see, with startling clarity, what it was about you that made your husband's family look down on you. He'd never felt hatred for someone he'd never met before, but he did now.
"When I met my husband, I was top of my class. He was failing. I started to tutor him. and then, you know, everything else, the happy ending." It didn't sound very happy, not to him. Then you sat up straighter. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. She tolerates me a lot more when he's around, but this is something I can't skip. My sister-in-law just got engaged and it's about wedding plans, so I have to go."
He hesitated for only a second before crossing the room and sitting next to you, not caring about the careful pleats of the pink dress beneath him. He took your hands, a bold move, and held them in his. "It does matter. You have the most beautiful soul I've ever seen. If she doesn't know that by now, it's her loss. I hope you know that her opinion isn't worth a damn."
You didn't speak for a long minute. He worried that he had offended you. Family was family, after all, no matter how poorly you got along sometimes. But then he felt your hands squeeze both of his. "Thank you for saying that. It's not—I don't really hear that sort of sentiment often."
Bucky felt a distinct, faint outrage that you weren't told that sort of thing regularly, but he let the anger pass. "Okay, so, show me your favourite dress. I'll be honest, I promise."
He gave you an encouraging smile and your hands slipped from his, before you stood. "I have two, actually. So you have to pick the best one."
You disappeared into the closet, appearing moments later in a dress of dark red lace. It had a halter top, a flared skirt. Your legs looked impossibly long in the matching heels. You looked gorgeous, thought Bucky's opinion was somewhat skewed, because that was what he always thought of you. "Wow," Was all he could say, leaning back on his hands.
He wasn't sure if he imagined that your cheeks looked a little more pink than they had a moment ago. He admired you openly as you smoothed your hands over the skirt. "If this is your first option, the second one might kill me."
"You ducked your head shyly. "Oh, but I have to wear different shoes with the other one. I like these, but they don't match. And they're really annoying to put on and take off."
It was a crisscross of straps, halfway up your calf. The outfit was probably not the most respectable for brunch, not with the people you'd be meeting with, at least, but Bucky would have taken you anywhere in that dress. You started to undo one of the straps, fumbling with the clasp that held them together. Your nails were slightly too long to do it easily. "Here," he motioned you closer, "let me."
You sat on the bed, and he moved to crouch at your feet. The position reminded him of the first time he'd laid eyes on you, and he suppressed a shudder of desire. You were trusting him to be your friend, nothing more. He shouldn't squander it. But still, he couldn't avoid touching your soft skin as he undid the clasp, the laces, the tiny, delicate buckle at your ankle. He slid the offending shoe of your foot, swallowing hard. He could smell your lotion, your perfume.
He should have worked faster on the other shoe, faster so that he could lean away from you. But his hands wouldn't obey, instead taking the time to caress your leg as he slowly worked the laces off. You were utterly silent. He couldn't bear to look at your face, afraid of what he might see. When the other shoe was off, he still held your ankle in both of his hands. "Thank you." You said quietly, like speaking would set off an alarm.
"You're welcome." But he didn't move, and you didn't pull out of his grasp.
All you did was let your breath hitch, when one of his rough palms moved up your calf, to the bend of your knee. He placed a kiss there, before resting his forehead heavily against the bone. All he could smell was you. It was intoxicating—you were intoxicating. He almost felt he couldn't breathe. "I shouldn't have come back," he murmured into your skin.
"No, you shouldn't have," you admitted. But your hand stroked through his hair gently. So gently, he thought he was imagining it. It made him feel lightheaded. Each kiss that followed, a slow meandering path up your thigh, was broken by a sigh from you, or from him. He felt like he was begging for forgiveness, there on his knees before you. He felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest. He felt like his nerves were made of electricity.
It was very easy to push your skirt up to your waist. Equally easy to rest his head between your legs, his chin touching the mattress, the flurry of skirts from the reject dresses. His eyes were closed. You had invaded every one of his senses, and looking at you felt like it would hurt. Your hand moved to the back of his neck. Your nails grazed him, the barest touch, as you both stood at the end of the cliff together.
There was only one more place he could kiss you, kneeling before you as he was. He was giving you a chance to push his head away, to push him away. But you didn't, so his mouth brushed the black lace of your panties. He felt you go rigid for a single second. but then your hands met his at your hips, pulling the fabric down and away. He was dizzy. What had happened to just being friends? He couldn't ask the question, now. He had to take what you'd give him.
The first touch of his tongue against your folds made the tiniest whimper leave your mouth. He looked up, was greeted by the sight of you covering your lips with the back of your hand, eyes watery. Like you couldn't handle the sensory overload, even when he'd barely started with you. Or maybe you were crying because you were breaking your vows. He didn't look away from you when he licked a long, slow stripe up your center. You were so beautiful that it was painful.
Your legs threatened to close around his head as he kept going. You tasted like honey. He could have guessed it, but he was happy to be right. He'd thought about this more than once, though he'd felt guilty about it. Guilt wasn't in the room right now, though. Not for him. His hands were firm on your thighs, keeping you spread. Your sounds were muffled by your hand. He didn't care—he'd take what he could get. He wanted you in any capacity that he could have you.
He got lost in you. He was drowning. He was glad. Thrilled, really. The simple act of helping you take off your shoes had gotten you wet. Or maybe it had just been his presence, he didn't know. It felt like too much to hope for. He lost track of time. He was only jolted back to himself when he heard you say shakily, brokenly, "Bucky." Then you came.
Your body quivered under his hands while he worked you through it. What a fragile little creature. He thought you might snap in two. He kept you open, relished in your hand tight on his hair. When your grip went slack, he stopped. Stared up at you, knowing his face was glistening. You still looked perfect. Your mouth was slightly open. You'd been biting your lip—he could tell by how red it looked. If he examined the hand that had been over your mouth, he would sure he'd see the crescent moon indentation of your nails in your palm.
The silence was suspended, dangerous. He wanted more. He was afraid he'd always want more. But he knew that was too much. He was amazed that he'd even gotten this far. He was scared you'd throw him out, now. But instead, you whispered, "I can't wear this dress to brunch."
"No, you can't," he agreed. He licked his lips—he could still taste honey. "Do you have something more conservative?"
You nodded quickly—too quickly, really, like your head was about to pop off your shoulders. "Yes. An a-line tea dress. It's lilac." Bucky didn't know what those words meant. But he nodded. "Wear that."
You both stood slowly. You smoothed the skirt of your dress again, then disappeared into your closet. Your panties, discarded on the toe of his boot, disappeared into his pocket. And then he disappeared too, out the door and into the sun.
You didn't talk about it. Neither did he. It was a secret, you see. You were being a very bad wife when you sighed and fell into Bucky's arms. You were being a terrible wife when you let him leave ink smears on your clothes. You were being an awful wife when your arms snaked around his neck without your permission, lost in a kiss.
He thought that when you met him on the porch every morning, you were resigning yourself, promising yourself, to be a good wife. To treat him like your friend. To stop this, to go back to before. You still gave him water and snacks. You still exchanged pleasantries. But when he came back at the end of the route, unable to stop himself even though you hadn't requested a return visit, knocked on the glass with a grimy hand, your promise went out the window. He hadn't slept with you. But he'd found himself pushing you into a chair or onto the long, formal table in the dining room. Found himself on his knees again, your legs wrapped around his head, heels digging into his back, hands in his hair. He wouldn't let you return the favour. You'd only tried once, tugging on his belt loop with your pinkie, lip caught between your teeth. He didn't want to dirty you up more than he already had.
Worse was that you both still hung out with your circle of friends. It remained perfectly normal. He got the sense that your friends didn't care for your husband all that much, but that didn't mean they'd be alright with what you were doing. The thing was, you were the last person to be suspected of cheating. Loyal friend, loyal wife, he thought. That was your brand.
Not anymore.
The only inkling of suspicion that he'd noticed was one evening, when you'd leaned your head against his shoulder. Yelena, directly across from you both, had caught his eye. Her expression was unreadable, but it wasn't judgemental. He remembered what she'd revealed to him. Wondered if she was quietly rooting for him to shake your foundations, spring you free.
It was killing him, bit by bit. Fall was right around the corner, a couple weeks away. He wouldn't be seeing you in the mornings anymore, quite soon. He'd be in class until early afternoon. You'd have to come to him. But would you want to? It was one thing for him to double back to your house. You were already there. It was him crossing the line. But for you to come to him… You'd have to be very aware of what you were doing, what you were risking.
Bucky e went to your house that morning, paper in hand, same as always. But you weren't home. He knew, because there was a paper bag on the table. A note was stuck to the front. "Busy day. Stay out of the sun, it will be hot! See you tomorrow."
He grabbed the bag without much thought, leaving the newspaper in its place, then carried on. It was only at the end of the route, when Bucky got hungry, that he unfurled the paper. Orange slices carefully sealed in a plastic bag. A water bottle. A flaky pastry with strawberry filling. But he caught sight of something at the bottom. White edges, flat to the paper. Was it another note?
No, actually, it wasn't. If Bucky hadn't been standing still, he would have tripped over his feet. Three Polaroids fanned out between his hands.
Three Polaroids of you. In the bath.
You were mostly covered by bubbles. Your hair was piled on the top of your head. One of them was you blowing a kiss, complete with an exaggerated wink. Bucky had half a mind to call an ambulance for himself, to get hooked up to a heart monitor, the way the cursed organ was racing in his chest. He flipped it over, saw your handwriting on the back. "I thought of you today. I hope you think of me."
Of course he thought of you. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't. This was so unlike you. Spontaneous. Carefree, like you weren't tightening a noose, betraying the man who paid your bills. Bucky put the most demure one in his wallet, tracing your smile with his finger. The others he tucked back safely in the bag. He'd have to show you, tomorrow, just how much he'd appreciated the sentiment. How much it meant to him that you'd take such a risk.
He also felt a lot more confident about what your true feelings might be.
The days passed too fast. Bucky felt like he was on a teacup ride, spinning and spinning, the world blurring too much for him to make out any shapes. Only you, that was all he could see clearly. He was fine with that. The rest of the universe could fall away, leave only the two of you standing, for all he cared.
Bucky felt certain, as certain as he did that the sun came up each day and that he needed air to breathe, that he loved you. He'd never felt so sure of anything in his life. He felt as light as he felt heavy. It wasn't a burden, not at all, to love you. It was the greatest joy he'd ever experienced. And he believed that you loved him, too. He felt it in his bones. But you still wore your ring. You never took it off. It felt like a gun in your hand, pointed at both of you. He didn't know if there was a bullet in the chamber, or when it would go off, who it would hit.
He didn't want to go back to school. It was his final year. He'd be a fully fledged adult after this, free to roam. But all he wanted was to travel the path up to that white house, see the girl behind its glass door. See all the colour in her closet, the colour contained there and only there, because it wasn't shades of ivory and bone. He knew that if you had been allowed to decorate more than the formal living room, it would have been a riot of blues, greens, oranges. Purples and pinks and yellows and reds. White wouldn't exist. If he lived with you, he thought, he wouldn't care if the whole house looked like a Jackson Pollock. He'd let you do whatever you wanted.
He let himself imagine it late at night. A warm, bright home. The smell of flowers. Music. The windows open to let in air, the curtains buffeting in the breeze. The sound of your laugh. Sitting on the floor with your dinner on the coffee table, an old sitcom on the TV. Waking up with you in a bed that would undoubtedly be frilly and over the top, but he wouldn't care, because it would have been picked out by you.
Thoughts like these kept him awake, because he wanted them to be real so badly. But if he told you that he wanted all of it with you, would you take the leap? He kept swinging wildly between yes and no, unsure where the pendulum would really stop, but with each passing day, his hope unfurled within him like a budding blossom.
It happened all too soon, his last day on the job. Bucky was supposed to do his route, the final circuit, the street names he'd come to know like the back of his hand. He knew which house had a tortoiseshell cat watching from the window, which one always had scooters and tricycles thrown across the driveway. Most of all, he knew your house.
When he finished here, he was to pick up his last paycheck at the warehouse. They paid out early for the final week of service. He would be using that money to pay for textbooks. He wished he could use it to take you somewhere nice.
For the fun of it, to see you smile, he wore the newsboy hat that you'd gotten him weeks ago. He'd never actually taken it with him on a route. It had stayed on his scratched up nightstand, too precious to him, a gift from you, to risk losing it somewhere. But it sat on his head now, as he walked up your driveway.
You were not waiting for him.
He felt a sense of unease, for a moment. But your husband was still away, and nothing was left out for him on the table, so he assumed you were still sleeping, for once. He recalled, belatedly, that you had gone to Natasha's last night. Maybe you'd slept over.
He carried on, finishing the rest of the route, before doubling back. He didn't ride his bike, choosing to walk with it resting against his hip, rolling it back down the hill. The longer he took, the more he could push away the end to a routine he'd come to love. He slowed to a crawl on your street. So unbearably slow he could feel the gravel crunching under his boots, the sun blazing against his shoulders, hot already. Your roof came into view, then the white brick, the fence.
He brought his bike through the gate, let it lean against the fence. Then he stood for a long moment, staring up at your house. A great, sparkling behemoth, it was, but it was also home to the greatest girl in the world. He walked up the path at a snail's pace. Knocked on the glass. Nothing.
It felt like a cold shock of water in his face. Were you really not here on his last day? Had you not meant it, when you said you wanted to stay friends after the summer? What if you'd already deleted his number, blocked it? He knocked again, a little frantic. Bucky thought the glass might have shaken. Still nothing. He felt distress like he'd never known.
So, that was really it.
Hands in his pockets, he stared blankly through the glass, into your empty foyer. The lights were off, but he could still see the marble floor gleaming. Then he turned, shoulders slumped, and walked back down your steps.
How heavy he felt, carrying a broken heart. Like the weight of the world was crushing him to paste. He was two steps away from his bike when the door cracked open with a thwack! at the same time he heard, "Bucky!"
He turned to see you, clutching a towel around yourself, running barefoot over the grass, and launching yourself at him. "I'm sorry, I was in the shower and then the phone rang, and then I dropped conditioner everywhere—"
He didn't care.
He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care what the reason for your lateness had been.
Not when you had your arms wrapped around his neck, your face close to his, your body warm and damp and smelling of wildflowers. He'd caught you easily, automatically. Your feet weren't even touching the ground. He stopped your apologies with a kiss, smiled at the muffled, "Mmph!"
You'd run across the lawn in such a dishevelled state, desperate to catch him before he was gone. He knew in that moment, he'd wait for you forever. "You're pretty indecent to be outside, you know. What would the neighbours think?" He chastised, the bravado covering just how derailed he'd been at the thought of not seeing you. As if your neighbours could see anything beyond the five foot high hedges lining your property where the fence ended.
"Oh, I know. Come on, let's go inside. I'll throw something on." you sighed. "It's laundry day. I put it off too long."
Your fingers twined with his as you led him into the house and up the stairs. Your free hand held the fold of your towel carefully, keeping it pinched together. He was fairly sure you'd almost lost it in your sprint.
Bucky followed you into your room. You were humming to yourself as you busied about the room, rifling through drawers for something to put on. At last you struggled into a t-shirt, the towel still covering your waist. You were chattering away, but he thought there was something different about it this time. Like you were nervous. He wanted to fix whatever it was that was bothering you. You held up a pair of shorts before folding them and putting them back. That was when he came up behind you, linking his arms around your waist. His chin came to rest on your shoulder. He gazed at you through the mirror above the dresser. Your hands had been fussing, but they stopped, as you looked at your reflections, too.
"Would you relax? You seem jumpy this morning." He murmured, nuzzling his face against your neck, leaving a kiss there.
"I know, I—" you faltered. Your voice had taken on a breathy quality. It always did when he kissed you there. "I think it's because I know I won't see you in the mornings anymore. It feels weird."
"Mmm." He hummed noncommittally. He pressed another kiss to your skin. You smelled divine. "But I'll still see you."
"I know, I know. Just—I'm not usually an early riser, you know. But I've managed to become one. What am i going to do with my mornings?" you joked, but your voice was a little shaky. Your t-shirt was stretched out at the collar. It was easy to pull at it by the sleeve to expose some of your shoulder. Another kiss melted into your flesh.
"Move your yoga class to an earlier one?" he suggested. He knew you did yoga most evenings with Wanda. You'd pointed out the studio on an outing once, teased all the boys and told them they'd never survive.
"Well, I could, I guess. That might be nice—oh…" You broke off when he sucked on your skin. He saw your eyes flutter closed. your head tipped back a little. It took almost no effort at all to turn you in his arms. You leaned against the dresser, let him continue to press kisses across your neck and jaw. He could feel your pulse each time he made contact. His hat fell away, landing somewhere on the floor. His hands pushed at the hem of your shirt, until his fingers dug into your waist. You were softer than a cloud. You always were. He kept dragging his hands up, palms rough against your ribs. He stopped under the curve of your breasts.
Against your mouth, between breaths, he said, "I think this shirt is getting in the way." You nodded, but he didn't think you'd really heard him. He was half-sure that he could have told you the sky was falling and you would have agreed. Off it went, over your head, though he took his time. He'd never seen all of you before. You were just as incredible as he'd known you would be. Pulling your towel away was even easier.
Bucky squeezed your waist with his hands, just because he could, just to hear you gasp. He cupped your cheek, then, let his thumb trail your lower lip. Your tongue darted out—he didn't think it had been intentional, not with the way your eyes flared wide, but he felt a bolt of lightning zip through him. His other thumb mimicked the same motion, across one of your nipples. The effect was instant. He thought you might melt to the floor from just that touch. You tilted your face, kissed where his palm and wrist met. It could have undone him. It almost did.
He dipped his head and laved his tongue over your other breast. You were trembling under his hands. He wanted this, wanted you, forever. He could only stay patient for a moment in time, though. He was through with holding back. He straightened up, only so that he could hook his hands under your thighs and lift you. Your legs locked around him automatically, hands on his shoulders, as he turned and marched you to the bed. He laid you down gently. All you could do was gaze up at him from where he hovered above you, your eyelids heavy. "Bucky…"
He didn't know if you said it as a warning, as a marker of a point of no return. He didn't know if you were saying it like a plea, begging him to blast straight through the stop sign. His foot was on the gas anyway. There was no way for him to slow down. You were both in it now.
"I got you. I got you, baby."
Bucky kissed you with enough force that he lost where he ended and you began. He could have stumbled for miles and not found the answer. You were panting into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders so hard that it hurt, even through his shirt. It was a stinging bite, like a snake's fangs. He hoped that there would be marks there, later, to prove that he hadn't been dreaming. He drew a line down your body with his mouth. He only stopped because you pulled his hair so brutally that it shocked him. You let go to pull at his shirt frantically, until he got the message. He was swift—he'd never keep you waiting if he could help it. Then your hands were everywhere. You were exploring him, and he loved you for it. Every muscle you touched seemed to twitch in response.
You tugged on his belt with surprising force. He put his hands over yours to stop you, to let him do it himself, and you relented, but your eyes never left his waistline. Glee rushed through him when your mouth fell open. He was bare before you, just like you were to him. Bucky had never really felt insecure. The way you were staring at him right now, with open adoration, made him think that he never could feel insecure. Instead, he felt invincible. "I—you—wow…" you breathed. He thought that you might be salivating.
"Now you know how I feel when I look at you." He admitted. You drew your finger between the muscles on his stomach. It tickled. You were both looking at his very obvious want for you.
"I don't even know what to say…" you trailed off. "Are you always like this?" The question was really: are you always this hard during sex? But Bucky answered it as if you'd asked, are you always like this around me?
"Always."
"Oh." He couldn't believe that you had the audacity to be surprised. Had you looked at yourself lately? Any man who could resist you had to be a saint, or blind.
He groaned when you curled your fingers around his shaft. "Fuck, give a guy a little warning first."
"I'm sorry." But you didn't sound very sorry. You were experimental as you moved your hand up and down, thumb brushing the tip. He could have wept at the sensation. This was precisely why he'd never let you take him in your mouth. He thought he'd fall apart immediately.
"Stop," he said, but it was around a sharp inhale.
Your hand stilled. "Why? Does it not feel good?"
"I'm gonna come right now if you keep going." His voice sounded strangled.
Impossibly, you laughed. It sounded like music, just like the first time, and all the other times he'd heard it. "Would that be so bad?"
He gritted his teeth. "Yes. That's not how I want to do this." He pried your hand off, linked your fingers with his.
Your laugh had faded, your face a study in softness. "Okay. Show me then."
It was the easiest request you'd ever asked of him. You laid back down on the bedspread. your hair was soaking the sheets, still wet from your shower. He wished he could frame this moment, remember exactly how you looked, the way the sun gilded your features, turned your lashes golden. The naked trust in your eyes was piercing. Your legs parted at the gentlest nudge of his knee between yours.
He could see you were slick between your thighs. He'd made you that way. He could hardly believe it. He dragged his thumb across your folds. You shifted restlessly at the touch. He did it again, just to watch you squirm, pressing down on your clit. "She's so wet, and all for me." He hadn't meant to say it out loud but the words floated between you anyway.
"Bucky, I…"
"You don't have to say anything." He didn't know what he was stopping you from admitting, or why he did. But he didn't want you to be too in your own head, to feel like you had to respond just because he'd spoken.
"Are you gonna…?" You said anyway, looking pointedly at his cock.
"Gotta get you ready first."
"I am ready."
He couldn't help but smile. He'd never heard you sound stubborn before; it was cute, and totally ineffective. "Easy, Kitty. I want to make sure."
"But Bucky, I'm re-ahh!" you stopped short, head falling back, when one of his fingers entered you.
"Hmm, yeah, maybe you are…" he teased, voice innocent. He added another for good measure, stretching you open, feeling you clamp around his hand.
Tou got lost in the feeling for a good long while before your nails dug into his wrist. "Enough. Now you. Please."
"You have me."
"You know what I mean." You were all but pouting. His fingers slipped out easily, but he took his time sucking your wetness from them. "Did you know that you taste like honey?"
At this, you blushed. "Stop it."
"Next time, I'll let you taste." He was surprised you didn't know. How unimaginative your husband must be, to never tell you, to describe your distinct flavour. He was more surprised with how certain he'd sounded that there would be a next time.
"You sure you're ready?" He was teasing you again. He knew you were. He felt five seconds away from going crazy himself. Still, Bucky waited for you to nod before notching himself at your entrance. He only pushed in the tip. He thought it was enough to kill him. How did you feel so good already, when he was barely inside? His forehead thunked heavily against your shoulder, and your whine sounded loud in his ear. He wanted to bottle it up, listen to it later.
"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered. He was sure he wasn't going to last, not when you felt like this. It was nearly painful how slowly he pushed the rest of the way in. Then he held very, very still. You let him, running your hands through his hair before he moved his head, to look into your eyes. He hoped you could see all his love for you in them. He kissed you once, whispering, "You okay?"
You nodded. "Are you?"
"I've never been better." He was slow when he started to move. He had to be. He wanted it to last as long as it could. He could feel every inch of you as you held him inside. You fit together like you were meant to be.
Even still, he could feel his end approaching. "Fuck, I'm not—I can't—"
"It's okay," you murmured. But it wasn't okay, not to him. He wanted to make it count. He didn't want to go before you did. "Bucky. It's okay." you repeated. "If it feels good, don't stop yourself. Please." Please was said on a moan.
He started to speed up, only because he realized you were closer than he'd thought. Maybe you'd come at the same time. He felt it in the base of his spine, in his belly, in his tendons. "Leave him. Be with me. Please, God, just be with me instead." The words were blurted out when his hips started to stutter.
Bucky had never planned on saying them, but now they were out, no taking them back. Your eyes had gone wide, with passion or shock, he didn't know, and that was what he was afraid of. "Bucky, I can't. I signed a prenup, I…"
You trailed off. Maybe you'd had nothing else to say. The crushing reality of the situation slammed into Bucky at the same time his orgasm did; his and yours both. You clenched around him so tight he felt like he was choking, but it might have been the numbing grief spreading through him as he emptied himself inside you. "I know I'm not rich. I don't care. I'll work two jobs to support us. I can do that for you." He gasped out.
"Bucky…"
All of a sudden, it was over. Making love, and you two together. Just like that, in a span of twenty seconds. He stopped touching you, started to push himself off the bed, but your arms and legs coiled around him. "No, no, Bucky, please don't go. Please don't…"
He pried off your arm, but your flung it straight back over his shoulders, pulling him against you. "Please don't go. Please don't go."
"I can't do this anymore." he mumbled. "Please let go so I don't hurt you by mistake."
He couldn't bear it. Nor could he bear the tears flooding your eyes. "Bucky, please don't go." It was all you could say. He kissed your tear stained cheek, pulled your arms off again, and held them by the wrists. You went limp, your energy expended. Then he was up and away, dragging a hand over his face, before stumbling into his jeans and grabbing his shirt and boots up in his arms.
He didn't look back at you, but he heard your sobs in his head all the way home.
Class was monotonous. Bucky was getting some of the best grades he'd ever had in his life, diligent in his studies. He threw himself into it. What more could he do? Your number was gone from his phone. So was everyone else's. Sam, Joaquin, Yelena… He'd seen Wanda once, at the crosswalk near his campus, and turned the other way. He couldn't be friends with them and not you. It would be too hard to hear about you. He didn't know if you'd told any of them a thing. He couldn't pretend nothing had happened.
It was amazing how quickly things could go from blissful to tainted, ruined, destroyed.
He'd never given you his address. He was sure you could have found him somehow, but he never heard a word from you. It was easier that way. Your loyalty came at a cost. The asking price had been too high.
The leaves turned orange, russet, copper. Snow came, and so did exams. Holly leaves and Christmas music and candy canes. The poppers and streamers that rang in the New Year. Wind and rain and ice, followed by flowers and bees and birds, and Bucky graduated that spring at the top of his class.
And every day, he thought of you.
"Barnes, I know you're new here, but I have to say I'm impressed. Your column is doing well. I'll admit that I thought it would just be a fluff piece once every other week, but the other higher ups and I think you have potential to take the Monday and Thursday slot going forward." Bucky blinked in surprise at Nicholas Fury.
Furious News was a pretty popular online newspaper. It was happenstance that Bucky had ended up there. One of his classmates had heard of an opening and got him an interview, as luck would have had it. He'd been very lucky that Daisy had talked him up to Coulson and Fury, luckier still that he had a shiny new diploma indicating that he knew a thing or two about journalism, because he'd been given a tiny desk and instructions to do some copy editing for the least important articles, before miraculously being given a slot of his own, a year into working there.
Advice From Yours Truly was the name of his column. Surprisingly, people liked hearing about a 20-something's life experiences, felt some sense of kindred spirit. His advice was never very good, he thought to himself, but people seemed to like it.
"Really?" he asked, though it was rhetorical. He knew Fury hated those types of questions.
Indeed, Fury gave him a look of distaste from across the desk. "Just don't screw it up, Barnes. For whatever reason, we get the most fan mail for you. And they don't even know what you look like."
There was a pause as Bucky ruminated on the praise, before Fury sighed and said, "Get the fuck out of here."
"Right. Sorry." He scrambled from the chair and out into the bullpen, bee-lining for his desk.
Darcy leaned into his space, snapping her bubblegum between her lips. "Do my eyes deceive me or did you just get a compliment from Fury? Anyone else who enters his office doesn't leave without getting yelled at most of the time."
He leaned away from her—he'd ended up with gum in his hair enough times by now—but nodded. "Yeah, I did. Yours Truly is getting a more permanent spot."
She extended a fist, to which he knocked knuckles with her. "Good going, sport."
He grimaced. She'd only worked there for three months longer than him, but she constantly lorded it over him. Then she wheeled her chair back to her own desk, leaving him alone.
Speaking of Yours Truly, he had to check on the submissions he'd gotten over the weekend. Usually he went through each one and picked out the five best, before writing an answer to each. Then he'd pick the strongest two and share them around the office before making the final decision. They were all normal, as he clicked through the emails. No crazy anecdotes this time. No, completely mundane, except for the last one, the newest to hit his inbox at 8 am that morning. He looked at his watch—it had only just gone past nine.
"Hi Bucky," it began—nobody knew him as bucky here—he'd hung up that nickname for the sake of professionalism. Maybe it was another previous classmate. "Do you have any experience in losing out on love? I knew this amazing guy, a few years ago. He was really one of a kind. He listened, he cared. I felt like I smiled every day, when I saw him. He was the best part of my summer."
Even though he'd gotten emails like this before, he hadn't yet grown jaded. He felt a pang of sympathy for the sender. "But I screwed everything up. I was scared I guess, to seize what was right in front of me. He's definitely my one that got away. How do you move on from that? Is it even possible? Or do you think I should go out on a limb, ask for a chance? I've been single for a while now. I can't bear to enter the dating world again—I keep thinking of him. I should have listened to him. I should have told him… I should have told him so many things, but I didn't. It's my biggest regret. I don't think words could ever express how deeply."
Hm, this writer was awful lovesick. Bucky heaved a sigh. He was about to close out of it, unable to think of any advice he could give. He knew the pain all too well, of course. It was a tough burden to bear, a hard wound to close. "I just hope that wherever he is, that he's doing well. I think he is. I always thought he had great potential. The rest of the world should see him like I do."
The final sentence caught his eye, his finger hovering over the mouse. A peculiar feeling settled over his shoulders, worn and familiar like an old coat, one he thought he'd lost. It was a tiny seed, not quite big enough to bloom yet. But it was there all the same.
"Always yours forever, Kitty. xx"
bonus note: this is how this idea was conceived by the way... if you're ever wondering what writers talk about... (me and @juniebjonesin)
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
description: you and your attending butt heads—constantly, and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents, pushing you further, criticizing sharper, expecting more, and you’re done with it. you finally go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days—anything to put distance between you and him—except before anything can change, everything does, because your patient—yours and Dr. Abbot’s—tests positive for COVID-19, and suddenly you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining
A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance
Hi!! I just found your page and you’re such a good writer!! :))
I was curious,, the newspaper club is a college au right?
Thank you!!
hiiiii thank u :’) that means a lot!! yes! Originally I wasn’t sure but honestly the more I thought about it, there are mature themes and I was more comfortable just going with college but like. with high school aspects like sports being so popular so I guess just a really small college hehe
Summary: You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Warnings / Tags: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, avengers au, breakfast club vibes?, tension, reader being confused, Bucky being silly
Word Count: 5.5k
Series Masterlist
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The library was nearly empty—most of the campus had already fled for winter break, suitcases rolling dramatically down sidewalks like everyone was escaping a war zone instead of a semester. The silence felt louder because of it.
You sat cross-legged in one of the big armchairs by the window, chin tucked into the sleeve of your sweater, watching pale December light spill across the wooden tables. Across from you, Bob had claimed an entire study area for himself, laptop open, camera plugged in, cables sprawled like he was conducting some kind of forensic investigation.
He clicked through photos with intense focus.
“God,” he muttered, zooming in. “The lighting in this one is criminal.”
You sighed dramatically. “You’re criminal.”
He didn’t even look up. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to. I’m grieving.”
That got his attention. He glanced at you over the top of his laptop screen, eyebrow raised. “Grieving what? The semester? The essays? The trauma?”
“Yes,” you said flatly. “All of it.”
He snorted and went back to scrolling through photos from Blitzmas. On the screen flashed Sam mid-laugh, Steve mid-eye-roll, Wanda holding her cider like a trophy. Then one of you—head tipped back laughing, sweater sleeves swallowing your hands, cheeks flushed from cold and something softer.
Bob paused there.
You noticed. “Delete that.”
“No.”
“Bob.”
“It’s candid. It’s art.” He zoomed in slightly. “Also you look disgustingly happy.”
You leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “I do not.”
“You do,” he said, satisfied. “Like, painfully so.”
You slumped back into the chair. “I’m going to miss this.”
“My amazing photography?”
“The campus,” you corrected, gesturing vaguely around the cavernous, quiet library. “The chaos. Even finals week. I like knowing everyone’s here. It feels… alive.”
Bob stared at you like you’d just confessed to enjoying dental work. “You are unwell.”
“I just hate the in-between,” you said softly. “Break feels like a pause button I didn’t press.”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Break feels like freedom.”
“Yeah,” you said lightly, though it didn’t quite land that way. “Because you have something to return to.”
Bob’s eyes softened. He looked at you over the top of his laptop, something quieter flickering across his face. “You sure you don’t want to go stay with Wanda like she offered?”
You smiled at the thought. When you’d told Wanda and Nat you were staying on campus for Christmas, they’d both completely blanched—rapid-fire brainstorming flights, road trips, elaborate lies to parents—anything to get you to come home with one of them.
It had been sweet. Overwhelmingly so.
But you’d shaken your head.
“I’ll be fine,” you said now, echoing what you’d told them. “The dorms aren’t even that empty. There are always a few stragglers.”
Bob didn’t look convinced.
“And is one of said stragglers possibly a rugged, handsome football player with a warm letterman jacket to spare?” He rose a brow.
Your cheeks warmed instantly, your lips betraying you as they curved into a smile you didn’t bother fighting.
“Maybe,” you said, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably.
Bob hummed knowingly. “Ah. So the campus won’t be entirely bleak and Dickensian.”
“It’s not like that,” you muttered, though the image of Bucky’s jacket draped over your shoulders, his hands warm at your waist in the cold, made your stomach flutter.
It was true—Bucky was staying on campus for Christmas, too. You’d mentioned your plans offhandedly one night, expecting maybe a frown, maybe a quiet nod. Instead, he’d shrugged like it was the easiest decision in the world.
“Yeah, I’ll stay too.”
Just like that.
You’d later learned his parents would be in Aspen, as they were every year. A glossy, snow-covered tradition of ski slopes and champagne toasts and carefully curated family photos.
A tradition Bucky hated.
He hadn’t said that outright at first. Just a tight jaw when he mentioned it. A roll of his eyes. A muttered comment about “pretending everything’s perfect for a week.”
Eventually, though, he’d admitted it.
“It’s not my thing.”
You understood that more than you’d let on.
Bob studied your expression now, the way your smile had softened into something quieter. “So,” he said lightly, “you’re both just… staying.”
“Yeah.”
“On purpose.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Stop.”
He grinned. “I’m just saying. Two emotionally complicated people opting out of family holidays to spend time on an empty campus together? That’s either the start of a Hallmark movie or a very intense indie film.”
You laughed despite yourself. “We’re not…’spending Christmas together’.”
“Mm.” He turned his attention back to his laptop screen. “Sure.”
You rolled your eyes again, but there was no denying the small, hopeful warmth blooming in your chest. The thought of quiet mornings. Empty quads dusted with frost. The cafeteria serving sad holiday-themed desserts to the five remaining students.
And Bucky.
Not the football player. Not the campus enigma. Just Bucky—without the noise, without the crowd, without the pressure to be anything but himself.
“You’re leaving later today, aren’t you?” You shifted your thoughts.
“Three hours,” he said proudly. “My mom texted me a countdown this morning.”
The smile faded just a little.
He noticed. “Oh, come on. It’s not like I’m shipping off to war.”
“I know,” you said, softer now. “I just… I’ll miss you.”
That earned a genuine look from him. Not teasing. Not smug. Just Bob.
“You see me every day,” he said.
“Exactly.”
He shut his laptop halfway and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re going to be fine.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You’ll have Barnes.”
You rolled your eyes automatically, but your cheeks warmed anyway. “That’s not the same.”
He smirked. “Oh, I’m well aware it’s not the same.”
You reached over and shoved his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”
He laughed, then reopened the laptop, clicking to another photo—this one catching Bob’s eye.
“Okay, this one’s kind of insane,” Bob murmured, zooming in.
You leaned over the table, resting your chin on your folded arms. “What?”
He squinted. “Hold on.”
The photo was wide—bonfire blazing in the foreground, a cluster of people laughing in front of it. The lighting was dramatic, shadows long and flickering. It looked positively cinematic.
“See?” he said, dragging the cursor toward the back corner of the frame. “There’s so much happening in this one.”
You followed the movement lazily—until your eyes caught on something.
Two figures, slightly blurred in the very background near the tree line.
Bucky.
And Sharon.
Sharon leaned up on her toes, mouth close to his ear, hand lightly braced against his arm. From this distance it looked intimate. Conspiratorial.
Bob frowned. “Huh.”
You blinked. “What?”
He tilted the screen toward you more. “Is that—”
“Yes,” you said quickly. Too quickly.
He squinted harder. “What was she doing?”
You stared at the image. Your stomach dipped, just slightly. It was easy to fill in the blanks from a still frame. The angle. The proximity. The way it looked like she was whispering something meant only for him.
“I don’t know,” you said, keeping your tone light. “Probably being annoying.”
Bob glanced at you. “It looks like she’s—”
“It’s just a picture.” You forced a small laugh. “It’s a millisecond. You can make anything look dramatic if you freeze it.”
He studied the image again, then you. “You’re not—”
“I’m not anything,” you cut in gently. “It’s fine.”
You didn’t know they’d spoken at the party.
But why would you?
It wasn’t like Bucky was required to give you a play-by-play of every conversation he had. You weren’t his handler. You weren’t his publicist. You weren’t even—technically—his girlfriend.
Right?
You stared at the now-dark laptop screen, catching your faint reflection in it. The word felt strange in your head. Undefined. Unclaimed.
You weren’t really sure what the protocol was for someone you weren’t technically dating to have a private moment with their ex-girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend who had treated him poorly. An ex-girlfriend who had made it very clear she didn’t like you.
Did that warrant a heads-up?
Did it warrant nothing?
Was it insecure to even care?
You swallowed, folding your arms over your chest as if that might quiet the small, needling discomfort settling there. It had been one moment. A whisper. A still frame taken out of context.
For all you knew, she’d been threatening him. Or trying to. Or embarrassing herself.
And Bucky hadn’t looked softened. He hadn’t looked charmed. If anything, he’d looked… stiff.
Bob nudged his bag higher on his shoulder, watching you carefully. “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m not,” you said automatically. Then, quieter: “I just… I don’t know what we are.”
There it was. The real thing.
Bob’s expression softened. “Have you asked?”
You let out a dry laugh. “Not explicitly. We’ve just been… existing.”
“Existing doesn’t usually involve staying on campus together for Christmas,” he pointed out.
You shot him a look.
“I’m just saying,” he added defensively. “If he wanted Sharon, he wouldn’t be opting out of Aspen.”
That made something in your chest loosen slightly. Aspen. The polished family photos. The perfect holiday he hated.
He’d stayed.
For his own reasons, sure. But still.
“It’s nothing,” you repeated, more convincingly this time. “If it mattered, he would’ve told me.”
Bob nodded slowly. “And if it keeps bothering you?”
You hesitated.
“Then I’ll ask,” you said finally. “Like a normal person.”
He smiled faintly. “Growth.”
You didn’t want to be the girl who spiraled over a whisper in the background of a photo.
But you also didn’t want to be the girl who pretended she didn’t care.
A knock sounded at your door. You smoothed the front of your cardigan as you crossed the room, your socked feet whispering softly against the floor. Reaching the door, you curled your fingers around the knob and pulled it open.
Bucky leaned casually against the frame, like he owned the place. Snow dusted the shoulders of his jacket, his hair slightly wind-tossed, cheeks pink from the cold.
And he was smiling.
A real one. Wide. Boyish.
“Good news,” he announced.
You blinked. “You’re alive?”
“Better than that.” He pushed off the frame and stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind him with his boot. “Campus is basically abandoned.”
You crossed your arms. “Tragic.”
“No, seriously,” he said, dropping his bag onto the floor like he planned on staying awhile. “It’s incredible. The gym’s empty. The dining hall lady gave me two desserts because she said it was ‘sad to waste them.’ I walked across the quad and didn’t see a single soul.”
You smiled faintly. “Your dream.”
“My dream,” he confirmed, stepping closer. “No obnoxious bell telling me I’m late. No coaches hovering. No—”
He paused mid-sentence.
His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you.
“What?” you asked automatically.
“You’re weird.”
You scoffed. “I’m always weird.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Different weird.”
He took another step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint flush on his skin from the cold outside. His gaze flicked over your face like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“You okay?” he asked, softer now.
Your stomach twisted.
You hadn’t planned to bring it up. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t be that person—overanalyzing a random photo, picking apart nothing.
But standing here with him, with that quiet concern on his face, the thought pushed forward anyway.
You hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”
His brow furrowed immediately. “That sounds serious.”
“It’s not,” you said quickly. “Probably.”
“Comforting.”
You glanced down at the floor for a second before looking back up. “At the bonfire… did you talk to Sharon?”
For half a second, he looked confused.
Then recognition hit.
“Oh.”
It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t guilty. Just surprised.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “For like… thirty seconds.”
Your arms tightened slightly around yourself. “Bob had a photo from that night. In the background she was—” you gestured vaguely toward your ear “—whispering to you.”
Bucky blinked.
Then he huffed out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Of course Bob caught that.”
You searched his face, trying to read something—anything.
“She approached me,” he explained, leaning back against your desk like it was the most unremarkable thing in the world. “Wanted to stir the pot.”
“How?”
“Bringing you up.”
Your stomach dropped slightly.
“She was surprised I brought you,’” he continued, making air quotes with clear irritation. “And came onto me.”
You stared at him.
“And what did you say?”
Bucky looked genuinely confused by the question.
“I told her that the little charade doesn’t work anymore,” he said simply. “And then I walked away.”
The tension in your chest loosened, slowly, like a knot unraveling.
“Oh.”
He tilted his head at you. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
You shrugged weakly. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”
He pushed off the desk and stepped closer again, his expression softening in that quiet way he had when he realized you were overthinking something.
“It’s not a thing,” he said gently.
You nodded. “I know.”
He studied you for another moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You thought I was secretly having dramatic bonfire whispers with my ex?”
“I didn’t say secretly.”
“You implied.”
You groaned and covered your face. “Please stop saying it like that.”
He laughed softly, reaching out to tug your hands down from your face.
“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “If something’s bothering you, you can ask me. You know that, right?”
Your heart thudded a little harder at that.
“Yeah,” you said.
For a moment the room was silent again, the empty dorm building amplifying the quiet between you.
“What, um—” You cleared your throat. “This whole Sharon thing—”
“Not a thing, Specs,” he reminded you immediately.
“Right. Not a thing,” you corrected quickly. “This… situation… just made me think a little more.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “About us. Our… situation.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched, his expression turning dangerously smug.
“Our situation,” he repeated slowly.
You groaned. “Must you be so annoying?” you snapped, frustration bubbling over. He had some unbelievable ability to make you stumble over the language you’ve been speaking since you were two years old and it was infuriating.
He just leaned back against the desk, arms folding loosely across his chest, clearly enjoying every second of your unraveling.
“We’re kind of… out now,” you pressed on, forcing yourself through it. “I mean, people know. And I just—hypothetically—if someone asked what we are…” You trailed off, waving your hands awkwardly. “What would I say?”
His grin widened.
“Not that anyone has asked,” you added quickly. “But if they did, I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous and answer in a way that isn’t accurate—”
He didn’t interrupt. That almost made it worse.
“—because it would be extremely embarrassing if someone asked you later and you had a completely different answer—”
“Specs.”
You kept going anyway. “And then suddenly I look like the delusional girl who made up a relationship that doesn’t—”
“Hey.”
He pushed off the desk and crossed the space between you in one easy step, the smile still tugging at his mouth but softer now. Gentler.
“Just ask me what you want to ask me.”
The words caught in your throat. For a second you considered backing out entirely, pretending the conversation had never started.
Instead, you blurted it.
“Am I your girlfriend?”
The room went still.
He didn’t actually pause—but it felt like he did. Like the air had thickened between you, stretching the moment impossibly long.
Your skin prickled with heat, your stomach twisting as the weight of what you’d just done hit you all at once.
“I’m surprised you have to ask,” he mused, his fingers trailing slowly down your arms. “I mean, you let me keep a toothbrush here.”
You huffed, exasperated. “I don’t know how this stuff works, okay? I didn’t even go to prom in high school, let alone have a fucking…situation! For all I know, you have multiple toothbrushes in multiple places.”
“I only have my toothbrush here,” he said deliberately, his eyes locking onto yours. “And I only intend on keeping my toothbrush here.” He tilted his head slightly. “Does that answer your question?”
You considered this for a beat. “Where do you floss then?”
He barked out a laugh, his head tipping back—only laughing harder when he realized you were completely serious.
“I’m just making sure I understand the analogy!” you defended quickly.
“Specs,” he said, still smiling as his hands found yours, squeezing them gently. “You are what I want. All I want.” His voice softened, the teasing giving way to something steadier. “Understand?”
You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest as a small smile finally took over your lips.
Bucky watched the smile settle on your face like he’d just fixed something fragile. Satisfied, he gave your hands one last squeeze before letting them go.
“Well,” he said lightly, glancing around your room. “Now that we’ve had our very serious toothbrush discussion… what are we doing tonight?”
You blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden normalcy of the question.
“Um.” You looked toward your laptop on the desk. “I was going to watch something.”
“Perfect.” He kicked off the rest of his shoes and dropped onto your bed like he’d done it a hundred times before, stretching his long legs out across the comforter. “Pick something terrible.”
You grabbed the laptop, climbing onto the bed beside him and pulling the blanket over your legs. The room felt warmer now, smaller somehow, the quiet dorm building pressing gently in around the two of you.
Bucky leaned back against the headboard, one arm naturally sliding around your shoulders as the movie started. His thumb traced lazy patterns against the fabric of your sleeve, absentminded and comfortable.
Like this was the most normal thing in the world.
You tried to focus on the screen. Some cheesy holiday movie—overly dramatic music, snow-covered towns, people falling in love after three conversations.
But your mind kept drifting.
Girlfriend.
The word echoed faintly in your head.
You’d asked it. Blurted it, really. And Bucky had smiled, had said all the right things, had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
Still…
Your thoughts circled anyway.
People know now.
The bonfire. The party. The way Wanda had looked between the two of you with that knowing smile. The way Bob had teased you earlier in the library.
Sharon whispering in his ear.
You shifted slightly under Bucky’s arm, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.
Being seen with him meant being seen, period. People would talk. They already did. And Sharon wasn’t exactly subtle when she decided she didn’t like someone.
Your stomach tightened.
You weren’t exactly… experienced with this kind of thing. Relationships. Labels. Public anything. Most of your life you’d kept your head down, existing on the outskirts of other people’s stories.
Bucky Barnes was the opposite of that.
He was a center-of-attention kind of person whether he wanted to be or not. A football player. The guy people noticed when he walked into a room.
And now… somehow… you were attached to him.
The thought made warmth bloom in your chest.
And anxiety right alongside it.
On the screen, the movie couple kissed dramatically under falling snow.
Bucky scoffed quietly. “They met yesterday.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Maybe they just know.”
“Yeah?” he murmured.
His arm tightened slightly around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer against him without even looking away from the screen.
Your head tipped naturally against his shoulder.
For a while you just sat there like that, the glow of the movie flickering across the walls, the quiet of the empty dorm wrapping around the two of you.
Comfortable. Easy.
Eventually Bucky reached over, snagging a stray piece of popcorn from the bowl between you.
“You’ve been really quiet,” he said casually.
“I’m watching the movie.”
“You’ve been staring at the same corner of the screen for ten minutes.”
You sighed. “You’re very observant.”
“Of you, I try to be.”
You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate, and after a moment he didn’t push. His thumb resumed its slow, absent pattern against your sleeve.
The movie rolled on.
And slowly, your thoughts began to quiet.
Because for all the spiraling your brain wanted to do—about Sharon, about people talking, about what this meant—you couldn’t ignore the simple reality of the moment.
Bucky was here.
In your dorm. On your bed. Arm around you like it belonged there.
He’d stayed on campus for break.
The warmth of that settled somewhere deep in your chest.
You exhaled slowly, letting yourself relax into him. Your eyes drifted back to the screen.
And then, suddenly—
Your brain snagged on something.
You frowned slightly.
Wait.
You replayed the conversation from earlier in your head.
The question.
Your stomach dipped.
Your eyes flicked sideways toward him, where he was still focused on the movie, completely relaxed.
You had asked him something very specific.
And he’d said a lot of things. Very nice things. Very convincing things.
But as you mentally retraced the conversation, one realization crept in quietly.
He’d never actually said yes.
The library was almost painfully quiet.
Rows of empty tables stretched beneath the tall windows, the usual hum of students replaced by the soft buzz of overhead lights and the distant whir of the heating system kicking on. Outside, the quad looked abandoned—patches of frost clinging to the grass where thousands of footsteps had worn paths just days ago.
You sat at your usual table anyway.
But it felt strange not to have something due.
No looming deadlines. No frantic typing at midnight. No shared misery with other students hunched over laptops and energy drinks.
Just… quiet.
Your fingers flipped absentmindedly through a book you’d already finished weeks ago.
You just liked being here.
Libraries made sense. They were structured, predictable, full of purpose. Even the silence had a kind of order to it.
“You know the semester’s over, right?”
You looked up immediately.
Bucky stood at the end of the table, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, a faint grin pulling at the corner of his mouth like he’d just confirmed a theory.
“Knew I’d find you here,” he said.
You blinked at him. “I do other things.”
“Name one.”
You opened your mouth.
Paused.
“…reading.”
His grin widened as he slid into the chair across from you. He reached over without asking and stole your coffee, taking a sip like it belonged to him.
You widened your eyes, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “That’s mine.”
“It’s terrible,” he said, making a face. “You’re welcome.”
You huffed, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you anyway.
For a moment the two of you just sat there, the quiet hum heating system surrounding you. Outside the tall windows, the sky hung pale and wintry.
Then Bucky leaned back in his chair.
“I need you tonight,” he said casually.
Your brain stalled.
“You… what?”
“Tonight,” he repeated, like this was perfectly normal phrasing. “Meet me at the gym.”
“The gym?” you echoed.
He nodded once.
“At night.”
“Yep.”
Your suspicion grew rapidly. “Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
You crossed your arms, squinting at him. “This sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not a trap.”
“You’re being incredibly suspicious.”
Bucky grinned, clearly enjoying this.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought—
“And wear something pretty.”
Your brain stalled again.
“Pretty?”
“Mhm.”
“Bucky,” you said slowly, “the gym is where people sweat.”
“Correct.”
“And lift weights.”
“Also correct.”
“And you want me to wear something pretty there.”
“Exactly.”
You stared at him, waiting for the punchline.
It didn’t come.
Instead he just watched you, the smallest hint of excitement flickering behind his eyes like he knew something you didn’t.
“What are you planning?” you asked.
“Nothing illegal…I don’t think.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back.
“Eight o’clock,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Bucky—”
“Don’t be late.”
“Bucky.”
He started walking backward toward the exit.
“And Specs?”
You glared at him. “What.”
His grin widened.
“Just trust me.”
And then he turned and disappeared out into the cold.
You sat there for a long moment, staring at the doorway he’d just vanished through.
Your stomach fluttered.
The gym.
At night.
Wear something pretty.
You had absolutely no idea what he had in mind.
Which was exactly why the rest of the day passed in a strange blur of anticipation.
By the time evening rolled around, your nerves had worked themselves into a full knot.
Because “something pretty” could mean anything.
The walk across campus felt longer than usual.
Maybe because you were hyperaware of every step.
Your boots crunched lightly over the thin frost on the pavement as you crossed the quad, your breath fogging in the cold evening air. The campus lights had flickered on not long ago, casting long golden pools across mostly empty walkways.
Your hands tugged nervously at the sleeves of your coat.
Underneath it, you were… very aware of what you were wearing.
“Something pretty,” Bucky had said.
Which had been wildly unhelpful.
After twenty minutes of staring at your closet like it had personally betrayed you, you’d eventually settled on a soft dress you rarely wore—something simple but flattering, paired with tights and shoes that made you feel a little more put together than usual. You’d even taken extra time with your hair, smoothing it back and forth in the mirror until you’d finally forced yourself to stop fussing.
It felt ridiculous to be this nervous about someone who had seen you in very intimate settings.
But the closer you got to the gym, the more your stomach fluttered.
The building loomed quiet and dark ahead of you, the big glass doors reflecting the empty campus behind you. No cars in the parking lot. No lights blazing through the windows like there normally were during practice.
You slowed slightly as you reached the entrance.
What exactly was he planning?
You pulled the door open.
Inside, the gym lights were dimmed low, leaving the huge space washed in soft shadows.
And then you heard it.
Music.
Faint at first—an old slow song drifting gently through the air.
You stepped further inside.
And stopped.
The entire set of bleachers along one side of the gym had been pushed back and cleared. In the middle of the polished basketball court, a single disco ball hung low from the ceiling—clearly not where it normally lived—casting slow, glittering reflections across the hardwood floor.
Lights twinkled across the space in lazy circles.
And standing right in the middle of it all was Bucky.
He looked up the moment the door creaked shut behind you.
For a second he just stared.
Like he’d forgotten how words worked.
“You look…” he started, then shook his head slightly, smiling in that quiet way he had when something genuinely caught him off guard. “Wow.”
Your brain was still catching up with what you were seeing.
The music. The lights. The empty gym.
The disco ball.
“Bucky,” you said slowly. “What… is this?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little sheepish despite the obvious effort surrounding you.
“Well,” he said. “You said you never went to prom.”
You blinked.
“I figured that was kind of a crime.”
You looked around again, taking in the entire scene—the cleared floor, the music echoing gently through the huge room, the ridiculous disco ball spinning overhead.
“You… made a prom?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Something like that.”
Your mouth fell open slightly. “How did you even do this?”
His grin turned a little crooked.
“Coach loves me,” he said. “What can I say.”
You stared at him.
“He gave me a spare key for the gym at the beginning of the season,” Bucky added casually. “For ‘extra practice.’”
“And he just… let you do this?”
“Well,” he admitted, glancing around. “He didn’t technically let me.”
You groaned softly.
“He gave me the key once,” Bucky continued with a shrug. “And then, for some reason, never asked for it back.”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed, the sound echoing lightly across the empty gym.
“You broke into the gym… to throw me prom.”
“When you say it like that it sounds worse.”
“It sounds exactly like that.”
He stepped a little closer now, the spinning lights catching briefly in his hair.
“Do you hate it?” he asked.
Your heart squeezed painfully at the uncertainty in his voice.
You looked around once more at the empty gym transformed just enough to feel magical.
The music, the lights, the ridiculous disco ball.
And him, standing there looking hopeful.
“No,” you said softly, smiling, “I think it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
The music drifted softly through the gym, echoing faintly off the high ceilings. The disco ball turned lazily overhead, scattering slow flecks of light across the polished floor.
Bucky shifted his weight slightly, suddenly looking a little less confident than he had a moment ago.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Prom usually involves dancing.”
You let out a small laugh, the sound light and breathy in the huge empty space.
“I’ve heard that rumor.”
He stepped forward then, closing the distance between you. Up close, you could see the faint pink still lingering in his cheeks from the cold, the nervous energy in the way he rolled his shoulders back.
He held out his hand.
“Dance with me?”
You slid your hand into his without hesitation.
His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and he gently guided you out toward the center of the court where the lights scattered the brightest.
The music shifted into a slow song, something soft and old that filled the quiet gym with an easy rhythm. Bucky placed one hand carefully at your waist, the other still holding yours as he pulled you just a little closer.
You’d never slow danced before.
Not really.
But Bucky moved like he had all the time in the world, swaying gently, guiding you without making it obvious. Within a few seconds you found the rhythm with him, your steps falling naturally into place.
Your free hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, and you tipped your head back slightly to look at him.
“You really broke into the gym for this,” you murmured, lips slightly pressed against his jacket from where you rested your head on his shoulder.
“Allegedly.”
“You hung a disco ball.”
“Borrowed,” he corrected.
You smiled.
For a while the two of you just moved together slowly across the floor, the quiet music and dim lights wrapping the moment in something almost unreal.
Eventually Bucky exhaled softly.
“Hey, Specs.”
“Yeah?”
His hand at your waist tightened just slightly.
“You remember that question you asked me last night?”
Your stomach fluttered.
“Which one?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You know exactly which one.”
Heat crept up your neck. “Oh.”
The two of you kept swaying slowly.
“You asked if you were my girlfriend,” he continued.
Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching.
“It was ridiculous you even had to ask,” he said quietly. “I thought I’d been pretty obvious.”
Your lips twitched faintly. “You have a habit of being… interpretive.”
He huffed a small laugh at that.
“Yeah, well,” he said, guiding you in another slow turn beneath the spinning lights, “I realized after you asked that maybe you deserved an actual answer.”
You felt your heartbeat pick up.
The music continued softly around you.
Bucky slowed your swaying steps just slightly, his gaze steady on yours now.
“I didn’t want it to be some throwaway thing in your dorm room,” he said. “You deserve better than that.”
Your chest tightened.
“So,” he added, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I figured I’d do it right.”
You blinked at him.
Bucky said your name softly, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “Will you be my girlfriend?”
The words settled between you, warm and real.
You felt a laugh bubble up in your chest, half relief, half disbelief.
“You threw me a prom,” you said. “To ask me that?”
He shrugged one shoulder, grinning now.
“Seemed appropriate.”
Your smile spread wide before you could stop it.
“Yes,” you said.
His grin widened immediately.
“Yes?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
Bucky let out a quiet breath like he’d been holding it all night, pulling you a little closer as the two of you continued swaying under the slow spin of the disco ball.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I needed to know before I brought my floss over.”
The laugh burst out of you before you could stop it, loud and surprised, echoing lightly off the gym walls.
Just like that, the last of your nerves melted away, replaced by a warm, hazy swirl of butterflies in your chest. And for the first time all night, your mind stopped racing ahead of you—stopped worrying about Sharon, or labels, or who might be watching.
Instead, it settled right where your feet were.
Here.
In the middle of a quiet gym.
Dancing with Bucky Barnes of all people.
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A/N: yall . I still have ideas for this story so like i think we gonna be here a while but i do have to share that there is some pot stirring headed your way #sorry
pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, alcohol, friends to lovers to enemies, pining but semi-unrequited, angst, college au, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, soft dom!bucky, oral (m receiving), leg humping, pet names: "princess" "baby"
word count: 12k
masterlist
a/n: this is the prequel to my two tickets to iron maiden series. you do not need to read pt 1 to understand this fic. based on the song "she's not afraid" by one direction. this is also one of my contributions for superhouse! dt to my dear dirtbag luvrs @spdrveil @tw1sters
synopsis:
You're not afraid of all the attention. You're not afraid of running wild. But why are you so afraid of falling in love with the campus' dirtbag, Bucky Barnes?
After carefully applying your Lancôme lipstick with steady, manicured hands, you stepped back from the full-length mirror to examine yourself one last time. You had shed your usual pink girl uniform—the mini skirts and matching pumps were gone.
Tonight, you looked like a completely different person, yet for the first time in a while, you actually felt like yourself.
You were wearing clothes much darker than your typical color palette. A black T-shirt featuring the logo of the indie band you were going to see, dark wash jeans, and a pair of old Converse. You hadn’t worn those shoes since high school field trips, but they were perfect for the house show tonight.
Sundays nights like these were the only times you could truly enjoy yourself.
You could finally freely listen to the kind of music that would normally have your friends covering their ears and bolting for the nearest exit.
No wandering eyes, no obnoxious friends barking in your ear to leave for a ‘real’ party, and no boy-toys like John Walker flexing his biceps and begging you to feel them.
Tonight, you were going to be a loser among losers—the kind of people who didn’t go to your school and would never be caught dead in a place like this.
And there you were—dancing in the heart of a drunken, sweaty crowd, your head bopping to the beat of electrifying guitars and drums that made the floorboards vibrate. People collided into you and beer splashed through the air, but you didn’t care.
The room was suffocating, filthy, and deafening, yet you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Lost in your own haze, you didn’t even notice you were being watched from a far, distant corner of the crowd—and, ironic enough, the person watching you was actually someone who went to the same school.
Bucky had his eyes locked on your—clutching a red solo cup and harboring a clenched jaw.
“That guy on bass is rippin’ it,” Steve shouted over the music and crowd—though to Bucky, it was barely audible. “Nat’s gotta take some notes. But knowing her, she’ll probably just say, ‘I play just fine!’”
A million emotions were racing through Bucky’s head.
House parties where people like him gathered were always welcoming to new faces—and what better way to bring people together than with loud, screaming music?
“—seriously, though. I should write more bass lines for her—”
But on the other hand, Bucky couldn’t fathom why a girl like you would even show up at a place like this—much less wearing an outfit like that. You were the popular girl, notorious for wearing everything pink and designer. If he named a random expensive brand he couldn’t even pronounce, you’d probably say something like, “I already own their entire line, since like, yesterday!”
“—you listenin’ to that drummer, Buck? Those press rolls are out of control—”
Bucky knew he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover—but how could he not when you were exactly the kind of obnoxious girl he stayed away from at school? You were just another one of those girls who would side-eye him through your mascara and turn your nose up like a spoiled little princess.
“Buck, are you listening to me?” Steve’s voice cut through.
“Yeah,” Bucky lied, raising his solo cup to his lips. “I’m listening.”
He should ignore you. He should go back to his own little world with his best friend Steve, live in the moment, and just enjoy the music.
But he couldn’t tear his gaze away, even if he wanted to.
He was hypnotized by the way your hair—usually styled so neatly—was wild around you as you moved to the beat. His eyes couldn’t help but trace the way your body flowed so freely—the way your shirt lifted every time you raised your hands, revealing just the tiniest hint of midriff. But it was enough to make him clench his jaw even harder.
He couldn’t tell if he was irritated watching you move so comfortably in his safe space, tainting it with your preppiness underneath all that make-believe, performative rock shit—or if he was just frustrated by how good you looked.
But the minute you flipped your hair and the backyard lights caught the genuine smile on your face, his heart leaped.
That was when Bucky knew his answer.
“Here. Hold this,” Bucky said, shoving the red cup into Steve’s hands.
“Where are you going?” Steve shouted over the crowd, but Bucky was already moving away.
Without looking back, Bucky gave a dismissive wave. “To the bathroom.”
Before Steve could call out again, Bucky was weaving through the familiar faces, dodging spilling drinks and the people moshing in the center.
His eyes were set on one thing only—and that was on the woman who shouldn’t be here.
As he caught up to you, his fingertips brushed your shoulder to grab your attention.
You turned your head to glance at him—and in that moment, he realized he had no idea what to say.
The light hit your face just right, and it was as if the world had slowed to a crawl. He had seen you plenty of times across campus, but he had never seen you this close—and it was a good thing he hadn’t, because God…
You were breathtaking.
It was no wonder you were so popular, that every girl on campus wanted to be you, or that you always had a new guy like John Walker at your hip.
As he stood there, he wished the mosh pit would just open up and swallow him whole.
Your lips parted in surprise, your eyes tracing his face before landing back on his. You looked lost. You looked like you couldn’t understand why a man like him had just stopped you in the middle of a dance. You looked like someone whose peace had been disturbed.
And most importantly, you looked like you had no idea who he was.
Of course you didn’t know who he was. You were complete opposites after all.
Bucky was the guy who dressed in all black and kept his head down, sticking to the same three people.
He was the guy who always had earbuds in, listening to music meant he could drown out everything around him.
While you were out partying, he was in his garage breaking drumsticks.
While you were out shopping with friends, he was at thrift shops, scouring for vintage tees and getting gas station hot dogs with Steve and Sam.
Of course you didn’t know who he was.
Bucky cleared his throat, preparing to turn around and accept his awkward defeat, but before he could, your lips curved into a small smile. It was a look he had seen you flash to dozens of others, but for some reason, this smile for him felt… different.
“I—”
“Bucky Barnes, right?”
Bucky’s brain felt like a toaster being dumped into a tub full of water.
He had spent the last twenty minutes convinced he was a ghost to someone like you—a background character in your world of lip gloss and designer bags.
But you had just said his name.
“I—uh—yeah,” he stumbled, his hand flying to the back of his neck. He began rubbing the skin there, a nervous habit he usually kept under wraps. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you knew who I was.”
He finally pried his eyes away from yours, suddenly feeling embarrassed and exposed. He tried to still the rapid beating of his heart, but it was useless. He hated how easily he was unraveling. It made him feel like just another average guy on campus that you could wrap around your tiny, smooth finger with a single look.
He was supposed to be the guy who didn’t give a damn, yet here he was, stammering over a girl who usually spent her time with quarterbacks, and would never waste her time with someone like him.
“I knew you looked familiar!” you shouted over the crowd, your smile widening. “You’re the dude in that one band, right? You play the drums? Civil War?”
Bucky felt like he was going to collapse at any moment now.
Not only did you know his name, but you knew he played the drums—and you knew his band?
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He swayed on his heels, offering a shrug that was far too forced to be casual. “We’re… we’re alright, I guess.”
You couldn’t help but let out a soft, genuine laugh that was nearly drowned out by the pounding drums of the song. It was adorable. At school, Bucky Barnes was the personification of the ‘don’t talk to me’ crowd. Shaggy hair, ripped jeans, and always wearing earbuds to tune the rest of the world out.
But here, with the two of you cramped in a grimy backyard under cheap, flickering party lights, that misfit exterior was cracking.
“Alright?” you repeated with a playful scoff. “I’ve heard you guys perform at school events. You’re actually pretty good.”
It was a good thing it was dark out, because it made it harder for you to notice the blush taking over his cheeks.
“Really? That’s… that’s cool,” Bucky said sheepishly. He waved a hand toward the crowd, gesturing to them. “I didn’t know you listened to this type of music.”
“Oh, really?” Your lips curved into a smirk as you crossed your arms and tilted your head, taunting him. “And what makes you think that?”
You already knew the answer, of course. A girl like you would normally be caught dead before being seen in a place like this. But you wanted to hear the words come stammering out of Bucky’s mouth instead.
“I mean, come on,” he said, gesturing vaguely at your outfit, though his mind was still stuck on the pink skirts he saw you in at school. “You’re usually wearing those soft cardigans, tiny skirts, and shoes with the skinny…” He pinched his fingers together. “The skinny stick thing.”
You raised a brow. “Stick thing? You mean a heel?”
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “Those things that make that obnoxious clanking sound. People outside your clique call you girls ‘the clackers,’ you know.”
You let out a dramatic gasp, clutching a hand over your heart.
“Clackers? Oh my god—that’s like, so totally mean!” You exaggerated, your voice rising in pitch as you mimicked the girls Bucky was referring to. “Well, do you know what people call boys like you at school?”
“Yeah?” Bucky couldn’t help but grin while he waited for the punchline, already knowing what was coming. “What do they call me?”
“They call you a dirtbag, Barnes.”
Bucky’s smile grew wider as he looked down at you. You had your arms crossed, hip slightly jutted out. Despite the different clothes, your mannerisms were exactly the same as they were at school—all you were missing was a designer handbag hanging from your arm.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been called worse.” Bucky shrugged.
He leaned in a little closer, teasing, almost.
“But guess what? You’re here too, dressed like…” his eyes took you in up and down, slowly, “—that. Believe it or not, that makes you a dirtbag too, princess.”
“Oh, is that so?” You couldn’t help but tease back even harder, leaning into his space. “Do they also call me a ‘princess’ at school, too?”
“Nah,” Bucky countered. “I call you that.”
The cheeky grin you’d been harboring dropped the second his words registered. Your face began to warm, and this time, it was your turn to be embarrassed.
A faint flush crept up your neck, and you had to look away to hide the way your lips were twitching into a sheepish smile.
“You’re… stupid,” you mumbled, your eyes glued on a random patch of dirt on the ground.
Bucky’s shoulders eased up a little as a quiet and prideful adrenaline made his heart thump faster. He’d spent his college years feeling like he was on the outside looking in, but seeing you—the girl he’d spent all semester convinced he despised, and who he was sure felt the same—actually affected by something he said?
It was a better high than any drum solo he had ever played.
“Like I said,” Bucky was unable to keep that lopsided grin from spreading even wider. “I’ve been called worse.”
The air between you thickened with a tension that had nothing to do with the party and everything to do with the way Bucky was looking at you.
You opened your mouth, a witty retort ready on the tip of your tongue, but it was cut short the second a guy next to you lost his footing. He slammed into your shoulder, sending his lukewarm, cheap beer flying—splashing directly across your shirt.
“Jesus—!” you gasped, the cold liquid soaking through the fabric.
The impact sent you stumbling into Bucky’s chest. His hand instinctively shot up, wrapping around your shoulder to hold you steady.
Before you could even whip your head around to give the guy a piece of your mind, Bucky’s free hand was already on the stranger's chest, giving him a hard, aggressive shove.
“Watch where you’re going!” Bucky snapped, his voice cutting through the noise loud enough to snag the attention of people nearby.
The guy eyed Bucky up and down with red rimmed eyes, looking too high to even comprehend the situation.
“Chill out, man. Didn’t mean to stumble into your girl,” he droned, a drunken grin tugging at his lips as he looked at you. “Besides, she’s probably used to guys bumpin’ all up against her, anyway.”
Bucky’s hand dropped from your shoulder, his fingers curling into a tight, white knuckled fist.
“What did you just say?” he taunted, stepping into the guy’s space until they were practically nose to nose.
You blinked, taken aback by his reaction. At school, Bucky was the guy who kept to himself, never looking for a fight unless he was provoked by an asshat like one of the football players.
But to see him so suddenly protective over you—knowing he’d probably lose to this guy, who was twice his size—made an unexpected feeling of flattery wash over you.
“Say it again,” Bucky challenged dangerously. “Say one more word about her.”
“Bucky, stop! He’s not worth it,” you said firmly. You reached out, your fingers wrapping tightly around his bicep. Even through the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, you were startled by the hard muscle beneath your touch.
He didn’t budge, his eyes locked on his target like a predator’s.
“Bucky, look at me,” you insisted, tugging on his arm with everything you had. “I’m covered in beer and I want to go inside and clean up. Now.”
Bucky took a hesitant glance down at you, then back at the man who reeked of weed and beer.
“Fine,” he mumbled reluctantly, finally letting his tension ease up as he allowed you to drag him out of the crowd.
His eyes traced the back of your head as you led him away from the center of the party. To Bucky, it was as if the world had slowed down. The crowd was still wild, the band was still screaming into their microphones.
Everything around you was a recipe for overstimulation and chaos, yet the only thing he could focus on was you.
He didn’t even realize you had led him into the house and down the hallway until you pushed open the bathroom door, pulling him inside and closing it shut behind you with a lock.
“God,” you mumbled grumpily, turning to the sink and cranking the faucet. “That prick.”
Bucky watched, paralyzed, as you grabbed the bottom hem of your shirt to unstick it from your skin. When you lifted the damp fabric, you revealed the soft curve of your stomach and the line of your hips. His eyes lingered, shamefully curious, before he realized he was staring.
He swallowed hard, reaching for the toilet paper roll and bunching up a handful. He swerved around you to run the tissues under the water, his movements a little jerky and nervous.
“Yeah, he was…” He started dabbing at your shirt, his head bowed as he avoided eye contact. “You should’ve let me have at him. He was an asshole who needed to be put in his place.”
“No, Bucky,” you sighed. “He was like six foot something. He was way too big. You would have ended up in the ER.”
Bucky’s hand paused, and he finally lifted his head to meet your eyes. His brow arched, a little competition sparking in his blue eyes.
“Oh, yeah? Is that what you think?” he challenged.
He straightened his shoulders, closing what little gap was left between you until the toes of his beat up Converse were touching yours.
“You really didn’t think I’d win? You don’t think I’m big enough to handle myself?”
You chuckled softly. The proximity was the definition of romantic—the way he was staring at you, the way he was caring for you—even if the setting was anything but. The bathroom was cramped and dingy, the smell of stale beer wafting between you, but none of it seemed to matter anymore.
“Oh, I think you’re plenty big, Bucky,” you purred.
You reached out, letting your hand rest over the center of his chest. You could feel his heartbeat quickening the moment you touched him. “I just didn’t want him to ruin that pretty face of yours. I’m actually starting to grow quite fond of it.”
Bucky grinned, face hot and deliberately trying to ignore the ‘plenty big’ comment. “So, you think I’m pretty?”
You couldn’t help but sway slightly toward him. You were used to attention from guys, but this felt different—it felt natural because it was… well, Bucky.
“Handsome, I mean,” you corrected teasingly.
Bucky tilted his head down, a soft, bashful chuckle leaving his lips.
Then, he slowly lifted his head once more, bringing his fingertips up to trace your jaw. He studied your features, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as if he were memorizing them. He’d caught glimpses of you across campus and in the dark backyard, but seeing you here, under the warm bathroom fluorescence, you were breathtakingly beautiful.
“You’re…” Bucky breathed, his thumb grazing your cheek. “...pretty.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn't say anything. The way he held you—fingers tracing the curve of your jaw and grazing your bottom lip— it was as if he’d caught the words right out of your mouth and was keeping them safe.
You watched his eyes, hungry and starved, as they roamed reverently over your face.
From your eyes to the curve of your nose, and finally, to your lips.
Especially your lips.
He sucked in a deep, subtle breath, his thumb caressing the plump flesh and smearing your lip gloss. If it were any other guy, you would have shoved him off for daring to ruin your makeup.
But again, it was Bucky.
“So fucking pretty,” Bucky mumbled, so quietly it was as if he were only speaking to himself. “Like a princess.”
He had such an earnest look in his eyes, like he was dying to break the distance but was waiting for permission. You felt it; you knew he wanted this.
And truthfully, you wanted it too.
Maybe even more than he did.
Without waiting for him to find his courage, you reached up, tangling your fingers into the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck and pulling him down.
Bucky was caught off guard, nearly stumbling as you brought him to you. The second the softness of your lips met his, he leaned into it with everything he had. He discarded the wet tissues into the sink, his free hands circling your waist to haul you closer.
The kiss was messy and desperate, tasting faintly of beer as he smothered your mouth with his, smearing your gloss even further. His courage finally caught up to his desire as his tongue pushed past your lips, dancing with yours in a frantic rhythm.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands tightening around your waist possessively.
He backed you up against the door, the wood thudding behind you as he deepened the kiss, becoming harder and more demanding. For a guy who usually kept his distance at school, he was suddenly everywhere. Every touch was frantic, warm, and needy.
You tilted your head back, letting out a shaky breath into his mouth as he trailed kisses down to the corner of your jaw, his stubble grazing your skin.
“My god—Bucky…” you breathed, a needy moan escaping you as his hand moved upward, his palm firm and demanding against your chest through the fabric of your shirt.
Bucky felt his jeans tightening painfully. He subconsciously rocked his hips against your leg, the friction of denim-on-denim letting you feel his full, throbbing erection.
“That sound…” he rasped against your neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. “The way you moan my name… I fucking love it, princess.”
His palm was rough and calloused, but his movements were surprisingly careful as he slid his hand beneath the hem of your beer soaked shirt. The heat of his skin against your cool stomach made your breath hitch—a sharp intake of air that only seemed to spur him on.
Bucky groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest and echoing into your mouth as he claimed your lips again. His hand climbed higher, tracing the curve of your ribs purposefully slow that until his fingers brushed the underside of your bra. He paused for a moment, his eyes searching yours in the bathroom light, looking for any sign to stop.
“You’re so warm,” he whispered against your skin, his hand finally cupping you fully.
The friction of his thumb grazing you through the lace sent a bolt of heat straight to your lower belly. You threw your head back against the door, your fingers digging into his shoulders, clutching the soft cotton of his tee.
“Bucky,” you begged softly. “I need you.”
He dipped his head back down, his mouth finding the sweet spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking a mark into the skin that you knew would be impossible to hide on Monday morning.
“Everyone at school... thinks you’re so untouchable,” he muttered, his voice prideful. He shifted his foot, pinning you more firmly against the wood, making sure you felt every inch of his erection rubbing against your thigh.
“They have no idea. They don’t know how you sound for me.”
Bucky’s thumb ran over your hardened nipple through the lace, the roughness of his finger making you shiver, hiss in pleasure, and arch your body into his touch for more.
“Jesus,” he whispered, amused. “Do you let anyone else touch you like this?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He sounded almost desperate to hear the answer, his grip on your waist tightening. “All those guys following you around... do they get to see you like this?”
The question was the last thing you wanted to deal with.
The friction of his denim against your inner thighs, the heat of the bathroom, and the agonizingly slow pace he was taking were driving you over the edge. You shifted restlessly, your thighs rubbing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache he had started.
“Are you going to keep talking,” you snapped, your eyes boring into his, “or are you actually going to fuck me, Barnes?”
He paused, pulling his head back just an inch to meet your eyes with his surprised ones. He hadn’t expected you to say that at all. As his eyes roamed down to your body—watching the way your chest heaved and the way your legs clenched in desperation—it was like a swell of masculine pride coursed through his veins at how much you were coming apart specifically for him.
A dark, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as he let out a short, breathy laugh.
“Alright,” he growled, his eyes locking onto yours. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
He dropped to his knees in the cramped space, the movement sudden and frantic. His hands tugged at the button of your jeans, his tongue coming out to sweep over his bottom lip as he slowly slid the zipper down—the sound grating loudly in the small room.
He tugged the denim over your hips, his knuckles grazing your skin so gently that it made your breath hitch. You had to lean back against the door for support as he helped you step out of them, one leg at a time, until you were standing before him in nothing but your soaked shirt and a scrap of lace for underwear.
Bucky didn’t stand back up. He stayed right where he was, his hands sliding up your bare thighs. He looked up at you with a gaze that was pure worship—a look you had never received from anyone else.
“Look at you,” he breathed in adoration, his voice shaking. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
He leaned in, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You let out a soft whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair to keep your balance. He moved higher, his stubble grazing your skin until his face was buried against you.
Through the thin fabric of your panties, he kissed you—hard and hungry.
He trailed his mouth along the lace, his hot breath soaking through the material as his hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging in to pull you closer. You were hovering over him, your legs shaking with a desperate need for more. Every time his tongue flicked against the damp fabric, a jolt of electricity shot through you, making your legs shake uncontrollably.
“Bucky,” you mewled, your voice breaking. “Please.”
“Please?” Bucky looked up at you, his eyes half-lidded and dark with lust. “Aw, you’re begging now. That’s real cute, princess.”
He finally rose from his knees, his breathing heavy and uneven. Without taking his eyes off yours, he reached for his studded belt, undoing it frantically. As he shucked his jeans and boxers down, your breath hitched in your throat.
You looked down, your eyes widening in genuine shock. He was thick and heavy— a stark contrast to his usual quiet, kept-to-himself demeanor.
He was also far... bigger than you had ever anticipated from the brooding drummer who sat in the back of lectures.
Bucky caught your gaze, and a surge of pride hit him. He wrapped his hand around himself, gifting himself a few slow, steady strokes that made the veins on his forearm stand out. He let out a low, shaky groan at the sight of you watching him so intently, his head tilting back for a moment as he savored the attention he never got from you at school.
“Look at that pretty little mouth,” Bucky groaned, his jaw going slack as he looked back at you. “Your lips open just like that... you wanna taste, baby?”
“I… I—”
“Oh, now you’re stuttering?” Bucky smirked, his eyes trailing down your body. “You usually always have something smart to say, even at school. Where’d all that mouth go?” He stepped back into your space, the heat radiating off him. “On your knees.”
You swallowed hard, letting yourself sink to the floor. The cold floor hitting your knees made you shiver. As you looked up at him, Bucky reached down, his fingers tangling deep into a fistful of your hair. He didn’t pull hard, but his grip was still firm—a possessive hold that held your head steady against the wood of the door.
“Fuck, princess,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a kindness that felt almost out of place given the way he was holding you. “You’re an angel. My beautiful, perfect girl. I never expected a girl like you to look at a guy like me like this.”
The words spilling out of his lips were sweet. Tender, even. But his body told a different story.
He stepped closer, pinning your head back against the door with that fist in your hair, and began to rock his hips. He ground himself against your face, the hot warmth of his cock rubbing against your cheeks and lips, making his breath come in short, jagged hitches.
He was already leaking profusely, smearing his arousal all over your face. Eager, you grabbed his length with your hand, holding it still and flicking your tongue out, lapping at the pearls that leaked out of his cock.
Bucky’s entire body shuddered as your tongue swirled around the head of his cock. A low, broken sound ripped from his throat. His knuckles tightened in your hair, giving your head a gentle nudge against him. His other hand slammed against the wood of the door above your head, his muscles straining as he braced himself.
He began to rock his hips with more intent, a subtle grind that pushed his cock deeper into your palm and against your lips.
“God,” he shuddered. “Your tongue… your lips… so… so-soft.” He choked out, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned his weight into the door. “Come on. In your mouth, baby. Give it to me.”
Bucky sounded utterly broken. The raw rasp of his voice sent a jolt of heat straight between your legs, and greedy to hear more, you opened your mouth and took him in. Your throat tightened as you slid past his tip, taking him halfway down in one eager motion.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a groan that sounded almost painful—the kind of sound that only comes from too much pleasure. His hand tightened in your hair, the slight tug made you wince, but the burn only spurred you on.
His hips were rolling in nasty, demanding circles, forcing himself deep against your tongue and the back of your throat.
“Ohhh, fuck,” he whined. “So fucking good. I can’t… can’t even look at you—” He stammered out, not even daring to finish his sentence. If he dared to open his eyes right now, to see your pretty lashes batting up at him with your puckered lips full of his cock, he felt like he could cum right then and there.
And he wanted to savor this.
“Shit, shit.”
Every time he bucked his hips for more, you felt the power of his thighs, and the ache between your own legs became unbearable. You began to settle yourself over his foot, humping his leg. You ground your inner thigh against his calf, seeking any kind of friction to ease the pressure.
Bucky thought he had his resolve under control, but the second he felt the damp lace of your panties rubbing against his leg, his eyes snapped open. His pupils were blown wide as he watched the girl of his dreams humping his leg like some needy little puppy.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, his cock pulsing inside your warm mouth.
He felt like his knees were going to give out on him. You were beneath him, lips wrapped around him, humping his leg with those seemingly innocent eyes. It was too much.
“Shit—no, not yet. Gonna… gonna cum…” he hissed. He grabbed your hair and forced your head away from his cock with a wet pop.
You gasped, catching your breath as the force of the movement sent your back against the door. “Bucky..?”
“Get up,” he demanded roughly. He wrapped his hand around his shaft, squeezing hard to keep himself from cumming. “Bend over the sink. Now.”
You scrambled toward the vanity, your hands gripping the cold porcelain of the sink as you leaned forward, presenting yourself to him in a way that should be shameful, but you couldn’t help it.
You were too far gone for him.
Bucky was right behind you, a wall of heat pressing into your back. He hooked his thumbs into the damp lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to the chilled air of the bathroom—and to him.
He was breathing heavily, and you let out a soft gasp as you felt his thick, hot length press against your wet entrance.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “So wet.”
With one heavy yet careful thrust, his tip slipped past your entrance, and with a grunt, he pushed in even deeper inside you.
You let out a sharp, shattered cry that was drowned out by the speakers from the party outside. He was so much, filling you so completely that it felt like your breath had been stolen.
He was stretching you, forcing your tight walls to accommodate his length. Bucky groaned, his jaw clenching so tight that the muscles in his neck tensed up, fighting to keep from spilling inside right then and there.
He didn’t start moving immediately. He didn’t want to risk it just yet. He stood there, buried deep, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he tried to compose himself.
“Look up,” he rasped. He reached forward, his large hand cupping your chin and forcing your head up until your eyes met his in the wide mirror above the sink. “Look at yourself, princess.”
The sight was jarring, filthy, and disgusting.
Your hair was a mess, your lip gloss was smeared across your cheek, and your eyes were glassy and blown out. And behind you was Bucky, his face tight with a mix of agony and pleasure, his hands bruising your hips as he held you in place.
“Watch,” he commanded, his eyes locking onto yours in the reflection as he began to pull out, only to slam back into you roughly, making you jolt against the sink. “Watch me fuck you. Right here, in this dingy little bathroom. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes…” you mewled pathetically, arching your back and grinding your hips against his. The friction made him snarl in pleasure. “This is… exactly what I wanted,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “You… behind me, fucking me… just like this.”
The broken, needy whine in your voice was enough to make his restraint snap. He had been seconds away from filling your mouth with cum earlier, but with your hips rocking back to meet every one of his thrusts, it was becoming too much for him to handle. If he had known he’d actually have the opportunity to have you like this, he would have tried to be more mentally prepared. But there was no preparing for this.
Desperate, he began to fuck deeper into you, each heavy, rhythmic thrust forcing a soft grunt from his chest.
The porcelain of the sink felt biting and cold against your palms, but it was the only thing keeping you steady as Bucky’s weight pressed down on you. He reached forward, his hands sliding over your ribs to grip the edge of the bowl, pinning you between the cold porcelain and his broad chest.
He was moving so fast now that your vision blurred in the mirror. The image of his dark, messy hair and sweat slicked skin became a smear of shadow behind you. Your eyes were hazy with lust, watching in the reflection as this dirtbag completely defiled you.
“You’re mine,” he groaned, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. “I want you to be mine. I want to—to… keep you all to myself. Fuck!”
He reached one hand down, his fingers finding yours on the edge of the sink and interlacing them, squeezing so hard it was almost painful. He wanted you to feel every second of this—to know exactly who was claiming you in the middle of this crowded, noisy house.
“Say it. Say you’re mine, princess.”
“I’m… I’m yours, Bucky,” you sobbed out, the pleasure peaking almost unbearably as he hit that perfect spot over and over again.
“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he hissed against the shell of your ear, his voice breaking.
“Me—me too…” you choked out, your eyes rolling back as your walls tightened around him.
The feeling was enough to make him snap.
Bucky threw his head back, his neck glistening with sweat as he lost every ounce of control that he fought so hard to maintain. He rocked his hips forward one last time, burying himself completely to the hilt and locking his hips against yours as he finally allowed himself to spill inside you.
Deep, hot, thick cum filled you—making your knees buckle. You would have collapsed onto the floor if Bucky hadn’t been there, his arm wrapping tight around your waist to hold you up against the sink.
As you both fought to catch your breath, the only sounds were the muffled screams of the crowd and the distorted noise of the band’s instruments vibrating through the bathroom walls.
It felt like the rest of the world was miles away, leaving just the two of you in the humid, dirty, and dimly lit space.
Bucky’s forehead came down to rest in the crook of your neck, his skin damp and burning hot against yours. He was trembling—actual, visible tremors running through his shoulders and arms as the adrenaline began to fade.
“You… you okay?” he whispered, suddenly vulnerable as his eyes searched yours in the reflection.
Your breathing was finally returning to a steady, normal pace as you stared back at your reflection.
You had actually done it.
You had let the school’s most notorious, sleazy drummer bend you over a sink in a dingy house party bathroom. Despite how hot your body was, a shiver trickled down your spine—a cold prickle of reality. Bucky must have felt it too, because he only pulled you closer, pulling your back protectively against his chest.
What if he told everyone?
What if, by tomorrow morning, you were the main topic of conversation in the locker rooms?
You could already hear the whispers—rumors about how ‘easy’ you were, how a girl like you let a guy like him defile her in ways that felt like they’d set women back decades.
You were friends with girls whose fathers held powerful, upstanding positions—the kind of connections that were supposed to land you a career right after college.
How would this look for your reputation?
And yet, as you looked at the way his large hand still curved possessively over your hip, you realized you didn’t regret it at all.
You still felt the fading adrenaline of having sex with him—a delicious, almost forbidden ache that made you feel more alive than anything else in your curated life ever had.
You liked him.
More than you should, and certainly more than was safe.
You swallowed hard and forced your eyes to meet his in the mirror, your heart nearly melting at how completely spent and vulnerable he looked. All because of you.
“More than okay.”
“There’s no way you actually like listening to all that crap,” Bucky’s voice echoed through the phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “All they do is rap about sex, drugs, and money. Where’s the yearning, princess? Where’s the real story? Like that track I played in the car?”
You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips as you jotted down notes in your journal with a pink fuzzy pen, preparing for Monday’s lecture.
It had only been a few hours since he’d dropped you off. Any normal person would have been fast asleep by now, but instead, you had impulsively exchanged numbers with Bucky right before closing his passenger door.
Now, the two of you had been on the phone all night, neither one willing to be the first to hang up.
“Hey, it’s not all that bad. It’s the kind of music you can just get lost in when you're partying—”
“Partying,” Bucky scoffed. On the other end, he was twirling a drumstick between his fingers, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“With those idiots on the football team and the girls who can’t pull their heads out of their own asses? Please.”
“Wow,” you chuckled, switching the phone to your other ear and leaning back in your chair. “Do you hear yourself, Barnes? You know, you can be a total asshole yourself.”
Bucky could hear the smile in your voice, and it made his heart pace a little faster just picturing it. He fell back onto his bed, the heavy thud of the mattress picking up on the receiver.
“Yeah, well…” he sighed, staring up at his ceiling. “They were assholes to me first.”
Your smile dropped subconsciously after hearing him. He still had that usual ‘I-don’t-care’ taunt in his voice, yet it only reminded you of his isolation—the way he saw the world as a constant battle of them versus him.
With your heart aching, you opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky beat you to it.
“Are you laying in bed too?” he asked, his voice turning softer—intimate.
“No,” you murmured, glancing at the stack of open textbooks and the meticulously highlighted pages. “I’m at my desk.”
“Do it,” he commanded softly.
You let out a small, tired sigh, spinning your pink pen between your fingers. “Bucky, I have notes to catch up on for tomorrow. If I don’t finish this chapter, I’ll be behind before the lecture even starts.”
“Hate to break it to you, princess, but we’re both up way past our bedtime on a school night. You’re already behind. Come on,” Bucky groaned, and you could already see him rolling his eyes on the other end. “The world isn’t going to end if you don’t memorize one chapter of macro-whatever.”
“You do go to the same school as me, right?” you teased.
“Lay down with me. Just for a few minutes.”
With another, more dramatic sigh, you dropped your pen and stood up. Bucky heard the shuffle of your movement through the receiver, a genuine smile spreading across his face as he stared at his ceiling.
“You know, you’re a terrible distraction. A terrible influence, even,” you poked, kicking off your slippers and sliding under the duvet.
“You say that,” Bucky rumbled, shifting onto his side. He tucked the phone against his pillow, right where your head would be if you were physically there with him. “But you could hang up on me any time you want, princess.”
“You’re an idiot.” You rolled your eyes, but as you snuggled into the mattress, you deliberately shifted your body to leave a space beside you—as if he were actually there.
“Okay,” you whispered, voice growing naturally softer. “I’m laying down.”
“So...” Bucky rasped, almost tiredly. “Aside from the band we saw last night and the shitty trap music you and your clique listen to... what else do you actually like?”
“Mmm,” you hummed, eyes fluttering shut as you thought about it. “Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses…” You started listing. “And Iron Maiden.”
“Wow,” he chuckled warmly, the sound vibrating through the phone and making your heart flutter. “You like Iron Maiden? That’s my favorite fucking band.”
“Why am I not surprised?” you teased with a smile.
You heard Bucky shuffling on the other end, his excitement so palpable it was practically contagious. Your cheeks were starting to ache from how wide you were grinning, and you were just glad he couldn’t see it.
“It’s my dream to see them live. God, can you imagine?” He sighed dreamily, sounding just like a hopeless teenager again. “Maybe one day I'll be an honest man. Up 'til now, I'm doing the best I can...”
Bucky spoke the opening lyrics of ‘Wasting Love’ softly, and the sound of his voice reciting them earnestly made your heart skip a beat.
“Fuck. Imagine hearing that live?” he whispered, his voice low and filled with wonder.
“It would be even better seeing it with your friends,” you added softly. “I’m sure Steve—it’s Steve, right? Anyway, it would be an out-of-body experience to be with them all while watching your favorite band.”
“Nah,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “I can’t just watch it with anyone. That’d ruin the experience for me. I gotta live in the moment, you know? Can’t do that when three assholes are barking in my ear.”
He laughed as he joked about his friends, and the sound warmed you. It was so refreshing to hear someone talk about their best friends with that kind of genuine, bantering affection—a sharp contrast to the fake smiles and forced flattery you dealt with on campus every day.
When the laughter softened, a brief silence that settled over the line.
Then, Bucky spoke again, his voice softer and more sincere than you had ever heard it.
“… though I wouldn’t mind watching it with you.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, defensively pulling the duvet up higher until it partially covered your face, as if that could hide the heat blooming in your cheeks.
You felt like a giddy teenager again with a high school crush, kicking your feet helplessly under the sheets.
“You’re... you’re an idiot,” you stuttered out, your voice muffled by the fabric.
“You already called me that, princess,” Bucky countered. Even through the phone, you could practically see that lopsided, smug grin on his face.
“Okay, well...” You felt your face getting even hotter, your brain scrambling for a comeback that wasn’t there. “You’re a loser! I don’t know!”
Bucky let out a genuine, chesty laugh—a sound that was rich and unrestrained. It did nothing to soothe the way you were falling apart on your bed, or the rapid, uncontrollable beating of your heart against your chest.
It was a beautiful sound, one that you wanted to hear and cherish forever.
“Okay,” Bucky rasped, the sound of his tired voice dropping even deeper as he moved closer to the receiver. “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”
The words felt like a cold splash of water.
You didn’t want him to hang up—you wanted to stay in this bubble, you wanted to know more—everything—about him. But your pride had already taken enough of a beating for one night.
You couldn’t bring yourself to beg him to stay on the line.
“O-okay,” you stammered, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. “Fine. Goodnight, Bucky.”
“Goodnight, pretty princess,” he murmured tiredly.
Pretty.
The way he said the word made you want to sit up straight, beg him to stay on the phone with you. It was his version of tugging your heartstrings until your heart fell to the floor.
You waited for the click, for the silence that would signal he was gone. You heard the rustle of sheets and the heavy thud of his phone being set down somewhere. On his table or somewhere on a nearby pillow—you didn’t know.
But the line stayed open.
The timer on your screen kept ticking upward, second by second.
He hadn’t hung up.
A small, breathless realization dawned on you. He was waiting for you to do it. Or maybe… he didn’t want to hang up either? You clutched your phone tighter, resting it on the pillow right next to your ear, mirroring his position.
You stilled your breathing just to hear his own through the phone. It was steady, quiet, and comforting. You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his breath lull you, a tiny smile returning to your lips.
Neither of you said another word. You just drifted off together, miles apart, but sharing the same air through a speaker.
When you woke up the next morning, the sun was already slicing through the gaps in your curtains, bright and unforgiving as it was every Monday morning. Your mind and heart immediately settled on one thing, and you reached for your phone, squinting against the glare.
A soft, involuntary smile tugged at your lips when you saw the screen.
05:42:15.
The call was still active. You had gotten less than eight hours of your usual beauty sleep, but you had spent those hours sleeping with Bucky—or as close to it as you could.
You brought the phone to your ear, your voice raspy and dry with sleep.
“Bucky? Are you awake?”
The line was quiet, but as you waited, the sound of Bucky’s breathing finally picked up on the microphone. He was still dead asleep, likely buried under a pile of dark blankets in an equally dark room, shunning the rest of the world out.
You smiled, picturing his messy hair against a pillow, but when you pulled the phone away to check the actual time, you nearly jumped out of bed in a panic.
You had lecture in less than forty minutes, and you were still in your pajamas.
You looked at your desk—the neat stacks of textbooks, the internship applications, the rigid schedule that dictated every minute of your life.
“Bucky, wake up. You’ve got class, don’t you?” you hissed into the phone, scrambling toward your closet.
“Ngh,” he groaned, agitated and sounding like a defiant kid. “Five more… minutes.”
“Are you serious? Bucky, you’ll get in trouble!”
No answer.
You heard a shuffle, a frustrated, tired groan barely hitting the mic as he rolled over, until the phone slid off the mattress and hit the floor with a loud thud that made you wince.
And that was when it hit you.
Bucky was sleeping in on a Monday.
He didn’t care about the 8:00 AM lecture or the upstanding career paths.
He was a sleaze drummer from the wrong side of the social tracks, and you were a girl with a future to protect. Falling for him wasn’t just a bad idea; it was a wrecking ball. Your friends would laugh, your parents would be horrified, and your reputation would be charred.
You couldn’t fall in love with someone like him.
You couldn’t.
Whatever happened last night had to be a one-time thing—a moment of weakness where you just wanted to be free. It was a stress-reliever. Because realistically, a girl like you would never end up with a…
… dirtbag like Bucky Barnes.
With trembling fingers, you pressed the red button, cutting the digital tether between you. The silence in your room felt deafening. You moved frantically, throwing on a pleated skirt and a crisp, designer sweater, trying to dress yourself back into the presentable, perfect version of yourself that the rest of world expected to see.
Even an hour later as you sat in your usual seat during lecture, you couldn’t stop your leg from bouncing under the table.
The girl that had sat next to you looked visibly annoyed, but you were too distracted to care. Your eyes kept darting to your phone, checking for a notification that wasn’t there.
It was well past 10:00 AM now, and still, there was nothing.
You had already sat through one full lecture and shared a coffee with a girl you could hardly call a friend, and yet there was no sign of life from him. You were locked in a mental war, debating whether to send another text or just call him yourself.
“Hey,” Sharon barked, snapping her fingers to grab your attention. “Why do you keep staring at your phone? Is Walker trying to get in your skirt again?” She let out a sharp, teasing laugh before lifting her coffee to her lips.
You blinked, taken aback, and quickly flipped your phone face down on the table.
The comparison made your stomach turn. Walker was already assumed—and exactly the kind of guy your social circle expected you to date.
Bucky was... everything else.
“Oh, uh—yeah. Something like that,” you answered halfheartedly.
Sharon made an unpleasant face, her eyes narrowing with a look that was more judgment than concern.
“Don’t let yourself get too hung up on boys like that,” she warned, her voice dropping into that clinical, performative tone she used when she wanted to sound more sophisticated than she actually was. “Or for any boy, for that matter. College is where you mess around, not where you fall in love and get married.”
You hated every word that left her lips, yet they were the exact rules you had lived by.
Love was for after the degree, after the career, and certainly with someone who had their life together—not for a guy who would fuck you in a dirty bathroom and sleep in on a Monday morning.
“You’re right,” you murmured in defeat, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. “I know.”
You pulled your phone back into your lap, hiding the screen beneath the edge of the table. Your vision blurred slightly as you opened your thread with Bucky. Your heart was already breaking before you even typed the first letter.
You were killing the only thing that had made you feel real in years.
But it had to be done.
After typing out the text, you pressed send and immediately flipped the phone over, pressing it hard against your thigh, thinking that as long as you couldn’t see the message, then it wouldn’t affect you.
You looked back up at Sharon, forcing a smile that you both knew was bullshit.
You didn’t even need to tell her what happened, or who the text was for. Sharon saw the guilt in your eyes and filled in the blanks herself. She just smiled behind her coffee cup, though the smile was anything but reassuring.
“Good girl.”
Meanwhile, drool was dampening the corner of Bucky’s pillow, his limbs sprawled lazily across the mattress, dark shaggy hair a mess over his face.
In his head, he was still miles away. His dreams were looping through the wildest highlights of last night. The perfect picture of you, smiling up at him. The way your voice rolled his name off your tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bucky Barnes, right?
The way you’d laughed at his jokes, the way you’d led him out of the suffocating crowd, and the feel of your soft lips against his. Most vividly, the way you had arched your back against the porcelain sink when you finally let him take you.
That night was everything he’d ever dared to want.
It felt like a memory that shouldn’t belong to a guy like him—the kind of scene that only happened in movies or shitty romance novels. But it had actually come to life.
You were, quite literally, the girl of his dreams.
“Mmm,” Bucky groaned into the pillow, his body subconsciously yearning for you even in his sleep. The memories were so vivid, so fresh, that his nerves still felt the phantom touch of your skin.
“Ugh,” he grunted, shifting to get comfortable as the fog of sleep began to thin. “Fuck.”
As he moved, the friction of his hips against the mattress sent a jolt of pleasure straight through his veins.
Morning wood.
He squeezed his eyes shut, a goofy, half-awake smirk tugging at his mouth as he rocked his hips against his mattress, thinking about the way your lips felt around his cock. “Just like…. like that, baby.” He rasped, half asleep.
Bucky was seconds away from drifting back into the best part of his dream when reality shattered with a violent bang.
The bedroom door slammed against the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Bucky sat up straight, his heart leaping into his throat. The sheets fell to his waist as he squinted blindly against the intrusive hallway light.
“Bucky, what the fuck? You missed lecture? Are you serious?”
Steve stood in the doorway, a single backpack strap slung over his shoulder and his arms crossed tight over his chest. He looked less like a best friend and more like a disappointed father.
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky groaned, rubbing his face with both hands as he tried to scrub the sleep—and the lingering memory of you—out of his eyes. “Ever heard of knocking? Fucking hell.”
“I did knock. For five minutes,” Steve snapped, stepping into the room and kicking a stray boot out of his path. “You didn’t answer. I thought you were dead, especially because I didn’t see you at all after last night. Then I hear you... whatever the hell you were just doing.” Steve made a face of pure disgust, pointedly looking anywhere but at his best friend’s obvious state of arousal.
“If you miss one more lecture, the dean is going to cancel our performance for the big football game. You’re going to ruin it for the whole band, Bucky. Not just yourself.”
Bucky winced, feeling like a kid being scolded. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling around his hips as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. The football performance was their biggest break—the kind of exposure that could actually get them scouted. Steve had been breathing down everyone’s necks about it for weeks, and Bucky knew he had overstepped.
“I know, Steve. I get it,” Bucky mumbled, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Do you? Because you’re lying here with a wet dream while the rest of us are actually trying to make something of this,” Steve countered, lingering by the door. “Get dressed. I’ll be in the car in the driveway. I’m not losing this gig because you decided to have a late night.”
Steve turned, his voice trailing back down the hallway. “And for crying out loud, keep your phone off vibrate the next time someone needs you.”
Fuck.
His phone.
You.
He scrambled for the phone that should’ve been on his bed, tossing the sheets aside, but it was nowhere to be found. He lunged for his nightstand, fingers sweeping over the cluttered surface—nothing.
Finally, he looked down and found the device lying face down on the floorboards where it had fallen.
“Shit.”
His heart was still beating as he snatched it up. A part of him was desperate for a ‘good morning’ text or a cute, sleepy selfie, but another part of him for some reason felt a cold, sinking sense of dread.
His thumb tapped the screen, and the light flooded his face.
His shoulders dropped instantly at the notifications staring back at him.
Multiple text messages from Steve, but two from you.
The air left his lungs in one long, hollow exhale. He stared at the two text bubbles from you until the white background felt like it was burning his retinas.
👑: hey
👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?
What?
That was it?
You just wanted to move on from last night without a word of explanation? As if the last seven hours hadn’t happened? As if he were nothing more than your dirty little secret?
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky let out a harsh, bitter laugh, hunching over the edge of his bed as he read the message again and again, waiting for it to change. It didn’t.
The princess emoji next to your name, which had felt like a playful, intimate joke just hours ago, now looked like a warning label. It was a hard reminder of exactly who you were and—more importantly—exactly who he was to you.
Bucky felt an unwanted heat crawling up the back of his neck. It was humiliation, a slow-boiling anger that made his jaw clench until it hurt.
One second he was burning with the memory of your skin, and the next, he was freezing under your cold words and rejection.
He wanted to throw the phone against the wall.
He wanted to call you and demand to know how you could sound so soft at two in the morning and act so heartless at ten.
He dropped the phone back onto the mattress, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands.
A sinking realization hit him, one that he wanted to deny; he should have seen this coming.
You were the girl on the pedestal, the crown jewel of the campus social scene. And he was the exact type of guy your friends warned you about.
He wasn’t boyfriend material. Hell, even thinking the word boyfriend felt ridiculous now. In your eyes, he was probably nothing more than a liability.
Bucky picked the phone back up, his fingers hovering over the screen. They trembled slightly with a frantic, petty need to say something—anything—to hurt you back. It was immature, and he knew it wasn’t fair, but he wanted to tell you he didn’t care either. He wanted to lie and say it had just been a hookup for him, too.
But even he knew that was a goddamn lie.
In the end, his pride won out. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing he was crushed. He wouldn’t give you a paragraph when you had only given him a sentence.
With a shaky, jagged exhale, he finally typed out his response.
bucky: yeah
bucky: looks bad.
By afternoon, the campus was busy with the typical Monday chaos, but for Bucky, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. He was leaning against a brick pillar near the quad, fumbling with his wired earbuds, when the sound of your laugh caught his attention.
Instinctively, his heart skipped a beat. He looked up, searching for the familiar noise that his ears craved to hear.
And there you were, surrounded by a crowd that was a stark, colorful contrast to the one you were dancing in at the house party last night.
You were wearing a soft sweater and a perfectly pressed skirt. No beer soaked shirts, no dark-wash jeans, no scuffed shoes. You looked every bit the polished, popular princess.
At this point, he couldn’t even tell which version of you was real anymore.
You caught his eye once, then twice, across the distance. Each time, you tore your gaze away so fast it felt like a physical slap to his face. You went right back to laughing at something one of the girls said, your smile bright and beaming, as if you hadn’t broken his heart just a few hours ago.
Bucky’s heart couldn’t take it. He tried to untangle his earbuds, but his hands were shaking as the wave of humiliation came flooding back in his blood.
He didn’t want to be a secret.
He wanted you.
And he wanted to know how you could stand there and pretend you weren’t haunted by him, too.
Later on in the day, you were walking down the East Wing hall, lagging slightly behind your group to check your bag, when a strong hand suddenly clamped firmly around your arm.
“Excuse me—!” you gasped, but your protest turned into a squeal as he swung you hard around the corner. You collided with his chest, barely getting a chance to collect yourself before he steered you into an empty, darkened lecture hall.
“What the hell is your problem!” you shouted, spinning around.
Bucky shoved the door shut with his foot, his thumb swiping over the lock. An involuntary shiver ran down your spine as you felt that agonizing familiarity of being locked in a room with him.
“Bucky,” you hissed, stepping toward him before he could even turn around. You kept your voice low, terrified someone in the hall might overhear. “I thought we agreed that we’d keep what happened last night—”
“—between the two of us,” Bucky finished with a biting tone.
He scoffed, finally turning to look down at you. His eyes were dark and stormy with anger, yet there was a sadness in them that made you want to tear your gaze away. He stepped into your space, looming over you until you were forced to look up at him.
“I know. I read your text,” he said, his voice low and vulnerable. “But is that really what you want? Or is that just what you think you’re supposed to want?”
You crossed your arms over your chest, your face warming as the silence filled the dark, empty lecture room.
You didn’t know what to say. He had agreed with you—without putting up much of a fight at all, in fact. When you’d read his simple, short “yeah, looks bad” message, it had hurt, as selfish as that was. A small, irrational part of you had hoped he would fight for you. A part of you wanted him to call you immediately and tell you to cut the bullshit.
It was unfair to think that way, especially given how final your own message had been. But that was the problem with falling in love; it made you act unfairly. It made you crave things that would be unfair to have.
Which was exactly why falling in love was so dangerous. Especially with the wrong guy.
“Bucky, I—”
“No,” Bucky cut you off. He took a step closer, his shadow swallowing you whole as he backed you up against the nearest wall.
“What is it? Tell me the truth,” he demanded, raising his hand the wall behind your head, pinning you in. “Is it because you’re scared of being with me? Is that the problem? Because I’ve seen you, princess. You’re not afraid of sneaking out of that big sorority house of yours in the middle of the night. You’re not afraid of all the attention, or the parties, or running out wild with all these so-called friends of yours.”
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. Even with the anger radiating off him, even with the tight way he clenched his jaw, you noticed the way his hungry eyes slowly drop to your lips.
You knew he wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss you.
“So why now? Why me?” he rasped, his voice dropping low and almost painful. “Why am I the only thing you’re suddenly too terrified to be seen with?”
“You wouldn’t understand—”
“Try me,” Bucky challenged.
He reached out, his large hand cupping your jaw. His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, forcing you to keep your eyes locked on his, to stay here, grounded with him.
“Is it because of what people at school say about me?” he whispered, his eyes searching yours. “Is that it? You’re worried the reputation I have would tarnish your pretty, untainted one. That being seen with the dirty, dirtbag drummer would ruin that perfect pedestal everyone put you on. Right?”
He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours.
Being this close to him—feeling his warmth and his hand cupping your face once more made your body ache to bridge the gap. It was a craving that had been eating at you since the second he dropped you off after the house party, a hunger that had kept you awake even as you fell asleep on the phone, wishing he were in your bed instead of just a voice in your ear.
“And even then…” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there. “Even with my lips right over yours... you’re not pulling away, princess.”
It was pointless to say anything—because no matter how hard you tried to deny him with words, your body betrayed you every single time.
So, when he let out a jagged, shallow breath and finally closed the distance, you didn’t push him away.
The second his lips crashed against yours, you were already kissing him back. Your hands tangled in his soft, shaggy hair, pulling him closer just like you had last night. You were lost in each other, your bodies moving in a desperate dance while your fingers tugged at the disheveled locks you had grown to love.
Bucky’s hands rested possessively over your waist before roaming up your back, pressing your body tight against his. His lips moved feverishly over yours, hungry and completely unapologetic.
Trapped in a dark lecture hall with Bucky Barnes, you had never felt more free.
The two of you kissed until you were left breathless. When he finally pulled away, he stayed close—his forehead resting against yours, those vulnerable blue eyes boring into your own. He reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face before his fingers trailed down to cup your cheek so gently that it made your chest ache.
“I…” he swallowed hard, suddenly sheepish. “I lov—”
“Where the hell did she go?”
A familiar, aggravating voice echoed from the hall, right outside the locked door.
“Oh, shit.” You muttered.
You pulled away from Bucky with a sharp, panicked jerk, your hands flying to your hair to smooth the mess his fingers had made. You straightened your skirt and wiped your mouth, the warmth of his kiss already fading from your skin.
You turned toward the door, your hand reaching for the lock, when his voice stopped you.
“Wait—”
Bucky took a hesitant step forward, his hand outstretched as if he could catch you before you vanished. His eyes were wide and desperate, and as he opened his mouth to finish the confession he’d started, you cut him off.
You didn’t turn around. You knew if you looked at him, you would crumble.
“Bucky, stop,” you whispered, defeated. “We... we can’t. We’re total opposites. A girl like me would never…” You swallowed hard, not daring to finish the sentence.
You finally glanced back over your shoulder, your heart breaking at the sight of him standing there in the shadows. A bitter, sad smile touched your lips. “Looks bad, right?”
The words mirrored the text he had immediately regretted sending. It was unfair and it was stupid, but the wall was back up.
Bucky wanted to be with you, dammit, but you were pushing him away just to save face.
Without waiting for a response, you turned the lock and slipped into the bright light of the hallway. The transformation was instantaneous. You did a total one-eighty flip. You had your shoulders back, perfect posture, and a breezy smile that made you look so beautiful and so out of reach it made Bucky want to punch a wall.
“Sorry, girls!” you chirped, catching up to Sharon and the others. “I dropped my favorite lucky pen in the lecture hall. I thought I’d lost it forever.”
Your laughter echoed down the corridor, bright and hollow, fading as the group turned the corner. Inside the room, Bucky stepped up to the small door window. He watched your retreating back, the sway of your hair and hips as you disappeared into a world that had no place for him.
His phone dinged in his pocket—no longer on vibrate, just like Steve wanted. He dug it out of his pocket and stared at the screen.
Steve🎸: buck. practice is in five. WYA?
Steve🎸: too many distractions in your life, man. where the hell are you????
Bucky thought about the lyrics he’d whispered and how you were the only person he could ever imagine watching Iron Maiden with. But as the silence of the hall settled around him, the truth hit him square in the face like a sucker punch. It always fucking did.
At the end of the day, he was just a dirtbag drummer in a low-rent band with a bad reputation. And you were... well, you.
Undeniably out of reach, and perfectly you. If his only option was to admire you from afar... he’d have to be satisfied with just that.
He’d have to be satisfied with being your dirty little secret.
With a defeated sigh, he pushed through the lecture hall door and headed down the opposite end of the hall, away from the sound of your fading laughter. He typed out a response to Steve with cold, steady fingers.
bucky: got caught up with something stupid again.
bucky: on my way
He shoved the phone into his pocket and kept walking, your plumping lip gloss still burning against his lips.
You could always run back to your friends and your perfect little world without him, but he knew the truth.
You were already his.
You just weren’t brave enough to admit it yet.
DIRTBAG BARNES IS FINALLY HEEREEEEE
ngl, i lowkey teared up writing this, especially the scene where they were on the phone. i was literally shaking my head like "poor bucky," as if i'm not the one putting him through this toxic situationship. anyway, i finally made a playlist for this (not sure why i didn’t do it sooner). if you'd like to listen, you definitely should. there are some absolute bangers in there.
You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine
Okay. You’re okay. Never mind that all your YA fantasies are coming perfectly to life while you read this….. just. Breathe.
Marvelous!!!! The back and forth, Bucky going from insufferable jock to charming & sweet?? The pining, the buildup, the tension, the flirting and the chemistry????? Oh Lord, I cannot wait to read more!!!!
genuinely how I feel reading every single comment this series gets 🥹🥹 this has been I think my fav thing to write ever so the love it’s getting makes my heart sing 💘💘💘
helloo !!! i just wanted to ask, my old account was @lemoniceteee and i was wondering if its okay to swap that account out with this one for newspaper club taglist? i just binged it after so long and UGGHHHH I LOVE 😭😭😭
Summary: You transferred in for your senior year, already behind on credits and scrambling to fill an elective. As an aspiring journalist, you opt for the school newspaper—only to discover it’s a ragtag group of students who mostly shouldn’t be there. One, in particular, stands out: an infuriatingly arrogant jock, stuck in the club as punishment, who seems determined to make your life miserable.
Warnings / Tags: 18+ mdni, smut, enemies to lovers, avengers au, breakfast club vibes?, bff!bob, cheerleader!nat/wanda , football!sam/steve/walker, emo!ava, freshman!peter, big early 2000's tv show drama, annoying sharon, reader is insecure
Word Count: 7.4k hehe
Series Masterlist
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You were unrecognizable.
A few short months ago, the thought of lying on Bucky Barnes’ bed—bare legs stretched across his sheets, swallowed in one of his t-shirts while working on your Media Ethics paper—would have repulsed you.
Now?
Now, when he glanced over from where he lounged in his desk chair, controller in hand, forearms flexing as flashes of neon light from the game reflected off his face, you couldn’t stop the soft, sheepish smile that tugged at your mouth.
Outside, winter was settling in—frost creeping along windowpanes, the world hardening into something brittle and cold.
But your heart?
It was thawing.
“You let me know when you get lonely over there, Specs,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the screen as rapid bursts of gunfire echoed faintly from his speakers.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt your very intense, very noble adrenaline seeking,” you replied lightly, flipping a page in your notebook.
You heard it—the subtle click of plastic as he set the controller down. The scrape of chair legs against the floor. Slow, deliberate footsteps approaching.
“I have a way better idea for some adrenaline,” he said.
And then he was there.
His hand—large, warm—tilted your chin upward just enough to meet his gaze. The teasing glint in his eyes lasted only a second before his mouth claimed yours.
You leaned back onto your palms, laptop still balanced on your thighs, breath catching as his kiss deepened. He shifted the computer aside with an easy flick of his hand, attention fully redirected.
His mouth trailed downward—slow at first, then hungry—brushing along your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs tracing idle, possessive paths against your skin.
“I was working on that,” you whispered, though your voice betrayed you—thin, unsteady—as his lips dipped lower.
He paused just long enough to glance up at you, eyes darkened, amused.
“Keep working,” he murmured, teeth grazing lightly at the hem of your underwear.
A shiver raced through you so quickly it felt electric.
“Don’t mind me.”
“Bucky,” you warned softly—but there was no real bite in it. He didn’t respond, just sunk his fingertips deeper into your skin.
“I was actually writing something important,” you tried again, though your voice thinned as his lips pressed a lazy kiss just above the waistband.
“Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced. “Read it to me.”
“You’re not even listening.”
“I can multitask.”
The challenge in his voice sent warmth rushing through you far faster than the cold outside ever could.
You swallowed. “You’re distracting.”
“On purpose.”
Your head tilted back as one finger hooked into your underwear, nudging it to the side. His other hand gently pushed your thigh, opening space for him to kneel between.
“I told you—ah,” Your mouth fell open as his tongue lapped at your slick heat, a groan emitting from his throat at the taste. “I would only come over if you promised to let me write my paper.”
“Then write the fuckin’ paper, baby,” he murmured against you, voice rough, unsteady in a way that betrayed how much he was enjoying this. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles that made your hips jolt. “Show me what a good student you can be.”
”Bucky,” You couldn’t help but allow the moan to flow from your lips. His focus was singular now—intent, consuming. The teasing pace he’d started with dissolved into something hungrier, more certain, as though he’d decided patience was overrated.
As if he’d been waiting for the sound, a slow grin curved against your skin. His mouth brushed along your inner thigh, a teasing nip there before he rose over you, one hand framing your jaw as he captured your lips in a kiss that felt less playful and more inevitable.
“You’re done pretending,” he murmured against your mouth.
His hands were everywhere at once—urgent now. The shirt you wore disappeared in one swift motion, tossed aside without ceremony. His gaze dragged over you, slow and heated, like he was committing the sight to memory before hunger overtook him again.
Then he was shedding his own clothes just as quickly, movements impatient, breath heavier than before.
The breath punched out of you at the sudden closeness, at the way he filled you so completely it felt dizzying. Your hands fisted into his hair, ankles locking around his waist to keep him there—deeper, closer, impossibly closer.
His forehead dropped to yours for half a second, a rough exhale leaving him like even he hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel.
The first few thrusts were controlled, almost measured—like he was savoring the way you responded to him. The way your nails dug into his shoulders. The way your mouth fell open. The way your body arched to meet every movement without hesitation.
“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Just like that.”
Your breath grew uneven, chest rising and falling faster, hips lifting instinctively to meet him. He adjusted instantly, one hand gripping your thigh, pressing it higher around his waist, changing the angle just enough to make your vision blur at the edges.
“Oh—”
The sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
His eyes darkened at that.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Right there.”
The pace sharpened—not frantic, but relentless now. Each thrust hit deeper than the last, pulling tighter reactions from you. The tension in your stomach coiled, hot and electric, spreading outward until your fingers trembled in his hair.
You felt it building—that unfamiliar, dizzying swell that made your body feel too small to contain it.
“Bucky—” His name broke apart in your mouth.
“I know,” he said, voice low and strained. “I feel it.”
Your body tightened around him without permission. He groaned—deep, wrecked—and his hand slid down between you, thumb brushing in slow, intentional circles that made your back arch off the bed.
The coil snapped tighter.
Your thighs locked around him. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Every nerve felt lit, humming, stretched to the breaking point.
He didn’t slow.
If anything, he drove you harder.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly.
The pressure crested—and broke.
It tore through you in a white-hot wave, your breath stuttering out of your lungs as your body arched beneath him. Your fingers tightened in his hair, your thighs locking around his waist as the sensation rippled outward, sharp and blinding and impossible to contain.
His name fell from your lips like a confession.
He didn’t look away.
Not for a second.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked now, watching every flicker of your face as you came undone around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Your body trembled, tightening instinctively, and that was what finally shattered his control.
He groaned low in his throat, rhythm faltering for just a moment before turning urgent. His forehead dropped against yours, breath hot and uneven as he chased the edge right behind you.
You could feel the way he was holding himself together by a thread — every muscle taut, every movement deeper, harder, desperate. Your hands slid down his back, pulling him closer like you could anchor him there.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered, still breathless, still trembling.
That did it.
His restraint snapped in a broken exhale, hips driving forward one last time as his jaw clenched and his shoulders tightened under your hands. He buried his face against your neck, a low, guttural sound escaping him as he let go.
The room fell quiet except for the sound of your breathing.
Bucky eased out of you slowly, the shift drawing a quiet breath from both of you. He rolled onto his back beside you, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that gradually matched yours, the room settling into a warm, heavy silence.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He turned his head first.
You were still staring up at the ceiling, lips parted, glasses slightly askew where they pressed into the bedspread. Your hair fanned around you, cheeks flushed, body languid and loose in the aftermath.
A slow, satisfied grin tugged at his mouth.
When you finally turned your head toward him, the faintest blush colored your face—shy, but proud. You mirrored his grin, smaller but no less triumphant.
“You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, voice lower now, stripped of its earlier edge.
His fingers found yours without looking, threading through them. He lifted your hand to his mouth, pressing a deliberate kiss to the back of it—not teasing. Almost reverent.
“If I fail this paper, it’ll be your fault,” you muttered, pushing up onto your elbows, hair falling into your face.
He only chuckled, completely unbothered. The mattress dipped as he stood, dragging on a pair of sweats and a clean t-shirt like he didn’t have a single academic responsibility in the world. He padded toward the bathroom, emerging a second later with a warm cloth, tossing it to you with an ease that made your cheeks heat all over again.
As the heat between you settled into something softer, you reached blindly for your phone.
Your eyes narrowed at the screen. “Oh, shit.”
You were on your feet instantly, the calm evaporating. Clothes lay scattered from earlier—evidence of impatience and distraction. You scrambled to gather them, tugging fabric into place, yanking your sweater over your head and fighting with your boots.
“What?” he asked casually, tipping his head back to drink from a water bottle. His throat flexed as he swallowed, maddeningly calm.
“How is it already—class starts in like seven minutes!”
“We’re five minutes from the building, Specs.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Relax.”
“I always walk to newspaper with Bob,” you shot back, shoving your notebook into your bag. “And Bob will have approximately nine hundred questions if I walk out of your building with you.”
Bucky sighed.
Not annoyed. Just… aware.
There it was. The reality you both kept skirting around.
For weeks now, this had existed in corners. Late nights. Closed doors. Strategic timing. Wanda being the only one in the know—thanks to that one desperate evening when you’d needed her “sextpertise,” as she’d proudly coined it.
That night had changed everything.
And now here you were, sprinting around his room trying to look like you hadn’t just been breathless in his bed mere minutes ago.
Bucky stepped closer, adjusting the strap of your bag where it had twisted.
“You act like it’s a crime,” he said quietly.
“It’s not,” you replied too quickly. Then softer, “It’s just… ours.”
His eyes held yours for a second longer than usual.
“Specs,” he murmured, brushing his thumb briefly along your jaw before letting his hand fall. “You know I don’t care who sees me walk out with you.”
Your stomach flipped.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
A beat passed between you.
Then he smirked faintly, stepping back and grabbing his jacket. “C’mon. I’ll walk you halfway. You can peel off and meet Bob like the upstanding academic citizen you are.”
You huffed, but you couldn’t fight the smile.
Class, in a way, became foreplay.
You became addicted to the idea that what existed between you and Bucky stayed just that—between you two. A secret stitched into the margins of your notebooks. A private headline no one else could print. You basked in the illicit sweetness of it—the improbable truth that a girl like you had somehow captured a man like him, and the only thing capable of interrupting it was the indifferent clang of a bell.
You guarded that reality like it was sacred.
The morning after that first night, Bucky had been insufferable in his happiness. He’d looked ready to carve your initials into every available surface—had half a mind to scrawl your name across the dorm door in thick black Sharpie like a territorial declaration. It took all your coaxing, all your whispered promises and sly smiles, to convince him to keep it quiet. To let it be yours.
Now, secrecy made everything sharper.
Across the classroom, beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and Pepper’s steady lecture about editing styles, you felt him like a live wire. The way his knee bounced under the desk. The subtle drag of his hand over the back of his neck—his tell. The small, unconscious tic that said he was thinking about you and not commas or syntax. You counted every one of those gestures like stolen coins.
When your eyes met, it was brief—never long enough to be obvious—but long enough to feel like a touch.
You’d tilt your pen between your fingers and pretend to take notes while your pulse stuttered. He’d lean back in his chair, jaw tight, gaze flicking down to your mouth before snapping back up to the board as if burned.
It was ridiculous.
It was intoxicating.
So when class finally ended, when chairs scraped and backpacks zipped and the world resumed its noise, you didn’t rush.
That was part of the game.
You gathered your things with deliberate calm. Laughed at something your roommate said. Waited until the hallway filled, until Bucky slipped out ahead of you like nothing at all was different. And then, only then, you followed.
Depending on whose roommate had practice, whose had a study group, whose door would be blessedly empty—the two of you mapped escape routes like seasoned criminals. Down the back stairwell. Across the quad.
By the time you reached a dorm room—his or yours—it was barely about urgency anymore. It was about the build. The restraint. The quiet click of a door shutting. The suspended second where the world outside ceased to exist.
Bucky would look at you then like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
And you would smile, slow and knowing, because you had.
The bell ripped you from your thoughts.
You startled slightly, as if you’d been caught doing something far more incriminating than daydreaming, and hurried to gather your things. Papers slid into your bag in uneven stacks, pen tucked behind your ear in a motion that looked practiced but felt rushed. You hummed lightly at some offhand remark Bob made, offering him a distracted smile that you prayed passed as normal.
But if he suspected anything now, he gave no indication.
No narrowed eyes.
No teasing smirk.
No pointed question wrapped in casual humor.
Just a shrug, a comment about the upcoming assignment, and the scrape of his chair against the tile floor.
Still, your pulse thrummed as you slung your bag over your shoulder.
Suddenly, you heard your name.
The break in your carefully rehearsed routine made you flinch. Your eyes snapped toward the sound, landing on Sam, who stood beside Bucky near the door. He lifted his hand slightly, clearly calling you over.
Your stomach dropped.
Your gaze shifted to Bucky. He was watching you with open amusement, like your internal spiral was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all day. There was no panic on his face. No concern. Just that faint, knowing curve to his mouth.
You, on the other hand, felt like you’d just been called to the headmaster’s office.
You adjusted your bag and walked over, trying to keep your steps even. They were standing just to the side of the doorway, as if they’d been waiting for you to pass. Your fingers tightened around the worn leather strap of your bag. You blinked once. Twice. You were suddenly very aware of your breathing.
Breathe, you told yourself.
This wasn’t new. You’d talked to Sam and Bucky together plenty of times before. Nights at Blip. Newspaper meetings. Random hallway conversations.
It just happened to be the first time since Bucky had been inside you.
The thought hit hard and fast, and you hoped to God it didn’t show on your face.
“Hey,” you said, aiming for casual. Normal. Completely unbothered.
Sam took one look at your face and immediately lost it.
His hand flew to his chest as he leaned back, mouth falling open in full, unrestrained laughter. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t polite. It was loud enough that a few people in the hallway turned.
Your brows pulled together. You shot another look at Bucky, who only lifted one shoulder in an infuriatingly calm shrug.
“Wow,” Sam managed, swiping at the corner of his eye. “You guys are not subtle at all.”
“W-What?” You coughed, heat climbing up your neck. Your eyes narrowed at Bucky. “You told him?”
The three of you fell into step naturally as you filtered out into the hallway, backpacks bumping lightly against your shoulders.
“Wanda knows,” Bucky said, voice low but thoroughly entertained. “Someone of mine should know.”
“Not Steve?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“Okay, ouch,” Sam scoffed, placing a hand over his heart again.
Bucky shot you a look. “If Steve knows, Nat knows.”
You winced. “True.”
Sam huffed. “For the record, nobody told me. I went up to Bucky after class because I just watched him stare at you for the last forty-seven minutes like you’re some desert oasis and he’s the last starving camel in the Sahara.”
Bucky groaned. “Wonderful imagery there, Wilson.”
“I enjoyed it,” you said lightly, despite the way your stomach flipped.
Sam pointed at you. “See? She enjoyed it. And I’m right.”
Bucky muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling now—wide enough that he wasn’t even pretending anymore.
“Were you really?”
Bucky leaned a little closer as you walked, lowering his voice just enough. “You make it hard not to.”
Your pulse jumped.
Sam gagged dramatically. “Oh my God. I regret everything. I don’t need front-row seats to whatever this is.”
But he was grinning.
And despite the embarrassment, despite the fact that your secret suddenly felt a little less airtight—you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile tugging at your mouth.
Maybe you weren’t subtle.
But apparently, neither was he.
Sam rolled his eyes. “This weekend is the last Blitzmas before we graduate. Go as Bucky’s date and stop pretending no one is picking up on the eye-fucking.”
Simultaneously, Bucky groaned while your brows pulled together.
“That’s this weekend?”
“What the hell is that?”
Sam just grinned wider, clearly thrilled to be the one delivering the information. “I forget you’re still new. It’s this massive party in the woods behind the football field. Last day before winter break. Giant bonfire, ugly sweaters, terrible decisions. Very poetic.”
“And a concerning amount of substances,” he added casually.
Your eyes widened slightly, and you turned to Bucky.
He already looked like he was bracing himself for your reaction.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Bucky cut in quickly, shooting Sam a pointed look. “It’s just tradition. Break starts the next day, so technically there’s a pause in testing for the athletes. The football team named it, because of course they did.”
“Blitzmas,” Sam said proudly. “Blitzed. Christmas. It’s layered.”
“It’s stupid,” Bucky shook his head.
“It’s iconic,” Sam corrected.
You glanced between them. “So this is like… mandatory?”
“Socially?” Sam shrugged. “Kind of.”
Bucky bumped his shoulder into Sam’s. “Ignore him. You don’t have to go.”
But there was something in his tone—hopeful, maybe. Careful. Like he wanted you there, just not at the expense of your comfort.
Sam smirked. “Just saying. Last one before we graduate. Might as well make it memorable.”
Your gaze flicked back to Bucky, catching the way he was watching you—curious, a little cautious.
Blitzmas.
Bonfire. Woods. Ugly sweaters. And apparently, no one buying that the two of you were subtle.
You exhaled slowly. “I would need a very good sweater.”
Sam snapped his fingers. “That’s the spirit.”
Bucky tried not to smile.
Failed.
“I just want to get this straight,” Nat’s voice came out garbled around the toothbrush hanging from her mouth. “Not only are you going to Blitzmas, but you’re going with Bucky?”
You gave a small, sheepish shrug, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips.
Wanda was posted in your doorway like this was live entertainment, eyes bright with a mix of excitement and vindication.
“When the hell did this happen?” Nat demanded, spitting into the sink and pointing her toothbrush at you like an accusation.
“If you weren’t so busy with Steve’s tongue down your throat,” Wanda chimed in sweetly, “you would’ve noticed the way they stare at each other in newspaper.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, seriously. Are we that obvious?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
You grabbed the nearest throw pillow and smashed it into your face, hoping it absorbed both the sound of your embarrassment and the heat crawling up your neck.
“I can’t believe this,” Nat said, grinning at you through the mirror. “Look at us, roomie. Dating best friends. That’s efficiency.” She wiggled her brows. “Now if only Wanda would get on board and jump Walker—”
Your eyes shot to Wanda’s.
She looked at you with blatant panic, wide-eyed and silently begging.
You’d promised her. And meant it.
So you cleared your throat loudly and pulled the pillow away. “Do you have an ugly sweater I can borrow?”
Nat dropped the Walker commentary instantly.
“Yes,” she gasped, abandoning the sink and grabbing your wrist. “Absolutely. Wait until you see the one I wore sophomore year.”
You barely had time to brace yourself before she was hauling you toward her closet.
Behind you, Wanda mouthed thank you.
You just gave her a quick nod before Nat flung open the closet doors dramatically.
“This,” she announced, digging through hangers, “is going to be the best Blitzmas yet.”
And somehow, that felt both thrilling and mildly concerning.
She was relentless. She yanked hangers left and right, holding sweaters up to you like they were auditioning for a Broadway role. “This one. No—wait—oh, this one.’ Perfect for Blitzmas.”
You held it up to yourself hesitantly. Red, green, sequins everywhere, a reindeer doing something vaguely inappropriate. Cute? Sure. Subtle? Not even close.
“Nat… this is… loud,” you said, eyeing the sweater warily.
“Loud is good,” she said, holding it against your chest. “You want people to notice you. Especially him.”
You froze at the thought. Him. Bucky. Your pulse jumped at the mental image of walking into the woods behind the football field, everyone looking at you—and him, standing there like your co-conspirator in front of the world.
“Are you even listening to me?” Nat’s hands were on your shoulders now, adjusting the fit, tugging at the sleeves, smoothing down the sequins that pricked your fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” you mumbled, your stomach fluttering, mind buzzing with nerves.
“Breathe,” Nat said, ignoring your distraction. “You look… ridiculously cute. Like, dangerously cute. If I saw you across the room, I’d—”
“Nat!” Wanda’s voice cut in, teasing but worried. “Maybe tone it down before she melts into a puddle of embarrassment.”
You laughed nervously, tugging at the sweater self-consciously. “I don’t know if I’m ready… I mean, going to a party with Bucky… everyone will see us.”
You’d spent the entire day turning the scenario over and over in your head, each iteration more nerve-wracking than the last.
The secrecy you’d cherished, the little bubble where it was only ever you and Bucky, was about to be shattered—right there on the dirt. The woods would be full of bodies, music thumping, bonfire smoke curling, and he would be publicly displaying you as his new girl.
Who just so happened to be the girl that wrote the exposé about his ex-girlfriend.
Which brought you to another frightening thought—Sharon. She was already on your trail at the football game, and you’d attempted to convince her nothing was there between you and Bucky—back when you were also trying to convince yourself.
Now, there was no denying it tonight. You’d be with him, hand in hand as people passed around joints or whatever they did at this thing.
There was no going back. No hiding behind glances across a newspaper room. No “just between us” smiles. Tonight, it was real. Hand in hand. Everyone around, passing joints, bottles, whatever people did at these things. The idea of being watched, judged, dissected—it was terrifying.
And yet… there was that tiny, almost imperceptible spark of thrill, too. Because Bucky was going to be there, and he was going to be yours in a way that couldn’t be secreted away this time.
And somehow, despite the nerves clawing up your chest, you wanted that.
Parties like this, you quickly learned, didn’t really start until after 10 p.m.
By then, the faculty and staff had disappeared, and the campus was quiet enough to make the darkened field feel almost secret. Hordes of students spilled across the grass, their tinsel, sequins, and neon accessories catching the pale moonlight in flashes as they moved.
As much as you hated to admit it, it was… beautiful.
The massive bonfire threw a warm, flickering glow across the surrounding trees, casting long, dancing shadows. Music pounded from strategically placed speakers, a chaotic mix of pop hits and throwback jams. Students in ridiculous sweaters clustered in circles, laughing, swapping stories, some holding drinks, others passing joints, their voices blending into a low, excited hum.
For a moment, you felt like you belonged. Like you were part of something bigger than yourself—a living, breathing moment that this class would carry with them long after winter break ended. You weren’t just an observer tucked at the edges of the night. You were a participant, woven into the pulse of the crowd, part of the memory, the chaos, the reckless joy.
The thought made your chest tighten—not just from nerves, but from the odd, warm thrill of being here. Not alone. Not just you.
Hand in hand with Bucky.
“You’re okay, Specs,” Bucky murmured, his voice low and warm, like honey sliding into the cold bite of the night.
Beside you, Nat and Steve were deep in an animated discussion of past Blitzmas disasters, while Wanda laughed, adding gleeful tidbits to the stories. Sam appeared with a solo cup of cider, warm and spiked just enough to thaw your frozen fingers. You accepted it with a small, grateful nod.
As you sipped, letting the warmth spread through your chest, you allowed yourself to think that maybe… this wasn’t so bad.
“Your nose is red,” Bucky said, peering down at you. His breath puffed small clouds into the cold air. “It’s cute.”
You sheepishly smiled, tugging slightly at the edge of your sweater. “This sweater isn’t very insulating,” you admitted.
Without a word, his hands came up to your sides, rubbing your arms in long, deliberate strokes. Heat spread from his palms, not just along your skin, but deep into your chest, down into your stomach.
You leaned slightly into him, letting the warmth—and the closeness—ground you. The world around you—bonfire glow, music, the chaos of students—blurred. All that mattered was this small, perfect moment, Bucky’s fingers brushing against you, your heart pounding loud enough to rival the music, and the strange, delicious reality that you were his… and he was yours.
Bucky’s hands lingered for a moment before he stepped back, giving you a teasing smile that made your stomach twist.
“I’m going to check in with the guys,” he muttered, nodding toward a cluster of football players heading toward the edge of the bonfire where a makeshift bar had been set up. Steve and Sam had already headed that way.
You blinked. “Shots?”
Bucky shrugged. “Tradition. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone spike yours.”
And just like that, he was gone, weaving through a crowd of sweating, sweatered students. You sipped your cider, trying to focus on something other than him disappearing from your side.
Behind you, you heard the blink and click of a camera–you turned abruptly, face contorting in excitement when you saw Bob standing there, donning a hideous plaid sweater.
“Oh my god,” You gasped. “I’m so glad you’re here—I’m kind of freaking out,”
“Sam convinced me,” His eyes scanned the crowd. “Dare I say we’re kind of friends?”
“You? Friends with a football player? What twilight zone have I stepped into?”
“The same one where you and Barnes are holding hands in public.”
Your face, warm from the haze of spiked cider and guilt, slowly slid into a smile. “Surprise?”
“Yeah, to no one.” He chuckled. “I was just waiting for the day you two finally gave in,”
“Shut up,” You gave his shoulder a light push. “It’s new,”
“Maybe to you. Not to the rest of us.”
“I am so tired of hearing how damn ‘obvious’ we are,” You laughed, mouth hanging open in shock. “We’ve spent the entire semester at each other’s throats,”
“Fine line,” He sang.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your face. Seeing Bob here—your friend, your safe spot—made holding Bucky’s hand feel a little less terrifying.
Bob tilted his head, nodding toward the bonfire where Bucky and the football guys were taking shots. “So… looks like you survived the public debut with ‘ol Barnes?”
You swallowed, hands tightening slightly around the cup of cider in yours. “Barely. But he’s… he’s fine. I’m fine.”
Bob smirked knowingly. “Yeah, you look fine. I like the outfit. But don’t tell him I said that—he practically sized me up before about being into you.”
You laughed, a little breathless, letting some of the tension in your chest ease as the chaos of the night felt a little more manageable. “You’re joking. Us?”
“Barnes is a man at the end of the day,” Bob said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Primal. Ready to fight for what’s his.”
Your pulse hit a new high. “You’re terrible,” you muttered, hiding your grin behind the cup.
“I’m gonna be a freak and take some photos, I’ll see you later—and I’ll be expecting details,” Bob said, lifting his camera toward you with a grin.
“Never,” you giggled, swiping at him playfully before your gaze drifted to Wanda, who was swaying slightly, clearly buzzed from the cider.
“Roomie!” she squealed, flinging her arms around you in a sloppy hug, a sweet, silly smile plastered across her face. You laughed, leaning into her, but your eyes flicked across the party, scanning for Bucky. You already missed him. He was probably somewhere in that mass of macho football players, arms crossed, rolling his eyes at Steve’s antics, perfectly in his element.
“Roomie, I’m afflicted,” Wanda said dramatically, clutching your arm as though your very presence was her only salvation.
“What’s up, Wan?” you asked, still laughing.
Her finger shot to her lips in a comically serious hush. “Ava’s here,” she whispered. “She’s over there with her friends.”
You followed her line of sight and spotted Ava, sitting a little apart from the crowd, all dark grunge and aloofness, clearly untouched by the holiday chaos—or the ugly sweater requirement.
“Why don’t you go talk to her?” you suggested, finishing off the rest of your cider in one gulp.
“She doesn’t want anyone to know. Can’t even talk to her in public,” Wanda whined, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone.
Something clicked in your chest.
This… this was how you were with Bucky. Keeping things behind closed doors. All the stolen moments, the hand-holding, the quiet… for what? To dodge judgment? To avoid awkward questions?
Seeing Wanda, affected, worried about someone else’s comfort, made it hit you in a new way. You could almost feel the weight of keeping someone you cared about in the dark, the frustration, the isolation.
Suddenly, you wanted to find him.
“I’ll be back,” you told Wanda, giving her a quick wave before weaving through the crowd, intent on finding the only person you wanted to be seen with right now.
Near the makeshift bar, Bucky had just downed a shot with his teammates, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He tossed the small plastic cup into a black trash bag and turned, immediately spotting someone in his path.
“To what do I owe the honor?” His voice was flat, bored, the kind that dared you to push further.
“Did you seriously pull up to this party with her?”
Bucky’s eyes rolled so far it was almost theatrical. “Did I come to Blitzmas with the girl I’m seeing? Yes. Quite astute of you, Sharon.”
“Bold of you, Bucky,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “after writing that heinous article with her.”
“Sorry you’re meeting the consequences of your own actions,” he said smoothly, shrugging.
Her ponytail swayed as she scoffed, rolling her neck. “I don’t think you want to meet yours.”
“I’ll take my chances. Just leave us alone,” he said casually, keeping his tone measured. He knew by now that Sharon fed off reactions; giving her anything more than indifference was a mistake.
But before he could step around her, she held out a hand, forcing him to pause. She lifted onto her toes, her voice dropping near his ear. “Let’s just get out of here. Forget all the… bullshit we’ve been doing.”
Bucky leaned back slightly, shrugging. “Doesn’t work anymore.”
With that, he finally stepped past her, ignoring the sharp edge in her stare, and strode toward the crowd, scanning the bonfire-lit chaos.
And there you were, standing just a little apart, cider in hand, sweater ridiculous but perfect, looking like the only person in the world he wanted to be with tonight.
His lips curved into a small, unguarded smile. That was all he needed.
He navigated through the throng, dodging dancers and spilling drinks, until he reached you.
“Specs,” he murmured, voice soft now, private, just for you.
You grinned, your nerves melting into warmth. “Hey.”
He held out his hand. You took it without hesitation.
You were still holding Bucky’s hand, feeling a small rush of triumph at finally being seen together, when a sharp collision of elbows and a spray of liquid hit your side.
“Oh—shit!” you yelped, stepping back, and froze as warm cider soaked the front of your sweater.
Sharon stood a few feet away, wide-eyed and pretending to be shocked, her hand flailing dramatically toward the cup she’d “accidentally” knocked over.
“I—I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, voice exaggerated, completely overdoing it for effect. “Oh my god, I didn’t see you there!”
Your heart sank. Heat—not just from the cider—spread through your chest, mixing with embarrassment. People were already turning, some laughing, some whispering. The bonfire’s glow suddenly felt like it was spotlighting you, highlighting every soaked sequin and ridiculous reindeer.
“Seriously?” Bucky muttered as his hand tightened around yours, his jaw clenching. “Specs…” he murmured, low, warningly, his eyes narrowing toward Sharon.
You shook your head, cheeks burning, and stepped back. “I—I’m fine,” you stammered, though your voice sounded small even to yourself. You couldn’t handle the attention, couldn’t deal with Sharon’s smirk, couldn’t stand the thought of everyone seeing.
Without thinking, you turned and bolted—quietly, hoping to disappear into the edge of the crowd, the trees, anywhere away from eyes and whispers.
“Hey!” Bucky called immediately, sprinting after you, weaving between laughing students and overturned cups. “Wait!”
You didn’t look back. You just ran, trying to ignore the wet cling of your sweater against your skin and the heat creeping into your face from mortification.
“Specs—come on!” Bucky’s voice was closer now, his long strides eating the distance between you. He reached out and caught your elbow, gently pulling you to a stop behind a cluster of pine trees, just far enough away from the bonfire’s chaos.
You leaned against a tree, gulping in sharp breaths, cider soaking through your sweater, cheeks flaming. “I… I just… can’t…”
Bucky crouched slightly to meet your gaze, hands still on your arms, warm and grounding. “Shh. Hey. You’re fine. She’s just…being a fucking—.”
“I feel like everyone saw,” you muttered, voice small, staring at the mess on your sweater like it was a personal indictment.
Bucky shook his head slowly, lips quirking. “No. Not everyone. And even if they did, who cares? You’re with me. I’m not leaving your side tonight.”
“I…don’t belong at this stuff, Bucky. This was just proof—”
“Look at me.” His voice was quiet, demanding. A tone that forced your eyes to his. “Where you belong is with me. End of story.”
Your pulse started to steady, though embarrassment still throbbed in your chest. Somehow, just being with him, even soaked in cider and humiliated, made the night feel survivable.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and teasing, though there was no judgment. “ Let’s fix this.”
You groaned. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Bucky crouched slightly, reaching for the bottom of your sweater. “We improvise,” he said. His fingers deftly tugged and shook out the wet spots, smoothing the fabric as best he could. “Better?”
A little. Not perfect, but better. You gave a small nod, too resistant to meet his eyes.
“Hey,” he murmured, tilting your chin up gently with one hand. His thumb brushed over the wet patch on your cheek, and you shivered. “Don’t look so mortified. You look… ridiculously cute.”
Your breath caught. “Ridiculously?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes glinting with that mix of amusement and warmth he always carried for you. “Like…I didn’t even know wet cider could look good, and yet here we are.”
You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, leaning just a little closer. “But I’ve got to keep my girl from running off crying in the woods.”
Your cheeks burned hotter, but this time it wasn’t just from embarrassment—it was the way he said my girl, so quietly, like it belonged to both of you and no one else mattered.
Bucky tugged gently at your hand, letting you cling to him just enough to steady yourself. “You know what?” he muttered, voice low and easy, eyes scanning the distance back toward the bonfire. “Let’s just get out of here. This stuff…” He gestured vaguely at the crowd, the cider-spilling drama, the flashing lights. “…is overrated anyway.”
You blinked, startled. “Leave?”
He shrugged, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. I’ve seen enough chaos for one night, and I’d rather spend it somewhere… quieter. Somewhere with you.”
Your chest squeezed, heat rushing back—from the way he said it. Somewhere… with you.
“Okay,” you whispered, letting him guide you through the woods, the sounds of the party fading behind you. Branches brushed against your sweater, cold against your skin, but Bucky’s presence beside you made it feel like the world was shrinking to just the two of you.
And then he led you the rest of the way back to his place, quiet streets and dim building lights guiding you there. The door closed behind you with a soft click, shutting out the chaos, the smirks, the judgments, everything you’d just left behind.
“I’m… sticky,” you muttered, tugging at the front of your sweater. The cider had soaked through, and the cling of sequins to your skin was driving you a little nuts.
Bucky’s eyes softened, but the smirk never fully left his face. “Yeah… I can see that. Want me to help?”
You shook your head, cheeks pink. “I’m gonna… shower. Clean up before I look like a cider zombie.”
He stepped closer, letting a hand hover near your shoulder. “Do you want… company?” His voice was low, teasing but careful, gauging your reaction.
Your eyes widened slightly, heat flooding your cheeks in a mix of leftover embarrassment and… anticipation. “I mean… if you want to.”
He grinned, that slow, mischievous grin that always made your pulse spike. “I want to.”
You let him lead the way to the bathroom, your hand brushing his as you moved, sending little jolts of warmth through you. Once inside, you kicked off your shoes and peeled off the sticky sweater, tossing it into the hamper.
Bucky leaned casually against the wall, watching, eyes flicking to you with a mix of amusement and affection. “Wow,” he murmured. “You really do look cute in disaster mode.”
The moment you stepped under the hot water, the chill of the night and the sticky cider instantly vanished, replaced by the heat cascading over your skin. Steam curled up in thick, curling clouds, fogging the mirror and wrapping the small bathroom in a warm haze.
Bucky stepped in behind you, close enough that you could feel the solid press of his chest against your back. His arms slipped around your waist, hands sliding lightly over your sides. The heat of his skin sent shivers through you, and the contrast with the hot water made your pulse spike.
“You’re… warm,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was low, teasing, but there was something softer underneath, something steadying.
You shivered again, the sound coming out as a breathy laugh. “You’re shameless.”
“Maybe,” he said, nipping gently at your neck, fingers tracing lightly down the curve of your ribs. “But you like it.”
You tilted your head back against him, water streaming over your hair, over your shoulders, down the slick line of your spine. “I—yeah,” you admitted, breath hitching. “I do.”
He pressed closer, chest flush against your back, hands sliding lower, over the slick skin of your thigh. The steam swirled around you, heavy and warm, making it feel like the two of you were the only people in the world.
“What a mess,” you whispered, a laugh slipping out as he leaned his head near yours, his hair damp and brushing against your cheek.
He hummed, voice husky. “Even soaking wet and sticky five minutes ago, you’re… fuck.”
Your knees wobbled slightly, and he steadied you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing down your side, water mixing with the heat of his touch. “Bucky…” you breathed, and he just grinned against your skin.
“Shh,” he said softly. “Just… let me.”
You gasped, shivering harder, pressing back into him, hair plastered to your face, water streaming over every inch of skin. His hands moved higher, over your sides, fingers brushing along the front of you, teasing, sending sparks of heat and tension through your body.
“Bucky… stop teasing me,” you breathed, but the laugh in your voice betrayed you—every nerve alive, every inch of you humming with the closeness, the steam, the heat.
He chuckled against your skin, voice husky. “Stop? I don’t think so. Not tonight. Not here.”
His lips found yours then, soft at first, teasing, brushing along yours through the mist, before pressing more firmly. The water streamed over you both, hot and heavy, mixing with the heat of your bodies pressed together, steam curling like smoke around every inch.
You melted into him, hands roaming his chest and arms, tugging him closer, letting every brush, every kiss, every touch overwhelm your senses. He groaned softly against your lips, and the sound sent another shiver down your spine.
“God… you’re so good like this,” he murmured, voice low, rough with huskiness. “So warm… so perfect.”
But underneath it all, there was something more. The way he hadn’t hesitated to take care of you tonight, the way he felt like an escape, like safety itself had taken shape in the curve of his arms. The eagerness in him to make you feel seen, cherished, protected—it wasn’t just desire. It was something softer, raw, unraveling quietly in front of you.
And in you… something was falling apart. Fast. Violent in its sweetness. The walls you’d built around your heart, the careful control you’d maintained all semester, were cracking. And the pieces weren’t scattering—they were being pulled, inevitably, irreversibly, into him.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
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A/N: r u guys rocking with this .. I write these in increments so I’m sorry if sometimes it’s repetitive 😭
Main tag list: @flockoff-featherface @avgdestitute @loganficsonly @the-salty-asian
₊˚ ⋅ ۶ৎ ㅤsummary. heavy with the weight of a job you never had any passion for, you decided to open the envelope your grandfather gave you after shoving it in your office drawer for years. suddenly, you’re living in a small obscure town in the middle of nowhere getting more than what you signed up for.
content. town doctor!bucky barnes x fem!farmer!reader , mutual pining , bucky’s got a big fat crush on u , miscommunication , your vegetables grow really fast but let’s just ignore that , jealousy , mdni (18+) , outdoor sex , dom!bucky , unprotected p in v , marking/biting , pet names (baby, sweetheart, doll, city girl) , almost getting caught
word count. 14k
from lia. here's my little present in celebration of hitting 5(00) followers, i love every single one of u sm! this is incredibly self-indulgent but oh well. on a side note, literally in all of my stardew saves i only romance harvey (except for that one time i deliberately romanced shane for his blue chickens) bc he's....he's my man... this is also just a tiny bit proofread!
to live in the city was the only answer that stayed constant whenever someone asked about your future. whether you become a firefighter or a police officer, you had to become one that’s from the city. you were no different from other suburban children whose dream was to get out of the rural area you lived in to go to hustling and bustling new york city.
when it was time for you to make a decision that would effectively cement you into one profession for the rest of your career—you’ve already answered every occupation there is. five-year old you wanted to become a teacher, to guide and give equal opportunities for everyone—everything is rooted in education, after all.
at the age of ten you’ve dropped that ideology the moment you saw a doctor rush in from the er and into the back of an ambulance in a speed unlike any you’ve seen—and you decided you wanted to be like him, too.
you’ve stuck to that answer until you were about sixteen, then you decided you wanted to become a photographer who has her own studio at an apartment in brooklyn—and for the most part that’s what you truly planned on pursuing, but practicality had other plans.
your knuckles were beginning to sting after forcing it open as you typed away on your computer, hunched over the keyboard like a shrimp. you’ve already drank god knows how many red bulls but you were nowhere near done with heaps of paperwork and presentations you have to catch up on.
this isn’t where you imagined yourself to be. you were in a big city, sure—and you’ve got a somewhat high paying job—but this isn’t the version of your lifelong dream you wanted to spend the rest of your career in. this isn’t the situation you’d want little you to see whenever the ghost of her decides to come visit you in your dreams tonight.
your parents have always given you the freedom to be whoever you wanted to be, whatever career choice appealed to you the most—whether it be a mortician or a snake milker, your parents were always behind you on every decision you made.
but practicality over passion loomed above your head like a stormy cloud that won’t leave, and now you’re stuck finishing numbers your co-worker should’ve done weeks ago—though it seems like you’re the only one responsible around here—and you’ve got a bunch of other deadlines to chase after, like a fish chasing for the bait stuck in a never ending sea. at least fishes are free to swim around as they please and not get stuck in a suffocating cubicle.
letting out another heavy sigh, your fingers wrapped around the cool surface of the canned beverage shoved in the corner of your desk before taking a hefty gulp. if you were going to suffer and wallow in your decisions, the least you could do was to keep yourself energized. as your fingers hovered over the daunting keys that stared back at you in what you like to imagine the same tired expression as yours, you heard someone call your name from somewhere behind you.
“hey! we’re gonna be heading out for dinner, you wanna tag along?” trisha, the first person you’ve ever talked to since joining the company and, admittedly, your only friend around these parts, was already halfway through the glass exit of the office, blazer in one arm and another co-worker holding tightly against the other, when she invited you to join her. she looked at you expectantly, a kind smile playing on her lips.
she had always made an effort to keep you included in things—no matter how big or small—she made sure to invite you or tag you along with whatever she’s got going, as long as the both of you were free. you could tell it was one of the only things left that’s keeping her tethered down to earth, lest she goes insane. and honestly, you weren’t far off from that too.
a part of you desperately wanted to clock out earlier than you usually do and not stay overtime to let yourself indulge in a little treat and eat out somewhere good—maybe chinese takeout or thai— and give yourself the rest you desperately need. but, you didn’t really feel like getting into any form of conversation right now, you needed to finish this spreadsheet.
you mirrored back a warm smile of your own, “sorry, i’ve got a lot to catch up on. maybe tomorrow?"
“aww, alright. don’t work yourself too hard!” she waved, before peeking her head out from the exit one last time, “or do, go get that bag, girl.”
with an exasperated sigh and your head in your hands, just as quick as she momentarily pulled you out of work, you were face to face with the daunting, glowing screen of your monitor.
your eyes felt heavier the second you lifted them up to read the numerics and alphabets on the screen, that dreadful weight heavying the already awful pressure resting on your shoulders. the job you currently have was thoroughly, and utterly draining out the life out of you—and you’re sure no amount of ibuprofen can pull you out of this one.
in a fit of pent up rage finally surfacing up and out onto the tips of your fingers, you tried to drink your woes away with another sip of the caffeinated drink beside you. instead, the can slipped from the pads of your palm and spilled onto the desk, dripping its contents down on the drawers and the floor below.
cursing lowly to yourself, you pushed the wheels of your office chair backwards—the tires screeching softly against the waxed floor. you plucked a piece or two from the tissue box on your desk to start drying up the mess you made, and just when you were about to begin wiping the floor clean, the drawer on the bottom slipped open, revealing the contents that hid within it.
amidst the dozens of haphazardly arranged random colored folders and extra stapler bullets, was the letter your grandfather gave you a few years back, sat comfortably in silence.
visions of your memories of him rekindled in your head, back to when you visited him on weekends in that sweet quaint town he used to live in, and the last words he said to you on his deathbed as he handed you the letter you were currently ogling at like it was something otherworldly.
“open this envelope whenever you feel the weight of the world dragging you down.”
you pursed your lips, hands reaching down still smelling of red bull, and the tight air around the office started to wrap around the space of your cubicle specifically.
suddenly the buzzing of the air conditioner was too loud, the clacking of keyboards from your co-workers who decided to stay behind just like you were louder than you remember, and the light still radiating in front of you glared anticipatingly.
the contents of the letter was a mystery to you, hell, you surprised even yourself for holding off on opening it for this long. you didn’t find any need to be curious about what’s inside for a long time, since the world used to spin around under your feet before atlas suddenly decided to transfer its weight to you.
in a sudden change of events, the letter now rested in your grasp like it would be the answer to all of your problems. and a part of you silently prayed that it would—prayed that the almighty stars up above will finally give you something that could bring flavor to your stale world and make you feel alive again. you’ve been feeling tired and empty, even without acknowledging it yourself—and you already knew you have been for a long, long time.
the envelope’s flap crackled as you flipped it wide with shaky hands, and the first sight of your late grandfather’s handwriting brought you a wave of nostalgia. like the paper in your hands was the most valuable thing ever, you lifted it out from its sleeve carefully, hesitance coursing through you.
another piece of paper fell onto your lap as you held the letter, your deadlines and spreadsheets long forgotten. it was the deed to your grandfather’s piece of land and the title to his farmhouse in the country. you couldn’t stop the startled gasp that left you, because sure, you expected a message from your grandfather, but you surely didn’t expect for him to include the deed to his property.
“oh my god.” slowly, your eyes continued to widen, both in shock and overflowing gratitude, before tears began welling up in the corners of your eyes—threatening to spill and roll down your cheeks. your heart clenching at the thought of your grandfather caring for you this much definitely reduced you to a sobbing mess right here in your office cubicle.
the sound of your computer’s motherboard whirred in the background as you read the message written like a founding fathers', eyes sharper than ever and mouth going impossibly dry.
my dearest granddaughter,
when we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change. i want you to remember to never let life become a burden to you, it is not a problem you immediately ned to have an answer to, it is meant to be enjoyed and celebrated. never give up, you are a strong-minded girl, just like your mother.
i’ve enclosed in this letter the deed to my place, my pride and joy: the family farm. it’s located in pinefall valley on the southern coast. it’s the perfect place to start a new life. whenever you are ready, the place will be there waiting for you with open arms.
this was my most precious gift of all, your grandmother insisted i leave it in your hands instead of letting it rot away in the hands of others, and now it’s yours. i know you’ll honor the family name, my girl. best of luck.
love, grandpa
being the cautious person that you were, you weren’t sure if this was the right choice to be made. you’ve spent a good chunk of your life nursing the dream of finally living in a big city—and now here you were, complaining about it just seconds ago like it was a ball and chain attached to your ankle, pulling you further and further down the pit you’ve willingly jumped into.
with an unsteady exhale, you pressed your eyes closed and basked in the office air one last time—unwilling to give yourself the time to dwell on your decision—because you knew the second you start rethinking, you’re bound to start reconsidering things and before you know it you’ll be back at square one.
you breathed in through your nose and shut your eyes to clear your head—this is it. you needed this. you need a fresh, clean start. and if you’re gonna find that in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, then so be it.
on a rainy early sunday morning, you left brooklyn with a hole right in the middle of your chest. as much as this city brought you most of your problems and made you impossibly homesick on some days, it was still the dream, and dreams are a hard thing to forget—especially when they come true.
you weren’t only forfeiting an apartment and a job in exchange of living a new life—you were leaving behind everything you’ve worked so hard for for the past years leading up to now. it’s definitely a lot to be dropping, even with a hefty resignation payout. and you didn’t even have the chance to bid trisha a proper farewell—you hoped she could forgive you.
the bus was empty when you stepped inside. aside from the hooded guy situated at the far end of the vehicle, it was only you and the conductor exchanging glances and smiles before you decided on which corner you were going to sit and spend your next five hours on.
you guessed it wasn’t anyone’s interest to visit a small town that’s probably not even on the map, its name reeked of old-fashion—rugged around the edges. given how there wasn’t anyone lining up to visit the place, the place has probably been forgotten by time. hadn't it been for the fact that your grandparents lived there, you would’ve never managed to find the small town of stonefield even if you were with the greatest pioneer in the world.
as you expected, the sights on the way were nothing short of breathtaking. it felt refreshing to finally see the world outside of the four walls you’ve gotten so used to seeing—from the trees to the dozens of lakes you’ve passed by and admired from behind the bus’ windows—your life was beginning to breathe back in color, number by number.
it was beginning to feel very much like a hallmark movie. you—a career-focused woman from the city moves to a quaint small town, but you’re yet to meet a charming local who would swift you off your feet.
despite the feeling of anxiety ebbing at your chest—you could feel excitement slowly bubble up in the bottom of your chest, this could either be the worst or best decision of your life, and you’re beginning to feel confident that it’s going to be the latter.
you arrived at pinefall valley at around three in the afternoon—the wind gently blew against your warm cheeks as you clutched the handle of your suitcase nervously. you picked up your phone to look at the map you pre-downloaded before getting on the bus because despite being nervous about ditching your city life for a much calmer provincial one, you were also very nervous about getting lost and eventually ending up on television.
creepily enough, you didn’t pass by anyone on your way to your grandfather’s farm—you don’t remember this place having a large population anyway, but it was still unnerving to see the lack of people at this time of day. shrugging off the unsettling feeling from your shoulders, you pocketed your phone the moment the rocky and gravel filled roads began to fee familiar to you. as the old worn-down keys jingled inside the knob and the door swung open—you breathed in the air only the countryside could offer.
on the front porch sat boxes that contained some of your stuff that probably arrived the day before by the moving company, and you let the sight before you sink in as you stepped foot on the property. it was left the same way as you remembered—with a few unfamiliar things here and there, of course. there were a few baby photos of you hung up on the wall, a hopefully working sink and kitchen counter, a refrigerator, a television, a furnace, and a cozy bedroom that housed a queen-sized bed.
“this is gonna be a lot of work.” you murmured to yourself, already mentally taking note of all the things that could use some rework.
the place wasn’t the biggest one out there, but it was home. it still sang of a life that was once alive and breathing—and you were determined to bring it back to its former glory.
the first week in a new town didn’t bring you anything eventful. you haven’t gotten around meeting the townsfolk and all the wonders stonefield has to offer, and you’ve mostly cooped up working on your farm.
your days were primarily filled with you clearing out the enormous plot of land that could probably house four other homes just like the one you were currently living in. how rich exactly are your grandparents? there was an abandoned greenhouse to the left of your home. it needs a lot of renovation and a ton of money, but you figured if harvesting crops was your main source of income, it would probably be a good thing to invest on while you still have the funds to do so.
clearing out rocks and grass patches was never something you’ve ever considered doing in your entire career, everything felt new to you. however, strangely enough, you couldn’t find it in you to stop. it brought comfort to you in ways your previous office job couldn’t offer, it didn’t matter if it left you boneless on your bed at the end of the day.
while cleaning, you’ve also discovered a cave filled with fruit bats along with a shortcut that you aren’t too sure where it leads to yet somewhere between the road to the greenhouse and your home. the place wasn’t just big, it was full of mysteries, too. hopefully the bats won’t be too much trouble, though.
the rooster from the neighboring barn has long since cawed into the ripe morning air, signalling that the sun has risen and it’s time for another day filled with cleaning up the land. but after a particularly rough day yesterday, you wanted to stay in bed for another hour or two, you’re now your own boss—a little sleeping in wouldn’t set you back too much.
but as you rolled over to the other side of the bed, blankets comfortably wrapped around you like it too didn’t want to let you go—three loud consecutive knocks pounded on your door.
knock! knock! knock!
with a tired groan, you rubbed your eyes and slipped on your slippers to make your way towards the door. who could possibly want to visit you at this hour? but a better question is; why would there be someone knocking at your door? you never left the farm even once, and you haven’t introduced yourself to anyone, is this how tight-knit communities are?
you hastily swung the door open, your messy hair and untidy appearance the last thing on your mind.
standing in front of you, was an elderly man, maybe late fifties or early sixties, and his head was slightly balding. he wore a kind smile on his lips and held a basket in his hands, and upon seeing you, his mouth stretched into an even wider grin.
“g’mornin’! i didn’t disturb you or anythin’, did i?”
you scrambled your still sleepy brain for a response, “n-no! not at all sir. i was just about to get ready for the day!”
“i see,” with a chuckle, the man nodded in understanding. “let me introduce myself. i’m the mayor of stonefield; everyone here calls me arthur. word's gotten ‘round a new face has made its way to town and is now living in the abandoned farmhouse. i had to come see it for m’self!”
you tipped your head up in understanding, “if that's the case then yes, that’s me! i’ve never gotten the time to roam around town just yet—so i don’t really know anyone right now.” you sheepishly explained, hands twiddling the side of your pajamas, “the farm’s been taking up most of my time since moving in.”
it's true. you've been cooped up in the property for the vast majority of your first week in stonefield, the closest you've gotten to leaving the place was walking near the edge of the fence that bordered between your farm and the outside to take out the trash—and even then, you've only managed to see a few people pass by.
he let out another hearty laugh before continuing, “oh well, it’s nice to have someone finally take care of this place, the previous owner who lived here was a good friend o’mine.”
“you were friends with my grandfather?”
mayor arthur’s eyes seemed to widen at that, he looked like he was about to drop the basket in his hands. “you’re norman’s granddaughter? oh how fast you’ve grown! last time i saw you, you were no taller than my hips! if i knew it was you who was moving in, i would’ve arranged for a proper welcome.”
you laughed, chest warming at the sight of seeing your grandfather’s friend still alive and kicking. you couldn’t remember who he is—you were very small when you met mayor arthur, after all—yet it was still comforting to see a face that once appreciated your grandfather the same way you did.
“anywho, i jus’ wanted to give you this small welcoming gift. it’s a few packets of tomato seeds and a scented candle. s’not much, but i’m sure it’ll remove the smell of dust in the air.”
“thank you! i appreciate it, i promise i’ll be sure to check the town out as soon as i could.” you kindly smiled, taking the basket from his hands.
“alright, i’ll leave you to it, then. have a good day!”
the wooden floorboards of the porch rattled underneath his leather boots with each step he took further down the stairs—allowing you to breathe out a sigh of relief. you figured you should get ready to begin another day of cleaning, and getting a gift from the mayor certainly was an unexpected way to start your morning.
back in the city, you usually woke up at around five in the morning to let yourself get ready for about an hour, after which you’ll find yourself something to eat from your painfully bland pantry—however if you are in a hurry you grab whatever’s the first thing you see on the streets on the way to your office—before getting ready a second time, by fixing your hair and makeup.
you leave your apartment at seven and arrive at the office at quarter till eight—a full thirty minutes early before your shift starts. for the entirety of the morning, all you can hear are the distinct clicking sounds of keys and whirring of printing machines—and maybe you’ll catch wind of the occasional gossip from your co-workers, but that’s a post-meeting exclusive rather than a daily occurrence.
after lunchtime activities are no different, except for the fact that you’re working on reports and proofreading haphazardly-made documents. you stress on about missing meeting notes until evening, and by then you’re too tired to eat anything decent, so you grab chinese takeout on the way back home.
now, all your eyes can see until the far distance are rocks, trees, shrubs, and more trees. it’s certainly a culture shock to be going from seeing computer screens on a daily basis to staring at rocks for more than an hour or two, but you like to think it’s a good change.
you’re in love with the idea of planting your own produce and eating the fruitions of your labor, and maybe you could share them with your future-friends-slash-neighbors, and you could all share and appreciate the fruits and vegetables you’re going to work so hard on tending to.
wiping the sweat rolling down your glistening forehead, you shoved the gardening shears you found inside the shed beside the farmhouse down to the ground to let your freehand dangle freely. you’ve managed to clear up enough space to plant the seeds mayor arthur gifted you this morning—it was already around ten in the morning and the next thing on your agenda is visiting the town as promised.
right after ridding yourself of your gardening clothes, you padded into town feeling slightly nervous about the environment you’re about to walk into. you’re no stranger to people’s judgments, and usually, they don’t bother you at all—but given the circumstances and how you’re fresh out of a job from the city—you’re slightly restless about what everyone in town would about a girl who had it all and traded it for the south coast life.
the general goods store was bigger than you thought, there were racks of produce in one corner, a handful of gardening supplies in the other, and a bunch of necessities and snacks were in the other surrounding shelves. you made a beeline for the seedling packets sitting right next to the leafy greens and started looking for squash and corn seeds, since they were vegetables in season right now as per the seasonal produce guide by snap-ed you’ve graciously educated yourself on beforehand.
“good morning.”
a sultry voice suddenly pulled you out of your reading on the back of the packets, causing you to let out an involuntary squeak in surprise. because you’ve been so engrossed—you didn’t notice the man in a turtle neck standing by the vegetable rack. he greeted you with a warm smile and a hand still holding a cabbage.
“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” he carefully apologized, “i wasn’t sure how to approach you, but it’s nice to see the face everyone’s been talking about.”
nervously, your eyes drifted down to your feet before going back to his face. “wh-what do you mean?”
“it’s not everyday someone moves into town. so word about a city girl moving in spread fast.” the man turned to fully face you, face still holding that warm smile.
only then did you notice just how much he was towering over you—he looked like he was well over six feet. his auburn hair was combed over professionally, and his biceps were still visible even under all that fabric. he wore an endearing grin to match his pretty cerulean irises that put the blue skies above to shame, he was handsome. hallmark movie it is, then.
“i’m bucky, i work at the local clinic right next to this store.”
“o-oh! i do remember passing by a clinic, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” you replied, biting back the nervous laughter you would’ve let out and possibly embarrass yourself with. you gave him a small but kind smile back along with your name, now fidgeting the packaging of the seeds in between your fingers.
“how are you finding the town so far?”
"it's—it's nice... i haven't gotten around seeing the whole place, i mean i'm in the middle of doing that right now. but so far everything's really lovely and cozy. i really like it."
"so you haven't gotten a tour?" bucky's face almost looked pleased upon hearing those words come from you, before his lips dropped into a tiny frown. "i'd love to show you around, but you know—duty calls. i've got a home visit this afternoon with the elderly couple down the road, mrs. donovan. a lovely lady with an even charming husband." he punctuated his words in a tone you could only describe as teasing, and you couldn't keep the laughter that bubbled up from your chest.
bucky, looking very pleased with himself, leaned onto the vegetable rack with confidence. watching you with eyes that were nothing short of mesmerized.
suddenly, an equally burly and muscular man appeared from around one of the shelves, presumably the owner of the store. his hair glimmered blonde from the light that came in from the store's windows, giving his head an almost ethereal crown of locks.
"buck! quit loitering by my brussel sprouts and get your ass—oh my! it's the new girl!" he cut himself off from scolding bucky, voice sounding like an overworked parent who doesn’t have any time to deal with his teenager’s bullshit right now.
"sorry, i thought he was doing something else.” the blonde apologized, turning his head to squint at bucky accusingly. “is my friend over here giving you a hard time shopping? don't worry, i'll kick him out for you."
the brunette clicked his tongue, "steve, is this how you treat the town doctor?"
steve, or at least that’s what bucky called him, elbowed him right in his side, causing the doctor to recoil in faux pain.
"wow, a new face 's in town and you're already giving her a bad first impression. i was just trying to tell her about all the very lovely people we have ‘ere, y’see she's not that familiar with the area."
steve rolled his eyes, ignoring his best friend's teasing to continue looking at you. almost as if he was trying to memories every feature on your face. "oh, and you'd just love it if you could show her around, won’t you?"
"actually, while i would love to do just that, i've got an appointment with esther. which you would know if you even tried to listen to our conversation. and for the record, i wasn't loitering. i was about to buy these cabbages."
“sure you were.”
bucky lightly shoved steve’s shoulders, keeping the atmosphere light with his oh-so charming personality. “get back behind the counter, rogers. you shouldn't butt into other people's very private and very personal discussions, you know.”
steve gave him a flat look before retreating back to where he once stood, muttering a small whatever with annoyance evident on his face. as you watched him retreat to his post, bucky looked back at you with the same grin he’s been giving you since you first uttered a word to him.
“i’ll be the first to head out, city girl. i lost track of time and i’ve got abouuut—five minutes to walk to mrs. donovan’s house before our appointment starts.” he exclaimed, all most disappointedly. “it was nice talking to you.”
city girl. for no apparent reason, you felt your stomach do somersaults at the nickname. you’ve just met the guy and somehow he’s already making you feel things that causes your cheeks to redden. in embarrassment or endearment—you’ve yet to see.
tentatively, you pulled the hem of your shirt down to try and rid yourself of the feeling of butterflies in your stomach, the sound of his voice echoing in your head and etching itself onto the ridges of your brain. “what about your cabbages?”
“i just said that so he’d get off my back, but i’ll buy one of these soon.”
your laughter echoed inside the store one last time as his lips stretched into another smile, your cheeks were beginning to ache with how much you’ve been enjoying yourself in his company, no matter how short lived it was.
“it was nice talking to you too, bucky. i’ll see you around.”
“definitely.”
with a smile, your eyes followed his frame as he began to widen the distance between the two of you snd ounded a shelf to make his way towards the door. he gave you one last glance before his hands pushed the doors to the store open, and you watched his back disappear as the distance between you two grew. and just like that, the store went back to its quiet state from a few minutes ago.
you walked up to the register with a small skip in your step this time, one hand holding the seed packets and some fertilizers in the other.
“find everything you need?” steve asked, his hands busy with handling all the stuff you bought. “i hope my friend back there wasn’t too much trouble.”
“yup! and no, not at all. he’s actually very nice.”
“that’s what they all say, wait until you see him when there’s one slice of pizza left.” he joked, pulling out a paper bag from underneath the counter. “a rabid animal, that one.”
“you guys are close?”
“we live in a small town, everyone here’s close with each other.” he teased, “but i get what you mean. we’ve been friends since diapers, bucky’s basically a brother to me. that’ll be 19.99.”
steve watched you reached into your pocket to pull out your wallet, hands flat on the counter and a curious glint in his eyes. he wondered what could’ve possibly caused a city girl like you to move down to a town as hidden as stonefield—but he figured he should hold off on the questions for now.
“oh! i never got to properly introduce myself. my name’s steve rogers. but steve’s just fine. i’m the owner of this establishment.”
you gave him your name in return as you handed the exact amount, hands holding the paper bag in your arms like you were cradling a baby, “it’s nice to meet you, steve. i think i’ll be seeing you often.” you joked, head slightly nodding towards the array of fertilizers and gardening tools.
steve laughed and nodded politely as you turned around to walk toward the exit of the place. you realized the tension you felt since the first moment you took a step into the store was long gone, now replaced with a feeling of relief and comfort. you were surprised with how quickly you were growing accustomed to the new environment, but it’s no surprise since everyone has been nothing but kind to you.
you craned your head to look behind you before pushing the doors wide, grinning politely. “thank you for the fertilizers!”
steve lifted his sturdy hand into the air to wave you off, “come back soon!”
the fresh stonefield air wafted against your face the second you stepped out into the open. you figured you could take a quick stroll around town and take a peak at the beach downtown since you could vaguely make out memories of you fishing there with your grandfather when you were young.
the streets were no longer empty when you started walking along the cemented path, children were now playing amongst themselves in the playground that was situation in the middle of the town. and there were a few people sitting atop benches talking amongst themselves. the trees were quietly dancing along with the breeze—and you could distinctly make out the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline the further you walked into town.
eventually, the smell of saltwater invaded your senses as you stumbled across a beach with pristine white sand. the sun blared, heating everything in its wake as its rays of sunlight illuminated every space under its watchful vision—your skin welcomed the warmth the big star in the sky ever so graciously gave it, making the harbor sitting by the ocean towards your left the only thing that could offer you shade.
your feet collided against the grains of sand resting beneath the soles of your sandals, warming the calluses and skins in between. you don’t remember the last time you’ve been to the beach on your own accord—you’ve never had the chance to.
it somehow felt weird to be in somewhere so mundane and presumptive yet foreign at the same time. you’ll have to come back here on a different day to properly bask in the beautiful waters this town has been keeping hidden from the world—free of the horrors and corruption you hope it would never experience.
upon closer inspection, the harbor turned out to be a fish shop. you were craving some fresh fish, since your palette has been nothing but leftover stock of food from your previous grocery shopping back in the city—it was only natural you’d want something else for a dish.
the bell sang in the air the second you opened the door; the deck's decrepit timber material squeaked with each step you took. the shack felt like it was derelict and had deteriorated from all the years it had watched gone by; the place could probably be a family heir loom at this point—yet simultaneously it looked as sturdy as ever.
you meticulously trudged inside the shop with the paper bag still in hand, gazing at all the paintings of the ocean hung up on the wall, along with the replicas of certain fish decorated across it as well.
there wasn't anyone manning the counter when you arrived, and upon your arrival, someone was yet to appear behind it. you lightly tapped on the bell that sat right beside the register and the cup of fishhooks, hoping to find someone to talk to and happily buy fish from.
apart from the sounds of waves kissing the sand like a ritual it has known since the beginning of time and the squawking of seagulls from somewhere around the dock—you could almost hear a pin drop with how quiet things are.
you were about to turn around and come back some other time before a girl clad in jeans and a shirt emerged from the back door, dusting off the fabric of her top with hasty fingers.
"hi! sorry for the wait, haul just came in. you're in luck—today's fish is fresh from the sea!"
the lady seemed like she was about to tell you more about today's catch but upon closing in against the counter, after getting a good look at your face—her eyebrows furrowed in thought and her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to recognize you.
she hummed, the sound causing you to straighten your back. "i haven't seen that face before, you must be the new girl everyone's been fussing about."
they really weren't exaggerating when they say this place doesn't get that many visitors.
“i’ve been getting that a lot.” you awkwardly laughed, fixating your view on one of the framed sardines sitting idly beside the fishing rods.
“it’s such a pleasure to meet you! welcome to town! my name’s sarah wilson, i would shake your hand right now but i figured you wouldn’t be too fond of the smell afterwards.” sarah chuckled, continuing her endeavors of cleaning her shirt that seemed to have a speck of some sort on it. “so, what can i do for you today, miss?”
you pointed towards the crate of groupers towards her right, a wave of saltine wind gushing through the open windows of the fish shop clashed against your cheeks as you spoke. "can i get three pounds of those?"
"certainly! let me go wrap it up for you."
you left the store with the smell of fish still smothered on the tip of your nose, yet somehow it mixed in just right with the briny wind of the beach.
because you were new in town, sarah gave you a discount for the bag of groupers you bought. without even knowing your name, she's already found her way through your heart with a price too good to be true for three pounds of fish. and with a lighter heart than when you first came into town, you strode away from the dock grinning to yourself—excited for your future visits to the wilson fish shop.
you're fitting in just right with the community. you realized after a few months that you’ve spent less time counting the days until you lose the feeling of missing the city and more time tending to your crops like they were your mission in life—and they might as well be.
after what months of pondering about your direction in life, you were at a place where you believed you are truly happy with yourself. your sense of belonging was finally becoming, piece by piece.
it was another fresh start of the month, and by now your face has already been memorized by the locals with how often you've been leaving your farm compared to when you first got here. you are, after all, their new source of farm-to-table fresh vegetables.
your routine consisted of waking up before the sun rises to clean up the leftover debris by the green house, to watering and tending the crops, to clearing out some more area of the farm. you finish at around twelve pm, and by then you go and visit the town to talk and interact with all the lovely townsfolk.
you've gone from acquaintances to close friends with sarah who runs the fish shop with her brother, sam—who happens to own the saloon—and wanda who owns the ranch down the block from your farm. you've also met natasha, who you've come to find out is the local carpenter and owns a home hardware store just behind your farm.
steve's also grown accustomed to your face after seeing you almost weed out all of his fertilizers within a month, and you've grown quite a bond with the store manager over rising produce demand.
much to your dismay, however, you've run into bucky less times compared to them. only seeing him whenever both your schedules permit you two to do so—but you figured it comes with the job of being the town doctor and the town’s self proclaimed greatest farmer.
but still, on the occasional event you run into him down the street on the way to the store or the library, you always made sure to give him a warm smile and wave at him to which he waves back at you in return.
bucky, on the other hand, has interacted with you exactly fifteen times in the past months, including checkups. he’s been counting every moment—and not in the creepy way—he ran into you and you’ll flash him that pretty smile of yours he’s always somehow itching to see.
normally, bucky’s got his cool always in check—his nerves calm and his hands steady. but lately, like a boy with his first crush, he has to chew his lip every time you spoke to him to stop himself from stuttering out a reply back.
he could physically feel his cheeks warm up and the tip of his nose go red at each time you compliment his clothes for the day. whenever his stethoscope draws close to your chest to hear the thumping of your heart, his own organs roars loud in his ears and he ends up hearing his own rhythmic beating in the process.
he’s found himself walking into steve’s store more times than he needs to in hopes of catching a glimpse of you around the vegetable section. and maybe he’s been going down to wanda’s ranch to “check out the cows” because suddenly he’s very invested in whatever the chickens and barn animals are up to, and maybe he’s caught himself borrowing books at the library despite having the exact same copies of it back at the clinic just to gamble on the idea of you being there at the same time as him.
underneath the collected facade he’s put on is a man whose cheeks turn pink at the thought of you.
if only his schedule would allow it, he’d visit you on your farm and bother you with whatever’s on his mind at the moment. but for now, all he could do was wallow in his feelings at the saloon—his hand clutching an almost half empty mug of coffee—and the person lucky enough to be the audience of bucky’s misery was none other than sam.
“you gotta face this head on man." sam pushed, wiping a glass. "how about you try visiting her farm. y’know, bring her some of those dishes you've been making for us. the fastest way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, barnes.”
bucky took a sip of his coffee with a sour expression, eyes glued somewhere between the barrels of rum behind the bartender in front of him.
“i don’t know, what if she finds it weird?”
sam scoffed, “now where did all that charm you’ve been boasting about back at steve’s go?”
“i just—i want to do this right... she gets along with everybody pretty well, and i want her to be the same with me.”
“steve told me you two get along just fine.”
bucky chuckled lowly, his arms folding onto the table with. “i go all red in the face with just a quick glance from her. it’s like my body’s reacting before i could even think about what to say.”
his thumb circled the rim of his mug as he pursed his lips, his eyes carefully traced the ripples of the brown liquid inside the ceramic before continuing. “y’think i got a shot at taking her to the flower dance next month?”
sam, too focused on mixing up the cocktail order from another client, only lifted his eyes to gaze behind bucky, head not moving an inch “yeah i do. but why don’t you go ask her yourself?” he smirked.
bucky felt his feet run cold the second he heard footsteps approaching the bar counter, heart racing at speeds he's absolutely sure cannot be healthy. he looked at sam one more time who mouthed go get 'er, tiger before focusing on the drink in his hands like it wasn't almost empty and you weren't approaching the bar counter.
he straightened his slumping shoulders the second your fingers landed on the surface, face now plastered with a lazy grin. "well if it isn't my favorite city girl."
you raised an eyebrow, "you know any other city girls?"
"no, jus' you. but you're still my favorite."
you laughed as you slid into the stool beside his, "it’s nice seeing you here!" you cheerfully greeted, instantly lighting up the room with your presence—or at least in bucky’s mind that’s exactly what you did. in the corner of his eye, he can see sam's smirk grow into a playful grin before hurriedly turning around to tend to another customer. "do you come here often?"
“gotta let loose somehow.” he replied, bouncing his left foot up and down to try and quell the sudden spike of adrenaline his heart’s been pumping out the second he laid eyes on you. sam’s never gonna let him hear the end of this—so he’s giving his all to put on the charming front he’s carefully curated.
“tell me about it. as much as i love my grandfather’s farm, it’s really a pain in the ass to maintain.”
“i’ve been told the place has been looking better than ever.” bucky replied smoothly. in all actuality, no one told him that. he’s noticed it himself each time he purposefully passed by your farm on one of his morning jogs. steve teased him for suddenly taking a different route from his normal one, but the doctor kept on insisting he’s always been going down that path.
he’s even caught you working away at the farm—your back facing him, knees flush to the ground and your cheeks stained with dirt. hands pulling apart the weeds on the ground with vigor as sweat dripped down to your clothes.
bucky thanked that the sun was nowhere near out when he witnessed the sight before him, the lack of light obscured his face from being seen. he felt a deep admiration for how hardworking you were. and by the end of the jog, his brain was already replaying the image of you over and over again.
“really?” you lit up instantly, “it’s good to know that i’ve at least got some amount of progress after breaking my back for months.”
you gave sam an order of sliders and a side of mozarella sticks before continuing your conversation. after declining an offer for a drink, you turned your focus back at bucky, who was giving you a look that spent your nerves in a frenzy.
“if you don’t mind me asking, what brought you here to little ol’ stonefield?”
you shrugged your shoulders with a smile, “wasn’t a big fan of the life i was living back at the city. i tried convincing myself that living in new york with a nine-to-five job was the dream i’ve always wanted.”
bucky sat in silence, attentively listening to you talk about the life you used to live back then.
“and then i—rummaged through my office drawer one day and i found a letter from my grandfather. it had the deed to the farm and i just…booked it and ran all the way here.“
“you look a lot happier than you did the first time you moved here.”
“really?” you teased, arm coming up to rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “did my medical records tell you that?”
bucky matched the smug look on your face with one of his own, almost as if you were challenging him to a contest of sorts.
“would you actually believe me if i said yes?”
“no way.” you laughed, hand slowly approaching the plate of sliders sam placed in front of you in between your conversation with bucky. “i’m curious, by the way, where did you study medicine? is there a college nearby?”
“i studied at columbia.”
“what!” the words came out louder than intended, your hands racing upwards to cover your mouth in mild embarrassment. “what!” you repeated, a lot quieter this time. “i used to live in new york! why’d you choose to work here instead of—you know—there?”
bucky hummed in thought, resting his forearms on the furniture in front of him. "this town is near and dear to my heart. i can roam the entire world for the rest of my life, but i'll always find myself coming back here. you can take a man out of stonefield but not stonefield out the man." he remarked, "so, i figured i'd just practice medicine here."
you took a bite out of your slider, "i can see why you feel that way, this place is great. the last time i felt this happy and free was back in freshman year.”
the atmosphere surrounding the two of you began to shift as subtly leaned in closer—you would’ve missed it if you blinked—but it was there. as if he was subconsciously gravitating towards you like it was the most natural thing that occurred to him.
“you must’ve had a lot of fun back then, city girl.” bucky’s head tutted towards one of the barrels of rum sitting behind sam, playful grin still lingering on his face. “you drink?”
it was a dangerous game to be participating in—you knew you get a bit much when you go drinking, and it especially doesn’t help the fact that you’ve got a not-so little crush on the man comfortably next to you. but you’ll allow yourself to let loose just this once—you’re now getting the chance to spend time with the man you’ve seen the least since moving despite wanting the opposite. and to top it off, who are you to pass on the opportunity of drinking with a man as pretty as him?
“i haven’t found the time to drink lately.” you murmured somewhat bashfully, taking another bite out of your slider.
“‘s that so?” bucky took a hold of the glass sam placed in front of him with that lazy charming smirk. dauntingly, he moved his weight from one arm to the other, almost inclining back on a non-existent wall behind him—looking all suave and laid-back—an almost convincing ploy to cover how his heart was drumming like crazy right now. “let me change that.”
you hesitantly pursed your lips in deep thought, a small hum vibrating through your throat. saturday nights are meant to be enjoyed, you reasoned. letting out a huff, you nodded your head in agreement with a grin. veggie deliveries will have to wait ‘til monday, then.
the walk to the wanda’s ranch was one of the short periods of time where you truly got to think. while yes, you like to daydream while rummaging through the soils of your garden to keep your brain busy was what you usually do—long walks were something you appreciated on a different level. as the leaves of the trees shuffled and your feet crunched against the gravel, you’d stare at the sky and think about whatever’s been bugging you, no matter how long ago or recent it was.
as you rounded a corner that brought you closer to your destination, sam’s words ricocheted in the back of your mind. while visiting sarah to buy your week’s worth of fish this morning–and to deliver some leeks and green beans she ordered–her brother offhandedly mentioned something about the freshness of your vegetables going great with bucky’s cooking.
“bucky can cook?”
“yeah. he’s like our personal nutritionist. always insisting on preparing us healthy meals whenever he gets the chance to. and ever since you started supplying steve with those vegetables of yours, it’s like he never wants to stop anymore.”
“huh.”
it checks out, you suppose. he takes care of people’s health for a living, it only makes sense he enjoys creating delicious and nutritious food for the people he cares for. hearing sam say those words did send a small jolt of pride in the pit of your chest, and you did spend all morning while watering the crops thinking about it like a hopeless romantic.
you couldn’t stop the giddy smile from forming, face contorted in excitement and your cheeks slightly duster pink. the only ones to witness your look of love sickness on you were the mushrooms and carrots sleeping deep underground—who were by now probably sick of hearing you fuss about the man working at the clinic.
come to think of it, you’ve also been running into him more often at the store. you were now steve’s new supplier of produce (you lived far closer than any of his previous ones, and they were of better quality too) and on occasions you buy fertilizers—which was very frequent, you’ve always, without fail, ran into bucky. and you’d stay at the general store longer than you had anticipated, but gladly so.
you’ve even gone out of your way to give him some vegetables yourself, more so as an excuse to his face, after sharing that eventful night with him at the bar. since then, you’ve increasingly grown closer to the town doctor to the point that appointments were one of the things you looked forward to the most.
you remember him visiting you at the farm one quiet afternoon the day after—to your surprise, he went out of his way to check on you. you were busying yourself as always clearing out the land, when out of nowhere a tall man with broad shoulders showed up with food in his hands.
“shouldn’t you be resting?”
your heart practically leaped out of your chest as the voice coming from behind you boomed, making you drop your shovel in surprise.
“christ, you scared the shit out of me. aren’t doctors supposed to treat heart attacks and not induce them?” you held a gloved hand against your thundering chest.
bucky let out a laugh as he closed the distance between the two of you. he dressed like he just clocked out of work—his long sleeves were rolled up until his elbows and his necktie was hanging loosely against the buttons on the fabric. his right hand was pocketed while the other held a plastic bag.
“sorry, thought you could hear my footsteps.” he watched you dust yourself off the ground, eyes squinted.
bucky, overcome with concern—and slightly overwhelmed with the desperation to see you again–decided to visit you the morning after your abrupt drinking session with him at the saloon.
he only drank a decent amount, being not too fond of drinking too much, and while you did drink as much as him, maybe even a bit less, your steps were wobbly and uneven while your voice slurred the moment your feet clashed against the floorboards of the saloon, and bucky graciously took you back home with his hand warming your back and your drunken ramblings in his ear.
it was a miracle, really, that you managed to keep your feelings for the guy closed and tucked away into one of the corners of your heart–effectively saving you from the embarrassment you’re bound to face the day after not just from bucky, but probably from sam too.
“whatcha got there?” you asked, tilting your head to the side to get a better glance at the contents of the paper bag he was carrying around in curiosity.
he lifted it up to grant you a better look, whatever was inside was contained in a brown box–so you still had zero clue about what’s inside.
“food. i thought you would’ve taken the day off so i brought you something to eat.” his head steered towards the direction of where you were previously crouched at, hat over your head and your fingers through the ground. “but i guess not even alcohol can keep a girl away from her farm.”
“damn right. these carrots are my babies.” you glanced towards your front porch, fingers already pulling off the leather material encasing them. “would you like to go inside? we can share whatever you brought.”
“what about your babies?”
“i was about done, anyway.” you shrugged, already heading towards the farmhouse. “come on, it’s hot out here.”
needless to say—your growing adoration for him sowed deeper that day.
your knuckles clattered against the oak surface of wanda’s ranch, the basket of potatoes sat bolstered in their sack against your chest, your gloved hands holding the material with extra care.
not long after, the door jarred open to reveal your friend wanda—who was in similar clothing as you.
“good morning, city girl.” she teased, lips curling into a grin, “i see you’ve brought my potatoes! i can’t wait to try out this new recipe i saw on tv. thanks babe.”
she expressed her gratitude and took the sack from you, “do you have anyone in mind to be your partner for the flower dance?” wanda queried, leaning against the door frame and her voice teasing and her eyes had mischief written all over it.
you gave her a pointed look—you know that she knew who you want to go to the event with, you’ve been mouthing off his name behind closed doors for weeks now. rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms and stood tall. “i dunno. i might not even go.”
“we all know you’ll be there, girl.”
“we don’t know that.”
now it was her turn to roll her eyes. you both knew you’ll be there despite your incessant attempts of saying otherwise.
shaking her head, she held the handle to the door and looked at you apologetically, “i’d love to stay longer and chat, but i gotta get back to work, the cows won’t milk themselves.”
chuckling, you nodded in understanding and bid farewell—wanda waved you off before promptly going back to milking the cows with how loud they were howling inside the barn.
on your way back home, you heard a pair of elderly ladies sitting on the bench chattering about. now, it was absolutely none of your business to be eavesdropping whatever they were talking about. but with how loud they were talking about said business, you can’t possibly put all the blame on yourself.
you slightly tilted your head forward towards their direction—your steps decelerated as much as you can without looking like a weirdo.
“i saw bucky looking at flowers this morning, who do you think it’s for?” one elderly woman exclaimed, crossing her legs and her hand flailed in the air.
the other responded, “the flower dance is just around the corner, isn’t it? maybe he’ll finally ask natasha out!”
your heart sank. six feet under—maybe twice more than that. just as fast as your heart dropped down like it was held dozens of meters up in the sky, you were hit with the whirlwind of emotions that came along with it.
your feet slowed into a halt, hidden somewhere behind a tree near the old pair, but still far enough for you to go unnoticed. you already heard a lot more than you should’ve—unfortunately—might as well listen to what else they have to say and most likely crush your hopes from shattered to fine powder.
“i’ve always loved them together! they make such a cute couple!”
the lady with her legs crossed shook her head, a scowl evident on her face. “i wonder what took him this long! it was pretty obvious from the get go it was gonna be her, he could’ve asked her out ages ago!”
you left the second you the other old woman retaliated something in return, mumbling about timing and busy lives, not caring about whatever else they have to say. or rather, you couldn’t bear to hear what more they have to say, your heart was already heavy as it is.
the rest of the walk back home was a blur, and you no longer had the energy to install the water sprinklers you got from steve earlier this week–they’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. for now, you’re going to drown your misery with sitcoms and ice cream.
you didn’t feel foolish at all for liking a man like bucky, but a part of you did feel silly for feeling so defeated and disheartened just from hearing gossip. you began recounting each of your interactions with bucky that included natasha–and your mind came up with the definitive answer that the flowers were meant for her. they’ve known each other longer than you have, they’ve got a bunch of things in common, they’re basically meant for each other.
plopping down onto the comfortable sheets atop your bed, you let out a blood-curdling muffled scream into the mattress, heart still lodged into the streets where you heard the world-destroying news from their throats.
you were now armed with a new goal—get over your witless crush on bucky before the flower dance so you wouldn’t have to try and survive the pain of seeing him dance with another girl.
bucky didn’t know what to do. to be frank, he was completely losing it on steve’s couch. steve was sitting on a chair adjacent to the settee bucky was crying his heart out on (not really, but steve definitely sees it that way), and it seemed like steve was going to be the psychiatrist for bucky today.
“i used to talk to her about seven times a week. now it’s gone down to one, even zero! i feel like i made that one scenario up in my head to cope, so i think i didn’t see her all week.” bucky complained, gaze glued onto the ceiling light of steve’s living room.
it’s all that’s been on bucky’s mind recently. he checks on patients’ vitals a tad longer than usual with how his head is at a different place—he hasn’t been able to walk on the streets peacefully with the amount of times he thought he saw your face that day, only for him to turn around and see that it wasn’t you.
and on the rare instance that it was you—you’d immediately duck your head and speedwalk out of whatever establishment the both of you were in. he chalked the first occurrence on bad luck, as well as the second time. but by the third—he was fully convinced that you were ignoring him.
he’s already racked his head on all sides trying to figure out what he had done for you to avoid him like he’s the plague, but bucky always circled to the conclusion that he had done nothing wrong, leaving him perplexed.
“you’ve been counting?” the blonde’s eyebrows raised in concern, slightly taken aback by what he heard.
“subconsciously,” bucky defended, “i cherish every moment i get to see her. it’s practically part of my routine. but now, i didn’t see her once—not on the streets, your store, by the dock, it’s like she’s completely disappeared.”
“and the problem is…?”
bucky’s blue sorry eyes shifted onto steve, “i’m supposed to ask her out to the flower dance, stevie. i already asked esther to save me some peonies.” his dragged his hands down his face, covering the flesh with his rigid fingers.
his friend sat with his nose stuck between the pages of an art magazine, mindlessly flipping through each entry as he listened to the town doctor lavish in his feelings. “what stupid thing did you do this time, buck?”
“nothing!” he shot up from the couch, looking borderline unhinged. “i-i don’t think i did anything…i just—” bucky groaned, planting himself back onto the soft cushions.
there were too many words in his chest and not enough courage to let them out. too many parts of him that had quietly started to expect you. with eyes full of longing and a few too many limbs craving for your presence, the words that ached to run free died on bucky’s tongue. he felt powerless—utterly crushed, even. but he couldn’t do anything but wait for you to come around again. because doctors don’t show up to checkups unless asked for.
“i miss her.”
the days breezed by, and as fast as spring rolled around, the day of the flower dance came. you entered the secluded venue with your arm linked around sarah’s—eyes unintentionally scanning the area to look for the auburn haired man—to avoid him, of course.
although it was your first flower dance, you knew this wouldn’t be your last. the place, though hidden in greenery, was absolutely breathtaking. the trees hid just enough of the sky and the sun’s light peeked through them like spotlights. the cool air kissed weaved through your hair as you stepped inside, all while waving at a few townsfolk.
you were wearing an all-white dress with flowers decorated onto your hair. the dress belonged to wanda—she was kind enough to lend you the garment for the time being since it was your first time attending the annual event and you had no available white dress, you didn’t really have to prepare since you were already wearing the stress of moving in and fixing the farm.
wanda already went ahead of you, eager to go to the festival early with vision. you still had no idea who you wanted to ask to dance with—so you decided to head towards the food table for the mean time.
there were an array of dishes on display—from barbecue to dozens of seafood dishes—you set your sights, along with your stomach, on enjoying the free food the town had to offer.
as your hand carried an empty paper plate, a large warm hand cupped your shoulder. you jumped in your skin while your heart fell through your ass at the thought of whose face you’d be seeing when you turn around—it made you want to not turn around.
before you could further debate on looking back, the voice the hand belonged to cut through your thoughts.
“lovely seeing you here.”
thank god. it was steve, you’ve never felt so refreshed when that wave of relief washed over you.
“that’s a very beautiful dress! looks good on you.”
giggling, you turned your full attention to him. “thanks, steve.”
he was dressed nicely—clothed in all white and a ranunculus placed in his breast pocket. he didn’t look half bad.
“who’s your partner for the dance?” you questioned, subtly trying to look around to see if you could catch a glimpse of bucky—because if steve was here, he’s bound to be in the same place as well.
steve shrugged, coming forward to stand beside you and serve himself a cup of fruit punch. “i don’t plan on dancing.”
“what!” you shrieked, before covering your mouth and lowering your voice to a more respectable tone. “you aren’t serious. you’re wearing such a nice suit, you can’t let it go to waste!”
“no one’s asked me to dance with them yet, so i guess…i don’t really plan on participating in the dance. i’m okay with watching.”
no one’s asked him to dance?! a man that fine cannot be wasted and cast aside as a bystander!
with a look of seriousness suddenly replacing the smile on your face, an expression that steve could only slightly describe as terrifying, “dance with me, then.” you offered.
steve, shocked at what he was hearing, couldn’t help the confused sound he le out. “what? but didn’t he ask you to be—“
“who asked me to be their what?”
“nevermind.” steve shook his head, maybe bucky didn’t go through with his plan of asking you out, since here you are—standing alone and loitering around the food table. besides, you’re a close friend of his—and the festival was about begin, it wouldn’t hurt to dance with you when you asked him to.
and he figured bucky needed a little push to grow his confidence.
“alright, i’ll dance with you.”
steve craned his head in all directions in search of his best friend, bucky insisted he went on ahead to the festival but he is nowhere to be seen.
“alright, everyone!” mayor arthur’s voice boomed through the speakers, “to all of those ready and plan on participating in the dance, please step towards the middle with your partner!” he instructed, clearly excited to get things going.
“that’s our cue!” you cheered, grabbing steve by the hand and pulling him to where the others are gathered.
you stood in front of each other beside wanda and vision, who gave you a teasing look to which you tried waving off.
“i see you’ve already found your partner.”
“wanda! shhh, i’m only doing this for fun!” you scolded, voice barely above a whisper.
you rolled your eyes and focused your attention back to steve, a nervous look now on your face. “okay, so i know i asked you to this dance, but i have no idea how to dance.”
steve laughed at that, genuine and sincere. “it’s alright, just follow my lead.”
and as the music began and rang through the forest—bucky could feel his chest tighten and his fist tremble with how hard he was clutching it.
okay, maybe he didn’t really have the right to feel this way. he wasn’t able to ask you out since he didn’t see you the entire week before the flower dance—yet it still sent a pang of sadness and worst of all jealousy through his heart at the sight of you dancing with steve.
you looked like you were having a lot of fun. despite stepping on steve’s and your own foot more times than a normal person was capable of—you were laughing to your heart’s content. and bucky wasn’t fond of the thought that it should be him making you this happy.
all he could do was watch at a distance and fix his tie to hide the look of hurt spread across his face.
“steve i am so so sorry!” you laughed, stepping over his foot again. “i genuinely have no idea what i’m doing.”
the blonde holding your hands breathed out a hearty laughter, amused at your antics. “at least you’re having fun, that makes up for looking like an idiot.”
“rude. but i’ll let it slide, rogers.”
his fingers gently guided your body to twirl around his, your dress flowing along with the air and the flowers made your smile glowing brighter with each step.
the crowd cheered as the song subsided, and your feet were starting to go numb with how much it has collided into steve’s that noon.
you excused yourself from steve with a giggle—claiming that you need to use the restroom and to take a breather—your heart beating relentlessly with joy from having so much fun. you made a beeline towards the small area quite a few steps away from the venue, but before you could make it any further away, a hand clasped your arm—making you stop and let out a small screech.
thinking it was steve, you quickly turned around to tell him off for scaring you the second time.
“steve can you please stop ambushing me from behind—“
no. it wasn’t steve. no, it wasn’t wanda or sarah either. to your absolute terror and surprise, it was bucky.
“oh.” was all you could say, your throat suddenly running dry at the sight of the man in front of you.
maybe it was the side of you that was so deprived of him talking—but boy, did he look good.
his hair was combed over, and he wore a suit similar to steve’s—but it looked so much better on bucky. his steel blue irises stared into yours, and he was angelic—with the rays of the sun shining against his back—it almost looked like he had a halo.
he had a defeated look on his face, like he was desperate to see you. the second you turned around, the grip on his hand tightened as he murmured your name, the tone of his voice dangerously low.
“where’ve you been…?” he chuntered, grip persistent. “i haven’t seen you in two weeks.”
“i was just—busy with the farm.” you broke eye contact to look at your feet, unable to bear the look on his face because you know your resolve would crack if you stared a second longer. “can you- um…i—”
“you can at least give me a better answer than that. i know you’ve been ignoring me.”
you’ve been caught redhanded. and being the stubborn person you are, you held your gaze on the ground—heart starting to ache at the confrontation happening. in all honesty, you didn’t know what to tell him. you couldn’t give him the true, foolish reason as to why you’ve been circumventing away from him to an unreasonable degree.
“b-but it’s true, i have been busy.” you didn’t know if you were trying to convince bucky or yourself with how meek you were speaking, like the mere thought of raising your voice would cause your throat to close up and the dam that kept your feelings at bay to burst open.
bucky pursed his lips, his hold on you loosening but still intact, like he was deathly afraid you would disappear the second he’d let you go. “look at me when you say that.” he pressed, voice dripping with desperation.
“do you know how—how crushing it was for you to suddenly just… stop talking to me all of a sudden?”
head still lowered down like a dejected puppy, all you could do was shift your weight from one foot to the other.
“i—i thought i was doing things right, and then you just- just treated me like we’re strangers again, like it all meant nothing. i spent so many nights thinking and thinking about what i did wrong.”
bucky stepped closer, the tip of his shoes almost touching yours, you could practically feel the warmth radiating from him. hesitantly, you built up the courage to look into his eyes—a decision you’ve come to regret after seeing the face of absolute devastation and sadness in them—like the act of you avoiding him was physically painful.
“and then i saw you dancing with steve, what’s up with that?”
“wh-what do you care? the people i dance with are none of your business.”
in complete contrast to the conversation, bucky’s lips were hovering against yours. you didn’t make any effort to stop it because truthfully, you couldn’t find it in you to do so. you couldn’t lie to yourself that you didn’t like the feeling of his chest flush against yours. all your hard work of trying to forget about him dissipated into thin air the second his hands curled on your waist.
you don’t know who leaned in first, but it took you a second to realize his lips were already molding into yours, accompanied by a rough calloused hand grazing your cheek. his tongue pushing past your lips—feverish and wet and sloppy—and you could feel the jealousy practically oozing on it as it danced with yours—the intrusion causing you to let out a soft gasp bucky gladly swallowed.
your hands grasped his neck to deepen the kiss, your own desperation growing clearer. you couldn’t think straight about how good it felt to finally feel his lips on yours—like it was something you didn’t admit you’ve been needing for a long, long time.
bucky broke off the kiss to admire you—how pink your lips have gotten, swollen from all the kissing and your eyes—pupils blown, half-lidded and full of devotion. “tell me you want this.”
you swallowed a breath caught in your throat, hips bucking against nothing in desperation as your cunt pulsed with pure need. “i-i wan’ you bucky— fuck please-“
you reached for the zipper of his slacks, eager and needy and wanting more.
he flipped you to face the bark of the tree, heavy hands coming to still your jittery hips desperately trying to relieve the ache in your cunt. he lifted your dress high enough to reveal the wet spot on the fabric of your pantie, and ran two fingers over it—causing you to yelp in response.
“please—bucky- i need you so bad—“
you heard the rattling of a belt clinging loose, and the thick head of his cock pressing against the entrance of your warmth, sliding it against your folds but not quite pushing in just to tease you.
you groaned in frustration, hands scraping on the rough surface of the tree, “bucky— please put it in—“ you whined pathetically, wiggling your hips to try and entice him to end your suffering.
“so impatient, city girl.” bucky murmured condescendingly, palm coming to run across your lower back before settling on your side, “alright, since you asked so nicely.”
bucky began to shove the tip of his cock to intrude into you, deliciously slow—he wanted to savor the feeling of being in your warm, welcoming walls before he completely ruins you for anyone else.
“fuck!” you whined, hands bracing against the tree while your hips pushed back to grind against his. “bucky—oh my god-”
“you’re so fucking tight.” bucky hissed, already falling apart just from being inside of you.
slowly, he began to pull out inch by inch, before pushing back inside all in one swift thrust. bucky had to quickly clamp a hand on your mouth to stop the loud wanton moan from echoing into the forest.
“gotta be quiet, baby.” he leaned over closer to you, sheathing himself to the hilt inside of you—breath fanning over your ear and his hips burrowing impossibly deeper into your leaking pussy—your back bowing in the process.
wet, pornographic slapping filled the space in between the air and the bushes. his cock, thick and pulsing, began to drill into you repeatedly and you could feel your eyes go bleary and your knees give up at the sudden speed he decided to pick up at. if it weren’t for his large hand muffling the obscene sounds you were letting out—not squeezing or gripping, just strong enough to keep your sounds to himself—you would’ve been caught by anyone unlucky enough to be in these parts of the woods.
the leaves shook with each drag of his cock—sending a jolt of electricity up your spine as the knot in your belly slowly building up. he felt like he was splitting you open—your hands were scrambling behind him to find purchase as he continued to plow into your cunt, juices messily dripping down your legs.
before you could ask for more, his thumb began to rub tight circles over your clit—swollen and throbbing—causing your hips to jerk back against him. he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck before sucking on that particular sensitive part of your skin, leaving red and purple marks in its wake.
“feel good, sweetheart? y’think steve can make you feel this good?” he moaned, still sucking on your neck like he couldn’t get enough of you, “keep quiet, doll.”
you changed his name like a prayer behind the skin of his fingers, biting your lip harsh enough to draw blood, the pleasure sowing itself deep into your abdomen and running up from your toes and through your entire body almost too much to handle—the coil in your stomach threatening to snap. you can feel how soaked you are, your slick was practically drenching your abandoned underwear bunched up around your ankles.
his hands were harsh against your skin, clenching hard enough to leave bruises in its wake—you’re sure to look like you got beaten in an alley but only in specific places after this.
bucky could feel you getting close with how tight you’ve been clamping on his thick cock, pushing him closer and closer to sweet release, he rocked his hips with much more fervor and intensity—and you screamed at the change of pace—he pulled you back onto him as if to say you can’t run away from it.
his sweat stricken forehead pressed into your temple, “mine.” thrusting particularly harder into you, he bit down on the space between your neck and shoulder—a loud wanton moan ripped through your throat before you could stop it, fingers desperately clutching on the large hands that enveloped your waist.
you felt yourself cum before you even realize it, gushing and coating your already damp thighs in your juices leaving your body shaking while he painted your walls white with a groan of his own—his cum slowly began to trickle down your plush, now limp and numb thighs.
bucky slowly began to pull out all the while rubbing slow, comforting circles on your bruised hips and soaked thighs.
suddenly it struck you—now hit with the clarity of post-orgasm, you quickly clambered to collect your bearings, leaving bucky with a confused expression and struggling to catch up with you as he hurriedly tucked his cock back in his pants.
“woah woah, are you sure you can walk right now—?”
you sputtered, “i-im— this was a mistake i shouldn’t’ve-“
he flashed you a look of disbelief, “a mistake? we just—“
“what if natasha noticed we’re both missing. i don’t want to cause any drama—“
bucky held up a hand to stop your rambling, brows furrowed and his head in a doozy. “wait, natasha? what does she have to do with all of this?”
“um,” you felt like a small child being asked by her parents to explain something they probably wouldn’t understand, all you needed to do was to twiddle your thumbs and you’d get the part. “aren’t you-? isn’t she your—you know…don’t you like her?”
“what?”
“i overheard some old people talk about you buying her flowers and the flower dance was coming soon so i thought—i thought—“
before you could continue mumbling about even further, bucky cut you off with a loud, obnoxious laughter that left him clutching his stomach in pain.
“wh-what’s so funny—“
“is that why you’ve been ignoring me? you thought those flowers were for her?”
“i mean, aren’t they-“
“they were meant for you, city girl.” he shook his head with exasperatedly, “i was planning on asking you out to the flower dance, but you went ahead and ignored me for days on end. i ended up not going through with the plan when i saw you dancing with steve.”
“oh.”
“yeah ‘oh.’ i thought i made it pretty clear i liked you.”
“they were talking about how you were taking too long and that probably meant you’ve already liked her for a long time! so i just thought you were being—you know—nice.”
annoyingly enough, he let out another laugh. now suddenly feeling stupid, you stretched your arms forward to try and hide your face into the crook of his neck.
you were about to roll your eyes and complain about missing the food when all of a sudden bucky rushed to press his hand over your mouth once more.
“wait. shhh, someone’s there.”
the words shut you up instantly, simmering your breathing down to barely audible to try and listen for whatever bucky heard that caused him to hush you up.
“hello?” someone called out from behind the trees, “is someone there?”
bucky held a finger against his lips and gripped your hips tighter, and you had to stop yourself from letting a giggle bubble up from your chest.
as the footsteps began to fade out, you and bucky both simultaneously let out a shared laugh at the thought of almost getting caught by some poor townsfolk.
bucky leaned against the tree trunk he was previously railing you on, “we should um—probably get back.”
you nodded in agreement, “yeah i’m starving-“
“and you’re dancing with me this time.”
@ chipotleburritobowl – 2025 , do not plagarize or i will cry fat hot tears , you are responsible for your own media consumption twin. read responsibly and thanks for stopping by!
