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:)
MY WORKS — here is my masterlist and my things in motion ;)
TAG NAVIGATION — #amoremarveloustime library - what I’m reading:) #meeps recs - what YOU should be reading :)
SIDE BLOGS — I have a side blog for all things the Pitt !! head over if you want fics / content about that ;) found here
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
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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!
hi everyone! i’d like to end 2025 with a beautiful collection of some of my top favorite bucky barnes fics by some amazing and talented writers — each writer is tagged with a favorite fic or fics of mine, with a special note and a stamped kiss!
please let this next year be one of kindness, gratitude and support. as people in a creative space, it’s important to lift each other up, so happy new year, my friends!
ladybug divider by @uzmacchiato
lessons in lovemaking by @artficlly
you and bucky barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
<𝟑 .ᐟ literally my all time favorite series so far, art is such a gifted writer every sentence from her leaves me in awe!
you're lost and I'm insane by @mcrdvcks
you work at a mental institution filled with some of the most dangerous and deranged people. your patient bucky becomes dangerously fixated on you.
drunk on you by @mcrdvcks
bucky gets tired of you ignoring him while you study. his solution? to fuck you until you're dumb.
<𝟑 .ᐟ yes, a two time nominee because abby's fics are just that good, she opened my eyes with you're lost and i'm insane and i can't wait to read more of her work soon!
white coat syndrome by @firingstars
a phenomenon exists where a person’s blood pressure will rise when measured in a clinical setting, but is recorded as normal when measured at home or elsewhere. you’ve never been the type to feel anxious in medical establishments, but with your pcp retiring and transferring your care to her trusted colleague, you end up visiting your new doctor’s office more times in the last three months than you’ve ever had in the past year.
<𝟑 .ᐟ a fic that I couldn't help but reread not just once but twice, sinfully delicious!
newspaper club by @amoremarveloustime
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.
<𝟑 .ᐟ this was such a cute and fun read. forever praising fics where bob is a close friend to the reader, what a cutie!
his and only his... for 24 hours by @salem-s
the last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is bucky barnes. yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the fourth of july as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. but admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. just a tad. especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
<𝟑 .ᐟ gold. absolute gold. all 20k+ !! I'm mesmerized by long well written fics and this one just takes the cake
two tickets to iron maiden by @superbassbuck
what happens when bucky barnes, the campus dirtbag, has a secret relationship (if you can even call it that) with the most popular, unapproachable girl in school? you get broken drumsticks in a fit of rage. you get smeared lipstick from heated make-out sessions. and most importantly, you get dirty little secrets.
<𝟑 .ᐟ combining my love for emo music and dirtbagism and my love for bucky barnes all into one, pauline I am printing this series out and framing it on my wall. genuinely such a good read, i love this universe dearly.
father figure by @lunexiax
you make bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. he makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline.
<𝟑 .ᐟ possessive bucky will always have a grip on me, and this one is just such a good fic it felt evil to not add it here! plus shay's work is amazinggg
substance F52.8 by @blowingbarnes
how many times has steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
<𝟑 .ᐟ sex pollen by franny = perfection. i'm framing this one too!
alas, there are so so so many amazing fics written in 2025 by so many talented writers; these are the ones that really stuck out for me and are my personal "best fics of 2025" collection. i hope you can support these insanely talented writers and all writers who have shared their creative works with us the past year. i can't wait to read more in 2026 and quadruple this list!
Pairing: Footballer!Bucky Barnes x pop star!reader
Synopsis: Can a man fall in love in a stadium of thousands? When star Soldiers player Bucky Barnes attends your record-breaking pop concert held on his home grounds, he thinks anything is possible with you singing your heart out. All he has to do is prove it to you.
Note: Bucky Barnes x f!reader meets the whirlwind tale of Taylor Swift x Travis Kelce, by an Australian who has never watched an NFL game in her life
"The Sparrow and the Soldier" Masterlist | Bucky Barnes
MCU X DCU AU | ON GOING !!!
pairing: Bucky Barnes x batsis!reader
summary:
Same girl, same goal, different name. Leaving Gotham had meant a new beginning. She had left behind the mantle of Batgirl, no longer one of the sidekicks of her father. She changed the batsuit for a notepad and writing for the local newspaper. Now, the city needed help, someone who, unlike the Avengers, dealt with street-level threats. But since Batgirl was in the past, a new vigilante had to step up.
Or
A new threat is rising in the city, people are going missing, and the Avengers are hitting a dead end trying to stop it before it's too late. Now is the time for them to seek help in the hands of Sparrow, a new vigilante that had been helping them from the shadows, never seen but with apparently eyes and ears everywhere, unaware that who they are looking for is the oldest daughter of Bruce Wayne.
warnings/tags:
+18 MDNI. MCU x DCU AU, no use of y/n, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, PTSD, descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks, grief, canon typical violence, everyone is alive, canon? what canon?, This is self-indulgent. Age gap ? Reader is 27, and Bucky was born in 1917. Biologically, Bucky its mid 30s. they are dealing with criminals, so expect mentions of wounds, blood. One of the main plot points is that people are going missing, so expect that and topics like mentions of weapons and all that. they should be going to therapy. ANGST, it's the bat-fam, what do you expect?. plot heavy, poorly proofread. Eventual smut? maybe? idk yet, but they're adults so expect some suggestive scenes.
set in a world after superman 2025 and civil war where bucky is with the avengers, tony is cool with that (as cool as he can be), natasha and steve are there too. appearances and mentions of other characters from the DCU and MCU. English is not my first language, expect mistakes! no beta read we die like jason todd.
Specific content warnings may differ per chapter to avoid spoilers.I hope you enjoy this work if you're truly alright with the trigger warnings.
I am not responsible for your media consumption !!
taglist: @nikkitabarnes @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @honeysucklewatr @spidermanluvr444 @nisarelle @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @m4ngo15 @jvanilly @opheliabbarnes @sepho @capswife @losraire @emmasfavs1 @yuhuahuaaa @dandelion-delusion @w1nter-fairy @stesha02 @swimmingnightcolor @levisungjingwoo2099 @sassandscribbles (+ comment to be added to the taglist)
PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS AND PROCEED WITH CAUTION IF YOU AGREE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST. NO AGELESS BLOGS OR MINORS.
Read on AO3 | bubu_barnes on AO3 | Masterlist and wips
Chapters:
Part 1 Reborn
Part 2 Meet cute
Part 3 Superhero Network
Part 4 Teamwork
Part 5 I don't need a hero
Part 6 Trust Issues
Part 7 Beautiful Liar
Part 8 Rematch
Part 9 Partners? Partners
Part 10 Cracks on the ice
Part 11 ???
Part 12 ???
+ more to be added.
Updated: 23-12-2025
a/n: Hi!! I'm a Marvel and DC girl, and this AU has been in my mind for soooo long. Updates would be slow since I work and study, and i'm building this story on the go, first chapters are done but i'll be posting them slowly. Word count may differ between chapters. It might be a little OOC for some characters to fit the plot, or simply so many fanfics had erased canon from my mind. This, just as Pobre Secretaria are my babies, pls be kind
pictures taken from pinterest, dividers made in canva by me. if you are interested, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment or an ask!
can anyone recommend some fics…preferably series 🤭 I want to read like multi-part, slow burn or just some kind of build up I’m YEARNING rn . Open to anything just someone help me ❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥✨✨✨
can anyone recommend some fics…preferably series 🤭 I want to read like multi-part, slow burn or just some kind of build up I’m YEARNING rn . Open to anything just someone help me ❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥✨✨✨
HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"N—!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.
He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.
But why’d Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just… breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”
Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”
The stammering is immediate.
“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“
“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—
God, you can't even say it. Falling for—
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Agh—"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
“Oh?”
“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now it’s your turn to curse.
“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man. (A man who has been practically celibate the past year when he realized this feeling towards you was going nowhere, but nonetheless just a man.)
“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”
“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”
“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“
“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”
You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.
That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
“Argh— What the fuck!”
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”
Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”
You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”
“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”
His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's not—"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”
But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Yup.” Prick.
“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”
“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”
You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Bucky.”
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”
With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”
Your face flushes. “Bucky.”
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.
He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”
“Shut up.”
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“
You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”
“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”
“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”
“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.
“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.
Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”
You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”
“Gonna come from just the tip?”
“Shit. Maybe.”
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
“Breathe,” he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”
You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”
“Do you want me to come immediately?”
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, drunk with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”
“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?
“You—You’re not.”
“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“
“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“
“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
“Thank you.”
Did he just—
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”
“For sleeping with you?”
“No. For letting me sleep with you.”
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—
“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.
“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”
“I’m literally inside you right now.”
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”
“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”
You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”
You freeze. “Huh?”
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”
Your left cheek.
“How come I live to rile you up?”
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”
“Took you long enough.”
Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”
Bucky snorts. “As of a year ago, more like.”
“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. A year— Okay.”
“Take your time.”
“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”
Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”
Your heart skips. “I think I…”
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”
“You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Obviously.”
You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.
“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”
It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. He kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.
“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”
“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.
“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”
A pause.
Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”
You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.
And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”
“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.
