⤷ 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 1.5k words, chapter one
౨ৎ - SYNOPSIS. bucky was your childhood best friend. the war may have changed everything, but he still has a promise to keep...
warnings ᯓ mdni! no use of y/n, light banter, childhood friends trope, mention of war, slight angst, ptsd, potential smut in future chapters
The sun was a golden crown resting on the vibrant blue skies. It shined brightly and brilliantly, the loving warmth feeling like a comforting embrace to Bucky’s skin compared to the cold and clammy water he felt up to his knees.
You were sitting beside him on the gray rock, kicking your legs into the water that was of Brooklyn Lake. Unlike him, you liked the water. It was refreshing and gave you a small feeling of peacefulness. It reminded you of his eyes.
“Bucky,” his name always came out soft when you said it aloud. You weren’t sure why, but it felt... natural.
Your best friend turns his head, now gazing at you with his pretty blue eyes. His brown locks were messy and unkept from swimming earlier. “Yeah?” he responds, his voice being equally soft. Maybe even softer.
A gentle breeze passes between you two.
You fidget with your hands before shyly asking: “Will we still be friends... when we’re older? Like this?” It was a silly question, but the thought never left your mind, and you had decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
He stares at you blankly for a second.
Then another.
Finally, he laughs- the sound is pleasant. Endearing. Boyish. So undeniably him.
“Of course,” he snickers, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
You chuckle sheepishly, slightly embarrassed as a faint blush adorned your cheeks. “I dunno, I just...” your voice trails off, your smile fading. You look toward the lake's horizon, watching the waves clash and pull. “I’m afraid of the future,” you admitted finally, “So much can change. We can change."
Changed. Just like my parents did, you thought bitterly to yourself, but you pushed the thought aside. You didn’t want to think about them anymore.
Bucky sees your worry and stops joking around immediately. “Hey, look at me.” a soft hand cups your chin, forcing you to turn. His hand felt warm against your skin, almost electric. Static. “We won’t change. We’re best friends and nothing will ever change that.”
“Nothing?” you repeat in a whisper.
“Nothing. Because we’re together until the end.” his voice is earnest, smiling charmingly and sweetly, steel eyes filled with unwavering resolve. He lets go of your chin, and you almost recoil from the absence of his touch. His warmth.
“Well,” you began teasingly with a toothy grin; spirits clearly lifted. “Make me a promise, Bucky. Promise me something to prove it.”
He tilts his head, his smile now turning into a look of ponder.
“Okay, I got one.” he says.
“Let’s hear it.” you lean in closer, your hand now raising with a pinky up, “and it’s a pinky promise, too!” you giggled.
He laughs once more, and then raises his pinky, “I pinky promise... to marry you when we’re older.”
And he interlocks with your finger with his own.
☆
You still remember that day vividly. Those silly conversations you used to have with him. All of that was ten years ago. Ten. You’re twenty-three now.
Your fear had come true. It was inevitable, really. Times change. People change. Nothing ever stays the same. You knew it from the start.
So why did it hurt so much?
It was when around two years after the promise, the war against the Nazis had started, and when you both started drifting further apart due to that catastrophe that came with it. And just two months later, you found out he was going to be drafted into the army.
You begged him to stay.
“Run and hide away somewhere,” you pleaded, the sound hoarse from crying. “You’ll die out there, Bucky!”
“I can’t,” his answer final, firm, and assured. Yet his actions betrayed him, the slight quiver of his lip, the tight clench of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
Those were his last words to you. You still hated him for that. No meaningful goodbye, no hug, no heartfelt declaration. Deep down, you knew you were being selfish; he was going to war, for heaven's sake! It was stupid to think he owed you anything.
It didn’t make you any less devastated, though. Constantly worrying about if he’d even come back, always wondering if it would be his name engraved next on the soldier’s memorial. You would check the stone twice a day and pray that you wouldn’t see it there.
The war ended three months ago. Eight whole years felt like forever, but you supposed that time went slower when you were starving and broke.
It was just a week ago that the rest of the troops arrived back in the country. Which also meant he was back.
James Buchanan Barnes was home.
You wanted to see him right when he came back. You really did. But how could you? You haven’t seen him for years. You weren’t sure if he wanted to see you, either. What if he didn’t even remember you?
You shake your head and snap out of it, continuing your chore of folding clothes. He will remember you. Why wouldn’t he?
You finish folding your clothes with ease soon after, yet the stubborn thought persisted in your mind. Shoving the folded clothes roughly into the laundry basket, you made a decision:
You were going to see him.
☆
“I can’t.” he had said to you, his eyes to the ground. He couldn’t bear to look at you in that very moment, because he knew that one look could unravel him completely. He swallows a sob, and in the most detached voice he could muster: “I’m sorry.”
And he walked away, just like that.
Like a coward.
I’m a coward, he thinks.
He regrets that day. He really did. You had no idea how much he wanted to stay. He wanted to say so many things but the words never left his mouth.
And it was because he was scared.
Scared to get too attached, and if he were to confess everything he felt about you; it would make it that much harder to leave. He told himself constantly it was going to be easier this way. If he just distanced himself, it’d hurt less to know he couldn’t have you.
He couldn’t. Not with the war happening.
He had to do something; he couldn’t just stay here with you, as much as he wanted to. He felt obligated to protect his country. And protecting the country meant protecting you.
Because you were his world.
He knew he would likely die, but if he died protecting what he loved most? That was more than enough for him. To make the country a safe place for you to live is what he wanted.
Well, that’s what he told himself, yet his heart said otherwise. The mere thought of you spending your life with someone else- someone who wasn’t him, made him ache more than any physical wound.
☆
The week he came back.
He never thought he would be back here again. He thought he would’ve been dead by now. Just like the others. Like Steve.
He physically flinched at the name and pushes the thought aside.
The war was finally over; they had ‘won’, but at what cost? He should have been happy that this hell is over, so why isn’t he?
He glances around town, colorful flowers and garlands in every corner, every house—people celebrating the supposed victory. But in his eyes, there was nothing worth celebrating. What were they celebrating? The bloodshed? The lives that were lost in battle?
His jaw clenched. If anything, they should have been grieving. He almost felt sick.
He continues walking into town, taking in the familiar scene. Memories flood his mind like a wave as he passes the bakery that you and him used to eat at. He can almost visualize you, eating a pastry with vigor.
And he cracks a small smile. Probably his first one in years.
He’s walking still, but his mind is on you now. Wondering how you’re doing, if you’re doing well or not, what you looked like now, if you still go to that lake, the one you and him always went to...
He wondered if you took anyone else there.
His chest suddenly feels tight, almost like he couldn’t breathe for a brief moment. He ups his pace.
He knew he had no right to feel this way. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your friend. Your best friend. Well, was. It’s been so long, you probably already had another best friend.
I sound like a damn toddler. He berates himself. She was allowed to have other friends, of course.
He wasn’t even sure if you would even consider him a friend at all, now. Not after the last time he spoke to you. His heart twists into knots, the feeling almost painful; would you even want to talk to him?
God, he hoped so.
⤷ 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 1.5k words, chapter one
౨ৎ - SYNOPSIS. bucky was your childhood best friend. the war may have changed everything, but he still has a promise to keep...
warnings ᯓ mdni! no use of y/n, light banter, childhood friends trope, mention of war, slight angst, ptsd, potential smut in future chapters
The sun was a golden crown resting on the vibrant blue skies. It shined brightly and brilliantly, the loving warmth feeling like a comforting embrace to Bucky’s skin compared to the cold and clammy water he felt up to his knees.
You were sitting beside him on the gray rock, kicking your legs into the water that was of Brooklyn Lake. Unlike him, you liked the water. It was refreshing and gave you a small feeling of peacefulness. It reminded you of his eyes.
“Bucky,” his name always came out soft when you said it aloud. You weren’t sure why, but it felt... natural.
Your best friend turns his head, now gazing at you with his pretty blue eyes. His brown locks were messy and unkept from swimming earlier. “Yeah?” he responds, his voice being equally soft. Maybe even softer.
A gentle breeze passes between you two.
You fidget with your hands before shyly asking: “Will we still be friends... when we’re older? Like this?” It was a silly question, but the thought never left your mind, and you had decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
He stares at you blankly for a second.
Then another.
Finally, he laughs- the sound is pleasant. Endearing. Boyish. So undeniably him.
“Of course,” he snickers, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
You chuckle sheepishly, slightly embarrassed as a faint blush adorned your cheeks. “I dunno, I just...” your voice trails off, your smile fading. You look toward the lake's horizon, watching the waves clash and pull. “I’m afraid of the future,” you admitted finally, “So much can change. We can change."
Changed. Just like my parents did, you thought bitterly to yourself, but you pushed the thought aside. You didn’t want to think about them anymore.
Bucky sees your worry and stops joking around immediately. “Hey, look at me.” a soft hand cups your chin, forcing you to turn. His hand felt warm against your skin, almost electric. Static. “We won’t change. We’re best friends and nothing will ever change that.”
“Nothing?” you repeat in a whisper.
“Nothing. Because we’re together until the end.” his voice is earnest, smiling charmingly and sweetly, steel eyes filled with unwavering resolve. He lets go of your chin, and you almost recoil from the absence of his touch. His warmth.
“Well,” you began teasingly with a toothy grin; spirits clearly lifted. “Make me a promise, Bucky. Promise me something to prove it.”
He tilts his head, his smile now turning into a look of ponder.
“Okay, I got one.” he says.
“Let’s hear it.” you lean in closer, your hand now raising with a pinky up, “and it’s a pinky promise, too!” you giggled.
He laughs once more, and then raises his pinky, “I pinky promise... to marry you when we’re older.”
And he interlocks with your finger with his own.
☆
You still remember that day vividly. Those silly conversations you used to have with him. All of that was ten years ago. Ten. You’re twenty-three now.
Your fear had come true. It was inevitable, really. Times change. People change. Nothing ever stays the same. You knew it from the start.
So why did it hurt so much?
It was when around two years after the promise, the war against the Nazis had started, and when you both started drifting further apart due to that catastrophe that came with it. And just two months later, you found out he was going to be drafted into the army.
You begged him to stay.
“Run and hide away somewhere,” you pleaded, the sound hoarse from crying. “You’ll die out there, Bucky!”
“I can’t,” his answer final, firm, and assured. Yet his actions betrayed him, the slight quiver of his lip, the tight clench of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
Those were his last words to you. You still hated him for that. No meaningful goodbye, no hug, no heartfelt declaration. Deep down, you knew you were being selfish; he was going to war, for heaven's sake! It was stupid to think he owed you anything.
It didn’t make you any less devastated, though. Constantly worrying about if he’d even come back, always wondering if it would be his name engraved next on the soldier’s memorial. You would check the stone twice a day and pray that you wouldn’t see it there.
The war ended three months ago. Eight whole years felt like forever, but you supposed that time went slower when you were starving and broke.
It was just a week ago that the rest of the troops arrived back in the country. Which also meant he was back.
James Buchanan Barnes was home.
You wanted to see him right when he came back. You really did. But how could you? You haven’t seen him for years. You weren’t sure if he wanted to see you, either. What if he didn’t even remember you?
You shake your head and snap out of it, continuing your chore of folding clothes. He will remember you. Why wouldn’t he?
You finish folding your clothes with ease soon after, yet the stubborn thought persisted in your mind. Shoving the folded clothes roughly into the laundry basket, you made a decision:
You were going to see him.
☆
“I can’t.” he had said to you, his eyes to the ground. He couldn’t bear to look at you in that very moment, because he knew that one look could unravel him completely. He swallows a sob, and in the most detached voice he could muster: “I’m sorry.”
And he walked away, just like that.
Like a coward.
I’m a coward, he thinks.
He regrets that day. He really did. You had no idea how much he wanted to stay. He wanted to say so many things but the words never left his mouth.
And it was because he was scared.
Scared to get too attached, and if he were to confess everything he felt about you; it would make it that much harder to leave. He told himself constantly it was going to be easier this way. If he just distanced himself, it’d hurt less to know he couldn’t have you.
He couldn’t. Not with the war happening.
He had to do something; he couldn’t just stay here with you, as much as he wanted to. He felt obligated to protect his country. And protecting the country meant protecting you.
Because you were his world.
He knew he would likely die, but if he died protecting what he loved most? That was more than enough for him. To make the country a safe place for you to live is what he wanted.
Well, that’s what he told himself, yet his heart said otherwise. The mere thought of you spending your life with someone else- someone who wasn’t him, made him ache more than any physical wound.
☆
The week he came back.
He never thought he would be back here again. He thought he would’ve been dead by now. Just like the others. Like Steve.
He physically flinched at the name and pushes the thought aside.
The war was finally over; they had ‘won’, but at what cost? He should have been happy that this hell is over, so why isn’t he?
He glances around town, colorful flowers and garlands in every corner, every house—people celebrating the supposed victory. But in his eyes, there was nothing worth celebrating. What were they celebrating? The bloodshed? The lives that were lost in battle?
His jaw clenched. If anything, they should have been grieving. He almost felt sick.
He continues walking into town, taking in the familiar scene. Memories flood his mind like a wave as he passes the bakery that you and him used to eat at. He can almost visualize you, eating a pastry with vigor.
And he cracks a small smile. Probably his first one in years.
He’s walking still, but his mind is on you now. Wondering how you’re doing, if you’re doing well or not, what you looked like now, if you still go to that lake, the one you and him always went to...
He wondered if you took anyone else there.
His chest suddenly feels tight, almost like he couldn’t breathe for a brief moment. He ups his pace.
He knew he had no right to feel this way. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your friend. Your best friend. Well, was. It’s been so long, you probably already had another best friend.
I sound like a damn toddler. He berates himself. She was allowed to have other friends, of course.
He wasn’t even sure if you would even consider him a friend at all, now. Not after the last time he spoke to you. His heart twists into knots, the feeling almost painful; would you even want to talk to him?
God, he hoped so.
⤷ 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 1.5k words, chapter one
౨ৎ - SYNOPSIS. bucky was your childhood best friend. the war may have changed everything, but he still has a promise to keep...
warnings ᯓ mdni! no use of y/n, light banter, childhood friends trope, mention of war, slight angst, ptsd, potential smut in future chapters
The sun was a golden crown resting on the vibrant blue skies. It shined brightly and brilliantly, the loving warmth feeling like a comforting embrace to Bucky’s skin compared to the cold and clammy water he felt up to his knees.
You were sitting beside him on the gray rock, kicking your legs into the water that was of Brooklyn Lake. Unlike him, you liked the water. It was refreshing and gave you a small feeling of peacefulness. It reminded you of his eyes.
“Bucky,” his name always came out soft when you said it aloud. You weren’t sure why, but it felt... natural.
Your best friend turns his head, now gazing at you with his pretty blue eyes. His brown locks were messy and unkept from swimming earlier. “Yeah?” he responds, his voice being equally soft. Maybe even softer.
A gentle breeze passes between you two.
You fidget with your hands before shyly asking: “Will we still be friends... when we’re older? Like this?” It was a silly question, but the thought never left your mind, and you had decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
He stares at you blankly for a second.
Then another.
Finally, he laughs- the sound is pleasant. Endearing. Boyish. So undeniably him.
“Of course,” he snickers, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
You chuckle sheepishly, slightly embarrassed as a faint blush adorned your cheeks. “I dunno, I just...” your voice trails off, your smile fading. You look toward the lake's horizon, watching the waves clash and pull. “I’m afraid of the future,” you admitted finally, “So much can change. We can change."
Changed. Just like my parents did, you thought bitterly to yourself, but you pushed the thought aside. You didn’t want to think about them anymore.
Bucky sees your worry and stops joking around immediately. “Hey, look at me.” a soft hand cups your chin, forcing you to turn. His hand felt warm against your skin, almost electric. Static. “We won’t change. We’re best friends and nothing will ever change that.”
“Nothing?” you repeat in a whisper.
“Nothing. Because we’re together until the end.” his voice is earnest, smiling charmingly and sweetly, steel eyes filled with unwavering resolve. He lets go of your chin, and you almost recoil from the absence of his touch. His warmth.
“Well,” you began teasingly with a toothy grin; spirits clearly lifted. “Make me a promise, Bucky. Promise me something to prove it.”
He tilts his head, his smile now turning into a look of ponder.
“Okay, I got one.” he says.
“Let’s hear it.” you lean in closer, your hand now raising with a pinky up, “and it’s a pinky promise, too!” you giggled.
He laughs once more, and then raises his pinky, “I pinky promise... to marry you when we’re older.”
And he interlocks with your finger with his own.
☆
You still remember that day vividly. Those silly conversations you used to have with him. All of that was ten years ago. Ten. You’re twenty-three now.
Your fear had come true. It was inevitable, really. Times change. People change. Nothing ever stays the same. You knew it from the start.
So why did it hurt so much?
It was when around two years after the promise, the war against the Nazis had started, and when you both started drifting further apart due to that catastrophe that came with it. And just two months later, you found out he was going to be drafted into the army.
You begged him to stay.
“Run and hide away somewhere,” you pleaded, the sound hoarse from crying. “You’ll die out there, Bucky!”
“I can’t,” his answer final, firm, and assured. Yet his actions betrayed him, the slight quiver of his lip, the tight clench of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
Those were his last words to you. You still hated him for that. No meaningful goodbye, no hug, no heartfelt declaration. Deep down, you knew you were being selfish; he was going to war, for heaven's sake! It was stupid to think he owed you anything.
It didn’t make you any less devastated, though. Constantly worrying about if he’d even come back, always wondering if it would be his name engraved next on the soldier’s memorial. You would check the stone twice a day and pray that you wouldn’t see it there.
The war ended three months ago. Eight whole years felt like forever, but you supposed that time went slower when you were starving and broke.
It was just a week ago that the rest of the troops arrived back in the country. Which also meant he was back.
James Buchanan Barnes was home.
You wanted to see him right when he came back. You really did. But how could you? You haven’t seen him for years. You weren’t sure if he wanted to see you, either. What if he didn’t even remember you?
You shake your head and snap out of it, continuing your chore of folding clothes. He will remember you. Why wouldn’t he?
You finish folding your clothes with ease soon after, yet the stubborn thought persisted in your mind. Shoving the folded clothes roughly into the laundry basket, you made a decision:
You were going to see him.
☆
“I can’t.” he had said to you, his eyes to the ground. He couldn’t bear to look at you in that very moment, because he knew that one look could unravel him completely. He swallows a sob, and in the most detached voice he could muster: “I’m sorry.”
And he walked away, just like that.
Like a coward.
I’m a coward, he thinks.
He regrets that day. He really did. You had no idea how much he wanted to stay. He wanted to say so many things but the words never left his mouth.
And it was because he was scared.
Scared to get too attached, and if he were to confess everything he felt about you; it would make it that much harder to leave. He told himself constantly it was going to be easier this way. If he just distanced himself, it’d hurt less to know he couldn’t have you.
He couldn’t. Not with the war happening.
He had to do something; he couldn’t just stay here with you, as much as he wanted to. He felt obligated to protect his country. And protecting the country meant protecting you.
Because you were his world.
He knew he would likely die, but if he died protecting what he loved most? That was more than enough for him. To make the country a safe place for you to live is what he wanted.
Well, that’s what he told himself, yet his heart said otherwise. The mere thought of you spending your life with someone else- someone who wasn’t him, made him ache more than any physical wound.
☆
The week he came back.
He never thought he would be back here again. He thought he would’ve been dead by now. Just like the others. Like Steve.
He physically flinched at the name and pushes the thought aside.
The war was finally over; they had ‘won’, but at what cost? He should have been happy that this hell is over, so why isn’t he?
He glances around town, colorful flowers and garlands in every corner, every house—people celebrating the supposed victory. But in his eyes, there was nothing worth celebrating. What were they celebrating? The bloodshed? The lives that were lost in battle?
His jaw clenched. If anything, they should have been grieving. He almost felt sick.
He continues walking into town, taking in the familiar scene. Memories flood his mind like a wave as he passes the bakery that you and him used to eat at. He can almost visualize you, eating a pastry with vigor.
And he cracks a small smile. Probably his first one in years.
He’s walking still, but his mind is on you now. Wondering how you’re doing, if you’re doing well or not, what you looked like now, if you still go to that lake, the one you and him always went to...
He wondered if you took anyone else there.
His chest suddenly feels tight, almost like he couldn’t breathe for a brief moment. He ups his pace.
He knew he had no right to feel this way. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your friend. Your best friend. Well, was. It’s been so long, you probably already had another best friend.
I sound like a damn toddler. He berates himself. She was allowed to have other friends, of course.
He wasn’t even sure if you would even consider him a friend at all, now. Not after the last time he spoke to you. His heart twists into knots, the feeling almost painful; would you even want to talk to him?
God, he hoped so.
⤷ 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 1.5k words, chapter one
౨ৎ - SYNOPSIS. bucky was your childhood best friend. the war may have changed everything, but he still has a promise to keep...
warnings ᯓ mdni! no use of y/n, light banter, childhood friends trope, mention of war, slight angst, ptsd, potential smut in future chapters
The sun was a golden crown resting on the vibrant blue skies. It shined brightly and brilliantly, the loving warmth feeling like a comforting embrace to Bucky’s skin compared to the cold and clammy water he felt up to his knees.
You were sitting beside him on the gray rock, kicking your legs into the water that was of Brooklyn Lake. Unlike him, you liked the water. It was refreshing and gave you a small feeling of peacefulness. It reminded you of his eyes.
“Bucky,” his name always came out soft when you said it aloud. You weren’t sure why, but it felt... natural.
Your best friend turns his head, now gazing at you with his pretty blue eyes. His brown locks were messy and unkept from swimming earlier. “Yeah?” he responds, his voice being equally soft. Maybe even softer.
A gentle breeze passes between you two.
You fidget with your hands before shyly asking: “Will we still be friends... when we’re older? Like this?” It was a silly question, but the thought never left your mind, and you had decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
He stares at you blankly for a second.
Then another.
Finally, he laughs- the sound is pleasant. Endearing. Boyish. So undeniably him.
“Of course,” he snickers, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
You chuckle sheepishly, slightly embarrassed as a faint blush adorned your cheeks. “I dunno, I just...” your voice trails off, your smile fading. You look toward the lake's horizon, watching the waves clash and pull. “I’m afraid of the future,” you admitted finally, “So much can change. We can change."
Changed. Just like my parents did, you thought bitterly to yourself, but you pushed the thought aside. You didn’t want to think about them anymore.
Bucky sees your worry and stops joking around immediately. “Hey, look at me.” a soft hand cups your chin, forcing you to turn. His hand felt warm against your skin, almost electric. Static. “We won’t change. We’re best friends and nothing will ever change that.”
“Nothing?” you repeat in a whisper.
“Nothing. Because we’re together until the end.” his voice is earnest, smiling charmingly and sweetly, steel eyes filled with unwavering resolve. He lets go of your chin, and you almost recoil from the absence of his touch. His warmth.
“Well,” you began teasingly with a toothy grin; spirits clearly lifted. “Make me a promise, Bucky. Promise me something to prove it.”
He tilts his head, his smile now turning into a look of ponder.
“Okay, I got one.” he says.
“Let’s hear it.” you lean in closer, your hand now raising with a pinky up, “and it’s a pinky promise, too!” you giggled.
He laughs once more, and then raises his pinky, “I pinky promise... to marry you when we’re older.”
And he interlocks with your finger with his own.
☆
You still remember that day vividly. Those silly conversations you used to have with him. All of that was ten years ago. Ten. You’re twenty-three now.
Your fear had come true. It was inevitable, really. Times change. People change. Nothing ever stays the same. You knew it from the start.
So why did it hurt so much?
It was when around two years after the promise, the war against the Nazis had started, and when you both started drifting further apart due to that catastrophe that came with it. And just two months later, you found out he was going to be drafted into the army.
You begged him to stay.
“Run and hide away somewhere,” you pleaded, the sound hoarse from crying. “You’ll die out there, Bucky!”
“I can’t,” his answer final, firm, and assured. Yet his actions betrayed him, the slight quiver of his lip, the tight clench of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
Those were his last words to you. You still hated him for that. No meaningful goodbye, no hug, no heartfelt declaration. Deep down, you knew you were being selfish; he was going to war, for heaven's sake! It was stupid to think he owed you anything.
It didn’t make you any less devastated, though. Constantly worrying about if he’d even come back, always wondering if it would be his name engraved next on the soldier’s memorial. You would check the stone twice a day and pray that you wouldn’t see it there.
The war ended three months ago. Eight whole years felt like forever, but you supposed that time went slower when you were starving and broke.
It was just a week ago that the rest of the troops arrived back in the country. Which also meant he was back.
James Buchanan Barnes was home.
You wanted to see him right when he came back. You really did. But how could you? You haven’t seen him for years. You weren’t sure if he wanted to see you, either. What if he didn’t even remember you?
You shake your head and snap out of it, continuing your chore of folding clothes. He will remember you. Why wouldn’t he?
You finish folding your clothes with ease soon after, yet the stubborn thought persisted in your mind. Shoving the folded clothes roughly into the laundry basket, you made a decision:
You were going to see him.
☆
“I can’t.” he had said to you, his eyes to the ground. He couldn’t bear to look at you in that very moment, because he knew that one look could unravel him completely. He swallows a sob, and in the most detached voice he could muster: “I’m sorry.”
And he walked away, just like that.
Like a coward.
I’m a coward, he thinks.
He regrets that day. He really did. You had no idea how much he wanted to stay. He wanted to say so many things but the words never left his mouth.
And it was because he was scared.
Scared to get too attached, and if he were to confess everything he felt about you; it would make it that much harder to leave. He told himself constantly it was going to be easier this way. If he just distanced himself, it’d hurt less to know he couldn’t have you.
He couldn’t. Not with the war happening.
He had to do something; he couldn’t just stay here with you, as much as he wanted to. He felt obligated to protect his country. And protecting the country meant protecting you.
Because you were his world.
He knew he would likely die, but if he died protecting what he loved most? That was more than enough for him. To make the country a safe place for you to live is what he wanted.
Well, that’s what he told himself, yet his heart said otherwise. The mere thought of you spending your life with someone else- someone who wasn’t him, made him ache more than any physical wound.
☆
The week he came back.
He never thought he would be back here again. He thought he would’ve been dead by now. Just like the others. Like Steve.
He physically flinched at the name and pushes the thought aside.
The war was finally over; they had ‘won’, but at what cost? He should have been happy that this hell is over, so why isn’t he?
He glances around town, colorful flowers and garlands in every corner, every house—people celebrating the supposed victory. But in his eyes, there was nothing worth celebrating. What were they celebrating? The bloodshed? The lives that were lost in battle?
His jaw clenched. If anything, they should have been grieving. He almost felt sick.
He continues walking into town, taking in the familiar scene. Memories flood his mind like a wave as he passes the bakery that you and him used to eat at. He can almost visualize you, eating a pastry with vigor.
And he cracks a small smile. Probably his first one in years.
He’s walking still, but his mind is on you now. Wondering how you’re doing, if you’re doing well or not, what you looked like now, if you still go to that lake, the one you and him always went to...
He wondered if you took anyone else there.
His chest suddenly feels tight, almost like he couldn’t breathe for a brief moment. He ups his pace.
He knew he had no right to feel this way. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your friend. Your best friend. Well, was. It’s been so long, you probably already had another best friend.
I sound like a damn toddler. He berates himself. She was allowed to have other friends, of course.
He wasn’t even sure if you would even consider him a friend at all, now. Not after the last time he spoke to you. His heart twists into knots, the feeling almost painful; would you even want to talk to him?
God, he hoped so.
american pie. | steve and bucky (18+)
ᯓ★ chapter one. the dbf! mini-series masterlist.
⤷ dbf!steve rogers x f!reader x dbf!bucky barnes
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, dad's best friend au, sexual tension, age gap, forbidden relationships, dips into taboo territory, jealousy, possessive behavior, size difference, they both have dad bods and big dicks bc I said so, mentions of alcoholism and recovery, love marks, groping, dry humping
⭐︎ word count: 10.9k
⭐︎ a/n: i've been wanting to write some sort of dbf fic inspired by the song "im on fire" by bruce springsteen, and what better way to do it then make it fourth of july americana themed? here goes the first part, and i hope you guys like it! link to the fic playlist if you'd like to follow along :)
synopsis:
Your dad always kept his inner circle of friends small and close. Steve Rogers was one of them. He was respectful, kind, and someone you looked up to and trusted. What you didn't understand, though, was how your dad could also be best friends with a broody, grumpy man like Bucky Barnes. But when your dad leaves for a work trip over the Fourth of July, Bucky decides to remind you exactly why he’s so close with your father—except Steve keeps getting in his way to stop him.
← previous fic | main masterlist
You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.
In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.
By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.
Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.
Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.
You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.
Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.
“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”
Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...
“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”
The spare keys.
The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.
Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.
“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”
You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.
“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”
“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.
“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.
You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”
“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.
You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.
“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”
You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”
“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”
Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.
“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”
You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.
“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”
You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”
His smile was so wide it was contagious.
“That’s my girl.”
Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”
Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”
“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”
He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”
When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.
“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”
Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”
Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”
But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.
A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.
It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.
The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.
He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.
“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.
Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”
“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”
He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.
“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”
Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.
Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.
When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”
“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”
“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.
You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”
A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”
You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.
The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.
As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.
“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”
She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.
Speaking of which…
“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”
“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”
You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.
“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”
Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”
“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.
Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.
“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.
You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”
Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”
You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”
You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”
“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”
You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.
You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.
You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.
He set his mug down and glanced up.
He caught you staring, and he smiled.
You quickly tried to save face.
“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?
‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.
Awkward? Probably.
“What?” he frowned.
Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.
He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.
“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”
Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.
“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”
It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.
This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.
You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.
Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.
Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.
Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.
“Easy, girl.”
“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”
Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”
And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.
“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.
Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.
“What do we have here?”
The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.
He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”
While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.
Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”
But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.
He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.
“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”
There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”
Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.
Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.
But you didn’t buy it.
You felt like he had something personal against you.
And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.
“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.
Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.
Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”
While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.
Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.
“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”
It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.
“Of course I am,” you finally said.
Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”
“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”
Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”
He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”
Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.
You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.
Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.
He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”
Steve’s eyebrow twitched.
“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”
While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”
You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”
“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”
Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.
“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?
Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.
“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”
You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.
It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.
Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.
“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”
Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.
“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”
Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”
The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.
“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.
“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”
Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.
“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”
Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.
Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.
Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.
Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.
“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.
“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.
“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”
“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”
Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.
“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.
“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”
“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.
Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”
“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”
Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”
Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”
“What?”
Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”
Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.
“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”
Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”
Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”
Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.
“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”
Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.
They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.
“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.
Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.
On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.
“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”
“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”
The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.
You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.
From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.
The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.
Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.
Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.
The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.
Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.
“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”
You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.
“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”
“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.
Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.
You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.
“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.
You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.
“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”
Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.
“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.
“Catch up on what?”
Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.
Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”
Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.
“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”
Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.
Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.
“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.
Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.
“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”
The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.
Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”
“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.
A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.
“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”
“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”
He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.
“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.
“‘Course I do.”
“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.
“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”
Steve only glared harder.
On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.
There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.
Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”
“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.
“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.
“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”
You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.
“Where are you going with this?”
“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.
He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.
“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”
You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.
For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.
“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”
“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”
“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”
Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.
He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.
“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”
Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.
Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.
“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.
“You act like he’s going to murder me.”
Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.
“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”
“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”
Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.
“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”
“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.
Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”
You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.
Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.
He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.
Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.
Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.
“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.
Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.
He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”
The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.
The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.
Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.
“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”
He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.
“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”
Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.
“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”
Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”
“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”
That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.
And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.
With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”
For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.
Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.
You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.
By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.
Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.
He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”
Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”
Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”
Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”
“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.
But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.
He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”
“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.
Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”
Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.
Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”
Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.
The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.
A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.
“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”
You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”
“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”
You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.
“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”
“Deal.”
Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”
The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.
He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.
The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.
“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.
This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.
He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.
The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.
Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.
“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”
You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.
“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”
Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.
The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”
Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.
“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”
You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.
“Of course I do, Bucky.”
“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”
While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…
“What about you? Do you respect me?”
Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.
Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”
But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.
You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.
“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”
Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”
Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.
“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.
The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.
“Turn it around!” you urged.
“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.
“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.
“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.
“Bucky—I don’t know how—”
“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”
He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.
He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.
A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.
You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.
“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”
You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.
“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”
“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.
As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.
Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.
His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.
You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”
He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.
Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.
He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.
“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.
Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.
“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”
He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”
Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.
Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.
The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.
Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.
“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.
Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.
“Of course,” you whispered.
Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.
Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.
“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”
He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.
“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”
You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.
“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”
Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.
“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”
The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.
His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.
You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.
And yet…
You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.
The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.
Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.
He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.
“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”
“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”
A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.
You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.
“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.
You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.
Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.
“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.
His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.
He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.
“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”
Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.
The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
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⤷ bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 614 words
౨ৎ - SYNOPSIS. bucky gets jealous at party, and all his pent up emotions leads to something a bit more... intense
warnings ᯓ mdni! no use of y/n, modern au, tfatws bucky, smut, mention of breeding, angry sex, semi-public? caught in act
Bucky gets jealous easily. He won’t outright say it, of course, but he shows it in small actions.
Like the time he saw you talking to Steve at Vision’s birthday party. His jaw was clenched, hands balled into fists, and that subtle twitch of his eyebrow he did when he was irritated. He was borderline glaring at his friend from afar, watching how Steve flirted with you, watching his eyes roam around his girlfriend like a piece of meat.
You, of course, are oblivious to his advances, laughing at some stupid, dumb joke he said—and Bucky just had no choice but to intervene.
He practically stomps toward you and suddenly you feel his warm hand engulf your waist, pulling you closer beside him, almost as a silent way to tell Steve: She’s mine.
“Bucky?” God. How he loved how his name sounded from your lips. It made him so fucking har—
Steve’s voice interrupts his train of thought, “Buck,” Steve smiles innocently as if he wasn’t flirting with you a few seconds prior. “How’s it goin?”
Bucky’s blood boiled, and his hand tightened your waist significantly. “Just peachy.” he grumbles.
You look at your boyfriend worriedly, noticing his discomfort immediately. The furrow of his brow, his jaw tight, his grip almost punishing. “Is everything okay, darling?” you ask.
His gaze lands down at you, and his hardened gaze softens, just melting from the sweet melody of your voice. “I’m fine, sweetheart.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.
He was in fact not. Fuming in jealousy, the green-eyed monster consumed him slowly.
“So, Buck, you never introduced me to your cute girlfriend.” Steve grins, playfully winking at you. You blush, slightly flustered as Bucky glares at him with murderous intent.
“I guess so,” he grunts. “Well, if you’d excuse us, we’re going to get some refreshments.” he pulls you away hastily and into the crowd.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You don’t know how you got into this situation. You don’t remember either. You’re too fucked dumb to even think.
You’re in the bathroom, bent over the sink as Bucky’s cock plunges in and out you, just pounding like a crazed madman—like he hasn’t had sex in 70 years.
“Bucky-” you whimper, “What’s— what’s the matter with- ah!” he pulls out and slams back in hard. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, seeing stars.
“Fuck, baby,” he growls, “you’re so fucking tight f’me,” he’s groaning again, his pace now picking up again. “You’re such a-” another hard thrust, “naughty girl, eh? Makin’ me jealous on purpose...”
It clicks in your brain. So, this is what he was upset about. Really?!
“I- I wasn’t trying to-” you plead your case, but it was clear he wasn’t listening.
His hands go to your hips, gripping them so hard that they would leave bruise marks later. “Fuckin’ stupid Steve, trying to- fuck- steal my girl-” his pace quickens, chasing his release as the erotic sound of skin fills the air. “Gonna breed ya- show everyone who belong to-”
"Bucky-” you moan and mewl his name, your own release coming. Your walls flutter around him, and he lets out an uncharacteristic whimper.
“Your pussy is so warm....” he breathes, his balls tighten, his whole body feels so hot, and with a final brutal thrust, he releases. Cum overflows into your pussy, and you finish right after, gasping for air, teary-eyed. He continues thrusting sloppily, like he’s trying to bury his seed inside you.
You’re dazed out, fucked dumb, and utterly satisfied. “Bucky...” you gasp breathlessly.
He’s about to respond until a knock interrupts, soon followed by a familiar voice. Steve.
“Hey, Buck?” his voice more gruffer than usual. “You done in there?”
summary: winter never came for bucky barnes because he's living in eternal brat summer! welcome to a completely new masterlist of fics created by bucky writers' association to make your holidays even hotter. dial 999 in case the temperature gets too high! bwa takes zero responsibility for the horniness or the emotional damage you suffer while reading.
warnings: minors do not interact. each fic has its own set of warnings, tread carefully. you are responsible for your own media consumption. if you don't like it, stop reading. you have been warned. flicker warning under the cut!
credits: dividers by @/strangergraphics, graphics, video and the bwat dividers by me. thank you, bri @iamthatonefangirl for helping me to organise this collab. i genuinely wouldn't be able to handle this without you, mwah!
❝ 360 ❞ by @houseofhyde — Sun, June 28, 2026
fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you?
❝ Club classics ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 1, 2026
If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.
❝ Sympathy is a knife ❞ by @tw1sters — Sun, July 5, 2026
Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.
❝ I might say something stupid ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 8, 2026
While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.
❝ Talk talk ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, July 11, 2026
What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. There are plenty of ways to talk.
❝ Von dutch ❞ by @houseofhyde — Wed, July 15, 2026
one brand campaign. two models who hate each other’s guts. three months of torture, bickering, and looks that linger. bucky barnes might have a pretty face, but his heart is rotten to the core and his ego is larger than life. his need to make his dislike of you know is borderline obsessive, never failing to keep your name in his mouth... so maybe it’s time he just confess it: you’re his #1.
❝ Everything is romantic ❞ by @heldbybarnes — Sat, July 18, 2026
when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.
❝ Rewind ❞ by @tw1sters — Wed, July 22, 2026
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
❝ So I ❞ by @firingstars — Sat, July 25, 2026
notorious for a reputation he worked so hard for, bucky barnes is certain the world is his. he has it all- money, good looks, a fraternity that hangs on his every word; what more could he possibly need? ah, that's right. the pretty girl he met back in freshman year of university that refuses to give him time of day.
❝ Girl, so confusing ❞ by @danysdaughter — Wed, July 29, 2026
bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.
❝ Apple ❞ by @54nboo — Sat, August 1, 2026
after hundreds of years of corrupt ruling and tyranny your family had wrought upon your kingdom, a disease wipes out half of the continent. as the last remaining royal in your family, the crown finally falls into your hands. with your council plotting your deposition, you are left with only your knight to support your claim to the throne. can you fix the years of ruin your ancestors had left to you, or does the apple not fall far from the tree?
❝ B2b ❞ by @barnesonly — Wed, August 5, 2026
as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star.
❝ Mean girls ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — Sat, August 8, 2026
it seems as though everything is finally falling into place for you: you’ve just won your first Oscar academy award for your film Rendezvous, and you’ve just scored your first deal with the world-renowned film studio, Piston Pictures. it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. that is, until the leading actor in your new film, the up-and-coming Bucky Barnes, makes a grave mistake that completely destroys your carefully crafted reputation overnight. except the mean girls of Hollywood can’t stop you from honing your craft, and they certainly can’t keep Bucky Barnes away from you, no matter how hard they try.
❝ I think about it all the time ❞ by @unificsation — Wed, August 12, 2026
bucky makes you think about having a child all the time. but the funny thing about time is it always, always runs out.
❝ 365 ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, August 15, 2026
There are eight million people in New York City. Statistically, you shouldn’t keep running into the same man. You definitely shouldn’t keep fucking him.
── .✦ due to outside circumstances, our beloved @/spdrveil & @/artficlly cannot take a part in the collab. but don't worry, they're out there bumpin' that .ᐟ
i might say something stupid. | bucky barnes (18+)
⤷ tfatws!bucky x therapist!reader
⭐︎ warnings: pre-tfatws canon compliant, fluff, angst, unrequited love, inaccurate depictions of therapy, bucky yearning barnes, touch starvation, mentions of nightmares, loneliness, and anxiety. exchanging music is their love language, bucky say "i love you" without actually saying "i love you" challenge
⭐︎ word count: 8.4k
⭐︎ a/n: oh tfatws!bucky how i miss you so. i am not a licensed therapist whatsoever so please beware of inaccuracies. this is my second post for the bwat summer collab, be sure to check out the other writings in that masterlist! not so fun fact but i made a tfatws bucky playlist while writing this and (other than writing) exchanging music is technically my love language for you guys too, so.
synopsis:
While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.
← previous fic | main masterlist
When Bucky was told he had to go through government mandated therapy sessions, it might as well have felt like being put back into a sterile Hydra room.
He wanted to avoid it as best as he could—the mere idea of therapy didn’t sound pleasant at all. White walls and in an enclosed space, ostensibly designated to make him feel safe—a place to open up about his past and get “well” enough to prove to everyone that he was no longer a threat. No longer the Winter Soldier, but rather just a boy from Brooklyn. He almost laughed at the idea alone. As if therapy could help with that.
He had been trying to avoid several things lately. Text messages from Sam and these therapy sessions were at the top of the list. But if given the choice of which to face first, he’d actually choose the therapy.
Now, Bucky sat in the quiet waiting room, manspreading as his left knee bounced anxiously. He was hunched over, hands between his legs like a cat with its tail tucked.
He should get up and leave—go back to being a hermit in his small apartment on Union Street, and do his best to dodge these sessions until he got a call ordering him to try again. Then rinse and repeat.
The door in front of him clicked open, and you stepped out.
You wore a soft cardigan, and your hair was a little messy. Not totally unkempt, but he wouldn’t call it professional, either. You looked more like a regular, frazzled woman he’d bump into at a grocery store than a specialist meant to mend broken people and their emotions.
“James Barnes?” you called out, glancing around the small waiting room.
There were only two other people in the room—a man and a woman sitting just a few seats away—but you still looked right at the super soldier first.
Bucky lifted his head, meeting your eyes before pushing himself out of the chair with a huff. Here goes nothing.
“I’m here,” he said, raising a hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile meant to be friendly, but it fell flat.
You smiled warmly. It was inviting, but far too rehearsed for him to accept at face value.
Pushing the door open with your back pressed against the frame, you stepped aside to let him in. He gave another forced nod out of politeness as he entered the room.
Standing near the entryway, he paused and took in the surroundings. The room wasn’t what he expected at all. The walls were colorful, warm string lights hung across them. Several plants were arranged neatly around the space—more so near the windows. A large couch sat on one side while a simple lounge chair faced it. Against the wall stood a shelf lined with books tucked neatly inside— self-help, fiction, and biographies.
But what really caught his attention was the turntable sitting on top of it, with no record spinning.
“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, flipping the ‘THERAPY IN SESSION’ sign to face outward and shutting the door behind him. “Whether you want to take the couch, the chair, or even lie on the floor—it’s all fine by me!”
Bucky huffed out a short laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You have people who lie on the floor?”
You shrugged, removing your cardigan and draping it over the coat rack. “This is a judgment-free zone, James.”
You stood beside him with a smile, your hands folded neatly in front of you, and that’s when Bucky realized you were waiting for him to make a decision.
He eventually chose the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt, while you settled into the chair across from him.
“Have you ever been to therapy before?” you asked softly.
“No,” he replied—straightforward, honest, and flat.
You sifted through the papers attached to the clipboard in your lap, checking the records that were passed on by his psychiatrist. Bucky assumed the list of things wrong with him was longer than your weekly grocery list. You lifted your eyes back to him, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders.
“It’s not as bad as they make it out to be,” you explained gently. “I won’t tire you out with the whole ‘what do you want to work on, why are you in therapy?’ nonsense,” you tried to say lightheartedly, waving your hand for emphasis. “I know that you’re only here out of a government mandate, but just know that I’m here to help you because there are people out there who care about you—”
A heavy, long sigh escaped Bucky’s nostrils before he could stop it.
You tilted your head with an innocent frown. “Is something the matter?”
Yes. There are a lot of things that matter—like how you’re saying your usual script for your other clients, claiming that you “care” when in reality, you care about dragging out the time until your pockets are full of green.
“No,” Bucky lied. “Nothing’s wrong. Go ahead.”
You knew he was lying, and you didn’t need to call him out on it to prove it.
After some awkward silence and being watched under your silent scrutiny, he eventually sighed and shifted awkwardly on the couch.
“It’s just… I doubt there are people out there who care about me, you know? Like…” he blew a raspberry, feeling like he was rambling now. “They couldn’t care less about what I do in a day.”
You set your clipboard aside. “And what did you do today?”
He blinked, not expecting that question at all.
“What did I do today?” he repeated with pinched brows. He shrugged. “I went for a walk at my nearby park, and then…”
He trailed off with a scrunch of his face.
Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t done much at all today.
“And then…?”
But for some reason, he didn’t want to seem as lame as he felt. So, he continued.
“I guess all my eventful stuff will be after this therapy session,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with a friend.”
Your face lit up, and Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Your expectations for him were probably that low—you truly believed he didn’t have any friends to have lunch with.
“That’s great, James!”
Just wait until you find out that the person he was having lunch with is a man in his eighties with a son whom he had brutally murdered while he was the Winter Soldier.
“Yeah. His name’s Yori. We usually get sushi on Wednesdays.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m glad that you have a friend who’s close enough for you to find a routine with,” you said. Your eyes flickered to his gloved hand resting on his thigh. “Does he know?”
Bucky glanced down at his left glove. “I’m sorry?”
“Does he know about your arm, and about what you’ve done in your past?” you clarified in a gentle tone—well, as gentle as it could be given the subject.
Bucky flinched, and that action alone was enough to give you your answer. His eyes fell to the colorful patterns on your carpet, his left hand curling into a tight fist beneath his glove out of apprehension.
No. Of course Yori didn’t know.
He knew that being truthful to himself and to his therapist was the whole point of therapy—the whole point of getting better. But Bucky didn’t see the point in going into detail with the whole, “No, Yori doesn’t know, because then that’d mean I have to tell him I killed his son!” routine.
You frowned, leaning a bit closer. “If he doesn’t already know, you’re going to have to tell him.”
Bucky stayed quiet. The patterns on your carpet were stupid, but he couldn’t look away.
“Because if you don’t—if you continue to hide from someone who cares about you—you’re hiding a part of yourself,” you explained.
“It’s not that simple, doc.”
“Is it ever?” you asked with a small chuckle. “This is all about trust—not just for Yori, but for yourself, too. You have to trust yourself to find trust in others. And in order to trust yourself first, you can start with acceptance—accepting who you are and what you’ve done.”
“I can’t,” Bucky protested weakly. “If I tell him, everything will change. He’ll look at me differently and… and then we can’t have lunch—”
“—that’s the beauty of life, James. Change is a constant thing, and sometimes, it's completely outside of our control. Without change, there is no growth.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
You leaned back in your chair and suddenly asked, “Before everything that happened, what did you like to do?”
Bucky furrowed his brows. He had no idea where you were going with this, but he tagged along anyway—not like he had a choice in the matter, but just to get it over with.
“I liked listening to music.”
“Okay, okay,” you nodded, rubbing your chin. “What kind of music?”
“Forties music,” he replied.
“Has that ever changed?” you asked with genuine interest.
Bucky remembered the list of things Sam had told him to listen to before he ghosted him. Marvin Gaye was one of them. Had he listened to it at all?
“No,” Bucky answered.
It was like a light switch turned on in your head. You suddenly got up out of your chair, making him flinch, and walked over to where your record player sat. You crouched down, your fingers sifting through your large collection of records until they landed on one he didn’t recognize.
You pulled it out and revealed the record to him face-first with the brightest smile. It had four men walking across the street in flared jeans—and with hair too long for his liking.
“Abbey Road,” you announced, handing it to him. “The Beatles. Made thirty years after your time—but listen to it and tell me what you think.”
Bucky frowned, examining the cover. He wasn’t fond of your methods of getting accustomed to ‘change,’ but it could’ve been worse.
“Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch as his session neared its end.
You led him out the door, holding it open for him. “I’ll see you again next week, and you can tell me what you think about it. And whether you like or don’t like it—just remember, change can be good, James.”
You pointed to the cover he held in his hands. “And personally, I think Abbey Road is very good,” you added with a grin.
Bucky, however, was surprisingly fond of how personal you were. He didn’t think that’d be possible with a therapist.
“Sure,” he said with a smile that felt just a tad less forced than the first one he had given you. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”
As he walked past your door and entered the waiting room, you also added with a shout that caught the other patient’s attention who were waiting, which could be seen as totally unprofessional:
“Oh, and if you’re grabbing sushi, order the fried tempura rolls!”
His back was already turned, and he made a face. Oddly enough, fried tempura rolls were something he’d never ordered before. Not only were you dictating his emotions, but now you were dictating his music choices and food as well?
He waved over his shoulder, letting you know he heard you, before disappearing around the corner with your vinyl in his hands.
Looking back down at it, he realized he didn’t even have a record player to put this on.
Shit.
Bucky had forced himself to do more things out of his comfort zone in the span of a week than he had ever since gaining his freedom in Wakanda.
Since his first session with you, he had gotten sushi with Yori and had tried the tempura roll. It was different from what he usually ordered—which was just nigiri and a beer—but surprisingly enough, he liked it. Even the waiter had raised an eyebrow when he pointed it out on the menu.
Then, after walking Yori home—who lived in the same complex, so it wasn’t much of a walk at all—he decided to stop by a music store just a couple of blocks away to listen to the vinyl you had given him.
The store had various music players that people could test, such as jukeboxes, CD players, radios, and record players.
Stepping inside, he was greeted by a friendly ding! from the door chimes. Bucky lifted Abbey Road in his hands. “Got any record players open?”
The boy behind the desk, who looked no older than twenty-two, pointed towards the back. “There’s one open, but it’s loud in here. Need headphones?”
Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion. “Headphones? For a turntable?”
The worker nodded with a shrug that was far too casual—it made Bucky feel stupid. “Yeah, we use headphone amplifiers for them.”
Bucky looked at the boy like he had grown a second head. The worker grabbed a pair of headphones from beneath the counter and nodded toward the other end of the store.
“Here, follow me.”
Bucky followed the boy’s lead to the turntable, which was far different than the ones he was used to back in the forties. Back then, turntables were usually in a small brown box, and the vinyls were never this size. The player in front of him was silver, sleek, and he didn’t even want to attempt to use it at the risk of making a fool of himself.
The boy, luckily, took charge. He grabbed Abbey Road from Bucky’s hands, popped it onto the platter, plugged in the headphones, and handed them to him.
“Enjoy,” he said, before walking back to his post behind the counter.
As Bucky slipped the headphones over his ears, he tried his best not to stare at the people around him. The customers in this store were young, with styles he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Piercings, colored hair, and tattoos.
It was different—but he liked it.
It was his next session with you.
Your hair was styled more neatly than it had been the last time he saw you, but your smile was still the same. Soft and welcoming.
“So,” you started with excitement. “What did you think of it?”
“It’s different from the music back in my day, but it was good,” Bucky said with a shrug that felt almost dismissive despite his honesty.
“What was your favorite song?” you pressed on.
His teeth caught his bottom lip as he tried to remember the one that stuck out to him the most. “The one with the sun, and how it’ll be alright?” he answered, though it sounded more like a question.
“Oh! Here Comes the Sun—that’s a popular one! One of my favorites, too!”
You sounded more excited over this than he felt. Your smile and enthusiastic energy were bouncing off the colorful walls and string lights—and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, too. It was contagious.
“Did you have a record player at home to play it on?”
Bucky shook his head. “No. I went to a music store down the block and played it on one of their players.”
Your smile grew wider and your eyes softened. You had planned for this to happen—for him to step out of his comfort zone and find a way to listen to the music.
“And how was it?” you asked.
“Not my kind of crowd, but it wasn’t terrible,” he explained. “It was loud in there. People were blaring all kinds of music I’ve never even heard of.” He made a face at the memory. “The kid who worked there had to give me headphones so I could listen.”
Your eyes widened in confusion. “Headphones? To listen to a turntable? That’s a thing?”
Bucky was caught off guard by your reaction. Even over something as small as headphones, he liked that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of the loop.
“Yeah, the kid was trying to explain it to me—something about disabling the phono preamp and using the input for an amp. I’ve got no clue. It’s all rocket science to me,” Bucky rambled.
You threw your head back with a laugh, and Bucky chuckled along. He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling until then.
“I had no clue that was an option. I might have to try that one day.”
Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you.
Up until this point, he’d had to drag his feet just to get to your office. But now, sitting across from you, he felt like all the tension that had built up in his shoulders over the last week had finally eased. He was laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time—he probably looked stupid.
“Oh yeah, I also tried that thing you suggested I get for lunch yesterday,” he said, trying to remember the name. “The… fried tempura?”
You leaned closer, practically on the edge of your seat as you looked at him with wide-eyed anticipation.
“Did you now? How did you like it?”
He’d actually liked it a lot—but with the way you were looking at him, those sparkly irises fixed on him, he couldn’t help but want to tease you. Maybe it was just the playful instincts he had back in the forties kicking in again.
“Eh, it wasn’t really my cup of tea.” He shook his head, watching closely for your reaction.
Your expression shifted dramatically from delight to disappointment. The sparkles he loved seeing in your eyes dimmed just a little, and your lips pursed into a slight frown.
“Ouch,” you muttered, slumping in your chair. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. You were too easy, and he was having fun.
“I’m kidding. I did like it.”
You blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re playing with me now?” You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms and legs. “Whatever happened to my lesson about being truthful and honest?”
Bucky wore a boyish grin. He felt like he was talking to a friend rather than a therapist.
“Hey, I was being honest... eventually,” he added, which received an eye roll from you.
“Well, despite you pulling my leg, you did really well this week.” A proud smile spread across your face. “I’m so happy for you.”
His grin faltered for just a second. He knew that tone of yours. It meant this session was closing to an end, meaning he wouldn’t be able to talk to you again until another week. He hated how disappointed he suddenly felt about it.
You pushed yourself out of your chair and wandered over to your large collection of records. “Since we’re almost out of time, I want to send you home with another album to listen to.”
You pulled out another vinyl—a black and white cover featuring a woman who looked like a ballerina witch and a man with a beard and a ponytail.
“Rumours,” you said, handing it to him.
Your hands brushed over his just briefly, and his whole body shuddered. Despite wearing a leather jacket, he felt goosebumps prickling his skin after your touch.
“Fleetwood Mac. It’s lighthearted and catchy—kind of like Abbey Road, but… not really.”
You watched as Bucky took the record, examining the cover closely. A small smile lifting across your face.
“Let me know what you think about it next time.”
It was the first time in a long time that Bucky felt like he had something to look forward to.
Going to the same music store no longer felt like a chore. Rather, it had become another stepping stone that brought him a little closer to you. The kid behind the counter already knew why he was there, handing him the same pair of headphones and all.
He slipped on the headphones, put on Rumours, and let himself get lost in the music. There was something special about listening to your favorite albums. It felt like a closeness he wouldn’t ever get to experience any other way. Music said a lot about a person, and with every track, he felt like he was learning a little more about you.
Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder.
Bucky turned around, pulling the headphones down around his neck.
Standing behind him was a woman—and a remarkably pretty one at that—wearing a bright smile that instinctively put him on edge. She pointed to the silver turntable spinning in front of him.
“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.
Bucky glanced from her to the album cover, his mind landing on the most logical conclusion. She must’ve been waiting for her turn.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “After this song, I’ll be right out of your way.”
The woman let out a soft laugh, taking a small step closer to him.
“No, no, you’re fine! Keep listening.” She smiled. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you know? A guy who looks like you listening to Rumours? That’s a rare find these days.”
Bucky frowned, looking down at his worn leather jacket.
What was wrong with the way he looked?
She leaned against the edge of the counter, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked at him. “And honestly,” she drawled with a honeyed tone, “I find it kind of hot.”
Now, Bucky was just confused.
His brows furrowed into a tight knot as the words failed him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on, and it was just another one of those moments where he had no idea what to say.
“The, uh…” He cleared his throat. “The record doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my therapist. I’m only listening to it out of recommendation.”
He figured mentioning the word therapist would be enough to lose her interest, but the woman only smiled wider, and somehow that scared him.
“And you care about your mental health?” she said. “Gosh, you’re like a man straight out of every girl’s dream!”
He had no idea what to make of that. If this random woman thought he was hot, he wondered what you would think of his appearance.
She ran a hand through her hair and looked him up and down, making Bucky stiffen. Did his hair look weird?
“But hey, if you’re looking for other recommendations… I know a really great bar that makes the greatest cocktails just down the street. They have an open-play turntable with fancy speakers on Thursdays. I’d love to show you sometime.”
He knew he should accept the offer. He was being given the opportunity to put himself out there and make friends. This was what you would want him to do. This was good for him.
“I can’t,” he mumbled weakly. You idiot. “Sorry. I usually have… a, uh, thing on Thursdays with a friend, so—”
He started to scratch the back of his head, and she took the hint to back off.
Well, not entirely.
She pulled a notepad and a pencil out from her tote bag. Bucky had assumed that everyone did everything electronically these days. She started to jot down something, then tore the page off and handed it to him with a grin.
“If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
She turned and walked away before he got another word, and Bucky stood there with the headphones wrapped loosely around his neck with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced down at the piece of paper.
It was her phone number.
“You managed to get her phone number? That’s incredible!” You beamed in your chair, clasping your hands together with excitement. “How does that make you feel?”
You were more excited over this than he was, and he found himself smiling. It wasn't because the memory of getting that girl’s number was a huge boost to his ego, but because he liked seeing you smile. He always missed it during his week away from you.
“I felt flattered,” he answered truthfully. “I was surprised that any woman in this day and age would be interested in a guy like me.” He leaned back on the couch. “Though, it’s usually the men who pursue the women… not the other way around.”
“Well, times are changing, Bucky!”
Earlier in the session, he had encouraged you to use the nickname he was fond of—the one he reserved for the people closest to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t suggested it sooner, because he was already in love with the way it rolled off your pretty lips.
Bucky made a face that made you chuckle. “Is that why she gave me her number on a piece of paper instead of making me hand my phone over?”
You grinned. “I guess some ladies like to keep it old-fashioned.”
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his words from spilling out—words that were far too inappropriate to say as a patient to a therapist who was only there to keep his emotions in check.
“Do you like to keep it old-fashioned, too?”
And yet, the words spilled out anyway. If he wasn’t staying silent, then he was always saying something stupid instead.
The way you looked at him made him want to open up the couch and let it swallow him whole. You went from smiling to a flustered, awkward mess. You chuckled—trying to save face—as you scratched lightly at your cheek to ease the tension.
“Probably just like any other woman,” you managed. “I like to get wined and dined. There’s nothing more romantic than keeping it classy.”
Bucky’s eyes studied the way you sat so neatly in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, your skirt draping softly over your knees. Your nails were neatly manicured, and your makeup was light enough to let your natural beauty shine through, doing nothing more than enhancing what was already there.
He couldn’t help but think that someone like you deserved nothing less than a classic kind of love.
The kind that received flowers for no reason at all. The kind of man that held doors open for you, or put his palm respectfully over your waist during a slow waltz, and remembered every little thing you ever mentioned. The kind of love from a man that made you feel cherished every single day.
Bucky silently wondered if he could be that kind of man.
You cleared your throat, sitting up straight and dusting off your skirt. “Anyway, enough about me. This is about you.”
Bucky’s frown lines deepened. He didn’t want to change the subject—he wanted nothing more than to hear about you and your interests. But even then, a dark feeling began to stir deep in his gut over the thought of you being wined and dined by someone else.
You tilted your head, trying to engage him back into the conversation. “Have you spoken to her since?”
“No,” he answered, his gaze drifting down to check for a ring on your left hand.
“Why not?”
There was no ring.
Letting out a subtle breath of relief, he met your eyes again. “I just don’t see the need to.”
“Then open your eyes, Bucky. There are a lot of opportunities you miss out on if you continue to keep them closed.”
There was a selfish part of him that didn’t like the fact that you were trying to encourage him to talk to another girl. If he were to find out that a man had given you his phone number, Bucky would be entirely against it.
Fuck. What was wrong with him? He tried to push those thoughts aside—those silly, inappropriate thoughts about his own therapist.
He knew the session was nearing its end, so he thought he’d change the subject—but that was just his excuse to get you to stop encouraging him to go on a date with this random woman.
“What’s the album for this week, doc?” He asked.
You smiled. “Marvin Gaye.”
Bucky remembered the list of things his old friend Sam had told him to check out—though Sam probably wouldn’t consider him a friend anymore, given how Bucky had ghosted him. It was a long list, a couple of items even carried over from the notes Sam had given Steve years ago. Aside from emphasizing how great Thai food was, Sam had insisted that he absolutely needed to listen to Marvin Gaye.
Yet, despite all of Sam’s efforts, all it really took for Bucky to finally listen was a recommendation from you—the only woman he cared about.
Marvin Gaye’s voice filled his ears, and Bucky could finally understand why Sam had been so insistent about it.
If love was an emotion too complicated for him to grasp, the lyrics explained everything. The gentle beats danced in his ears, and sweet melodies about love, devotion, and longing wrapped around him. Before long, he found himself closing his eyes and picturing you.
He imagined the way you smiled, the way you laughed so easily around him, and the way you made him feel like living was a beautiful thing and not something you dread.
Whoever Marvin Gaye had been singing to in Let's Get It On must have been someone deeply cherished—someone longed for so intensely that the only way to express it was through music. It was everything Bucky wished he could say to you, if only he were allowed.
A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought of you.
Of course you liked music like this. The kind you’d slow dance to in the middle of the living room, one hand intertwined with someone else’s. The kind that sounded like old-fashioned love brought to life.
His heart thrummed happily, his mind filled with giddy, hopeless thoughts.
He couldn’t wait until Wednesday morning, when he would see you again to talk all about it.
On Tuesday afternoon, his flip phone dinged with a notification from you.
Hi Bucky, I’m so sorry for the short notice, but something urgent has come up and I have to cancel our session tomorrow. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule. Take care!
Bucky stared at the message, his frown lines deepening.
Had something bad happened to you? Or had he scared you off with his question last week?
No. This is stupid, he told himself, trying to shake the sudden panic. There’s no point in dwelling on something like this. She’s just busy.
But as the hours ticked by, his mind began to spiral. He had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the week—just seven empty days without you. He stared at his phone, wondering how inappropriate it would be if he sent a simple, “Hey, how are you doing?” text to his own therapist.
He tried to push the thoughts away, but nothing he did could distract him. Frustrated and exhausted, Bucky decided to turn in early and end the day.
But as the sun went down and the moon rose, sleep brought him no peace. Instead of falling into a blissful rest, he was dragged straight back to his nightmares—except they weren’t like the ones before.
None of them were about his Hydra days or his past victims.
Every single nightmare was about you.
It was the most absolute terrifying fear of abandonment.
In the dream, he pushed open your office door, expecting to see the warm lights and your pretty smile. But the room was completely empty. The walls were cold, bare concrete, and your chair sat vacant in the center of the room. It didn’t look like the welcoming, colorful space with the warm string lights he knew—no, it looked more like the sterile Hydra rooms where he had been brainwashed over and over again.
He tried calling your name, but his words were stuck in his throat. He tried to scream, but it only strained his vocal cords, and nothing came out but a pathetic wheeze. He kept trying, over and over again, until he finally gasped hard enough to wake himself.
His eyes flew open as he bolted upright on the floor. His bare chest was drenched in sweat, his vibranium hand clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.
He stared blindly into the dark corners of his empty apartment, his chest heaving. It took him a long time to realize it was just a dream, but the hollow feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.
He just needed to see you.
“I think the saxophones were the best part,” Bucky praised Marvin Gaye with a gentle smile. “In Distant Lover, especially.”
“Excellent choice, Bucky. That one’s my favorite, too,” you returned the sentiment, leaning back in your chair. “So, tell me. Did you have any new, fun interactions at the music store again?”
Bucky shook his head. It hadn’t been interesting at all this past week—just seven days of solitude away from you.
“What about the girl who gave you her number?” You tilted your head. “Did you ever reach out to her?”
“God, no,” Bucky said with a huff of a laugh. “I actually ended up losing the paper. Pretty sure it went through the wash.”
You let out a soft gasp, placing a hand over your heart.
“Bucky! You threw away her phone number? Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s number the old-fashioned way these days?” A smile crept onto your face, matching the teasing look in your eyes. His favorite. “I’m guessing Marvin Gaye couldn’t convince you to be a little romantic, huh?”
Bucky looked down at his hands, both flesh and vibranium. He had stopped wearing gloves to his appointments. He fiddled with his fingers over his lap, looking almost sheepish.
“Guess I just haven’t found the right person,” he mumbled shyly.
“Sometimes it’s not about finding the right or wrong person. Just spending a few hours with someone can help you grow,” you explained. “If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.”
Bucky rose a brow.
You grinned. “A quote from Marvin Gaye.”
“What a sap,” he joked, and you chuckled.
You adjusted yourself in your chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.
“You haven’t brought this up in recent sessions, but I’m curious to know—”
A ring. Nestled on your left ring finger.
“—are you still having nightmares?”
It was shiny. The diamond was a respectable size—as much as he hated to admit it.
“If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, we don’t have to.”
You had been proposed to?
Was that why you had to cancel on him?
“I just thought… as your therapist, it was important for me to ask, to see if you’re actually getting better—”
While he was having nightmares about losing you, you were out getting proposed to. He hadn’t even known you were being courted.
The warmth that he only felt inside your room turned to ice so fast it was hard to breathe.
Your lips were still moving, your voice as gentle and professional as could be as you continued to speak, but Bucky couldn’t hear a single word. There was a loud ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.
His eyes were helplessly glued to your left hand. Every time you moved, the silver band caught the sunlight streaming through your office window, throwing a tiny, mocking rainbow light over his lap.
It was cruel. Someone else had asked you for forever, and you had given it to them. While he had spent his Tuesday night twisting in his sheets, choking on a nightmare about losing you, you were already out in the world, building a life that didn’t include him. A life where he was just an hour on your Wednesday schedule. A stupid, court-mandated file.
He wanted to pull his eyes away. His vibranium fingers were twitching to pull his gloves back on. He wanted to collect his things, and his feelings, and leave the room without looking back at you. But he knew he had no right.
All he was was your patient.
He was nothing to you.
“Bucky?” you asked softly, carrying such genuine worry that only made his feelings that much more complicated.
When he didn’t move, you leaned forward. Slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, you reached across the small gap between your chair and the sofa and gently rested your hand over his. Your touch was light, full of professional respect, but the warmth of your skin seared right through him.
“Bucky? Are you okay?”
He flinched slightly, his eyes ripping away from the diamond to look up at your face. You looked so kind, so concerned for him. It nearly broke him right then and there.
He swallowed hard, forcing the massive lump down his throat as he tried to find his voice. He needed to lie. He needed to put the walls back up before he spilled every pathetic, selfish thought in his head.
“No,” he whispered, his voice rough and slightly cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, pulling his hand back just a little to break the contact, though his skin immediately missed your warmth.
“No. No nightmares, doc.”
Time had passed since he saw the ring, and every day felt like a countdown to the ticking time bomb in his heart, ready to explode.
The walls of his apartment felt lonelier and smaller than ever before. Night after night, he found himself sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands as he let himself drown in panic. He always had pent up grief and anger from his past to wrestle with. Now, he had to contend with something else entirely—the longing for you that clawed relentlessly at his heart.
It was the kind of emotional turmoil he was supposed to share with his therapist, but how the hell was he supposed to tell you everything when it was all about you?
He couldn’t go to his sessions and look at that ring anymore. He couldn’t sit there pretending to be the patient who was supposed to be honest about his feelings when he couldn’t even tell you a fraction of the truth.
Then came a bright Tuesday morning, the day before his weekly Wednesday session.
Bucky wandered aimlessly down a quiet street, his jacket collar pulled high against the breeze, when he saw you.
You were standing outside a local flower shop beneath a green awning, leaning over a vibrant display of fresh blooms. Your eyes were closed as you bent down to smell them, a soft, peaceful expression resting on your face.
You were probably looking for flowers for your wedding. The thought twisted painfully in his chest.
As if sensing his gaze, your eyes slowly fluttered open and found him across the sidewalk.
A warm, familiar smile spread across your face—the same smile he had grown to love, and the very one that haunted his dreams. But because you were his therapist, you kept your distance. You didn’t wave or approach him, preserving that professional boundary and leaving the choice entirely up to him: acknowledge you, or walk away.
He had every opportunity to turn around.
He should. He should walk away and never look back. But as he looked at you standing there among the flowers, so close yet completely out of his reach, he felt his resolve begin to crumble.
He couldn’t keep living like this.
If he was ever going to accept himself—if he was ever going to trust his own heart, just as you had spent these sessions trying to teach him—then he had to face the truth.
Sooner or later, his footsteps brought him closer to you.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying to force himself to sound cheerful, but the effort failed.
“Yeah,” you breathed with a smile, gesturing to the blooms. “I’m just looking at some flowers for the wedding.”
Another knife to his heart. He felt his face ache from how hard he was trying to maintain his smile.
“They’re beautiful,” he complimented the flowers, despite his eyes being stuck on you.
“I know! There’s so many to choose from. It’s kind of overwhelming,” you chuckled with a hand over your mouth.
Bucky’s heart was hurting so bad in his chest. The longer he stood in front of you, the less he trusted himself.
“Your fiancée is a lucky man,” he said. Fuck. “I’m happy for you.”
You blinked at him, processing his words. It confused you, but what confused you even more was the solemn expression he wore on his face despite saying he was happy.
He looked like a can of worms that were threatening to open and spill all over your hands, like a bomb that was ready to tick off with one wrong move or one wrong breath.
“Bucky,” you frowned, adjusting your bag strap. “Is everything okay—”
“I… I don’t know what to do,” he cut in, his voice trembling with pent up feelings he couldn’t contain for a single second longer. “I’m having the nightmares again. Every single night. But they aren’t about Hydra anymore. They’re about you.”
You stood there, stunned.
“Bucky, what—what are you saying?”
“I have… I have all these thoughts about you,” Bucky confessed, the words pouring out of him like a broken dam, his blue eyes left entirely vulnerable. “Stupid, selfish thoughts. It’s making me crazy. I know I’m your patient. I know I have no right to feel like this—”
He pressed his lips together. He should stop. No. He needs to stop—but he can’t.
“But you taught me to trust myself, and right now, the only truth I have is—”
“Bucky, slow down—”
“—that I’m in love with you.”
With the way you were looking at him, he might have believed he was in a nightmare already.
“I… I—” you stammered, clutching your bag so tightly.
You were usually so confident with your words, always knowing the right things to say in the perfect tone. But now, your words failed you completely.
A patient? Falling for his therapist?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—” you tried for a lighthearted laugh, but it came out painfully awkward. “I’m sorry—but you don’t love me. Y—you’re just confused—”
“I’ve had a lot of doubts in my life,” he insisted on adding salt to the wound, stepping closer in the small hopes of reaching you. “I struggle to navigate my feelings—I know that. But my feelings for you—that is the one thing I don't doubt.”
The look on your face was so solemn, so melancholy, yet you were still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
In no world would it ever be appropriate for a patient to fall in love with their therapist.
He knew what was coming next. He knew full well the consequences of confessing his feelings—of saying something stupid to the one woman he shouldn’t.
But he loved you so much, and as a result, he had to let you go.
“I’m so sorry, James.”
“Let’s hope you don’t fall in love with me next,” Dr. Raynor tried to joke in that flat, sarcastic tone of hers. Bucky didn’t even smile.
She jotted something down in her notebook, and the scratching of her pen made him deeply uncomfortable.
It was cruel, really. The moment the board found out he had fallen in love with his therapist, they stripped him away from the one person he actually cared about. Now, they had paired him up with a much older, entirely unenthusiastic replacement. It was a complete joke.
“Since then, have you tried reaching out to other people?” Dr. Raynor asked.
Bucky sat perfectly still on the sofa, his expression blank. “I… have.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “James, I’ve done this long enough to know when a person is lying. You hesitated.”
“You’re a cynic. I don’t know what you want me to do, doc—”
She clicked her pen with a sigh and started scribbling, making Bucky’s eyebrow twitch.
“Okay, fine. I haven’t reached out to anyone,” he admitted in defeat. “I know I should talk to Sam, but… I don’t know. It’s hard.”
“Have you tried reaching out to him?”
“No.”
“Has he tried reaching out to you?”
Bucky stayed quiet, and Dr. Raynor’s patience wore thin. “Let me see your phone.”
Bucky knew there was no point in fighting her on this. With a reluctant sigh, he shifted his weight to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and handed over his brick of a flip phone.
Dr. Raynor took it and began clicking through. “Several missed text messages from Sam, spanning back months. James, what are you doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched as he turned to stare out the window. Dr. Raynor’s office was completely different from yours. It lacked all the welcoming colors your walls had. There were no string lights, no carpet with silly designs he could get lost in, and most of all—there was no music.
Dr. Raynor tossed the flip phone back to him, and he caught it effortlessly.
“You’re punishing yourself,” she pointed out blatantly.
Bucky didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes down to his phone, his gloved thumb swiping over the screen. “I’m not punishing myself, doc. I’m doing myself a favor.”
“Bullshit, James,” she snapped, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees to force him into her line of sight. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, his gaze lifted up to her.
“I know what happened with your previous therapist. I read the file,” Dr. Raynor said, using that same tough love of a tone that only made Bucky feel like a child being lectured. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like the universe threw you a bone, let you feel something real, and then ripped it away just to remind you of who you used to be. But isolating yourself in this empty apartment, cutting off Sam, drowning in your own head—that is the worst goddamn punishment you could possibly inflict on yourself.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard, a muscle ached. “I cross lines when I feel things. I get confused. It feels safer like this.”
“No, you’re just a coward,” Raynor said, unfazed by the hardness in his eyes. “You allowed yourself to feel human for a minute, James. You fell in love. Was it appropriate given the circumstances? No. But it proved that the Winter Soldier didn’t kill the man inside. Now you're treating a normal, heartbreaking human experience like it’s a… a Hydra relapse.”
Bucky made a face.
For a therapist, Raynor was terrible with her allegories.
“Solitude isn’t keeping you safe. It’s just a slow suicide. You want to honor what she taught you? Stop. Hiding. In. The. Dark.”
Raynor checked her watch, clicked her pen one final time, and stood up.
“Our time is up. Call your friend.”
After his session, Bucky found himself walking through a nearby park just a few steps away from his apartment.
Children were running around together. Families were eating on picnic blankets. Couples walked hand in hand. And funny enough, there was even a couple getting engaged just a few feet away from him, surrounded by friends laughing and cheering.
He finally found an empty bench to sit on and pulled out his phone, desperate for a distraction.
Bucky couldn’t remember how many times he had brought Sam up to you in your previous sessions. Every single time, you had encouraged him to talk to him. At the time, Bucky had you—he hadn’t seen the need to reach out to anyone else for friendship when he already had you.
But now that you were gone…
With a sigh, he pressed the phone to his ear and let it ring.
“Sam Wilson. Who’s this?”
Bucky’s throat suddenly felt like it was coated in sand. “Sam.”
There was a dead silence on the other end. Bucky shut his eyes, waiting for Sam to hang up on him. He deserved it after having the audacity to call after nearly a year of silence.
“… Bucky?” Sam’s voice came out breathy and surprised. “Man, I—wow. Are you alright? Why are you calling?”
Bucky winced. He knew Sam probably didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—or maybe he did. Either way, he had earned it.
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting up to the sky. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air in. He thought of the warm string lights, the colorful walls, the beautiful laugh and the gentle advice of the woman he had been forced to leave behind.
Sam sounds like a wonderful person, you had told him once. You should talk to him. You need someone like that in your life.
He was going to try.
For you, he was going to try.
“Yeah. Uh. I just wanted to tell you, I finally listened to Marvin Gaye. Think you got some time this week to catch up?”
There was another pause, long enough to make Bucky’s anxiety spike. Until finally…
“Marvin Gaye, huh? You know, I thought you’d never ask.” Sam said with a light laugh that made Bucky feel a little less tense. “And I don’t want to hear a single thought about it unless we’re talking over a couple of beers. How does Friday sound?”
For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky genuinely smiled.
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
It still hurt, knowing that he didn’t have you to look forward to anymore. He had messed up the one good thing he’d had going for him since Hydra—but he had allowed himself to feel. To fall in love. To open his heart to someone else, even if it hadn’t been the right person.
He had to learn to move on. Marvin Gaye was a sap, a man who sang of fantasies entirely out of reach for someone like Bucky. But the man was right.
“It’s good to hear you again, Sam.”
If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.
“It’s good to hear you too, Buck.”
me when i might say something stupid (but the fic is actually buns so this entire fic is just me saying something stupid) i've always wanted to write a tfatws!bucky healing fic of some sort, and what better way to do that than by making the reader his therapist, someone he hopelessly falls in love with which actually plummets his mental health even further! thank you to @houseofhyde and @iamthatonefangirl for beta-reading ily guys
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the rest of the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
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summary: small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.
word count: 4,8k
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. NON-CON, tread carefully, you have been warned! and just because I wrote it, doesn’t mean I agree with it or would like it to happen to anyone. this is a very sensitive topic and this fic is not for everyone. other warnings: smut, mean!bucky, abuse of power, curse words, dirty talk, degrading, humiliation, manipulation, praising, fingering, dacryphilia, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, breeding.
A/N: my part of the bwa collab. huge thanks to everyone who supported me while i was writing… this. it honestly made me sick while working on it, and i had to take breaks every few sentences…so!!! i truly hope you all appreciate the devotion. big credit to @chateaubarnes who came up with the tile! x and I also wanna thank the entire bwa for creating such an amazing safe space. I am so glad I’ve met you guys 🤍 @wildflowersandvibranium @superbassbuck you are the best hosts ever and @firingstars thank you for making the masterlist and keeping us all organized 🫶 @iamthatonefangirl @umbreoni @houseofhyde @earthsmightiestbenders @flockoff-featherface @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @blowingbarnes @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18
The pan hissed as you stirred onions into the oil, the smell of garlic already clinging to the air. Evening light spilled in through the window, warm and tired, the kind of summer dusk where the cicadas outside sang louder than your radio. Small town quiet. Just you, a cheap glass of wine, and dinner.
Then three knocks came. Sharp and heavy.
You moved your feet to the door and your stomach sank even before you opened it.
Officer James Barnes stood on your porch, leaning on the frame like he owned it. The uniform clung tight across his chest, his badge glinting in the light, and the shadow of his cap cut across eyes that were already looking you over.
“Well, ain’t this cozy,” he drawled, his gaze flicking past you into your kitchen. “Smells good.”
You tightened your grip on the door, pulse skipping. “Can I help you, Officer?”
He tilted his head, smirking. “Funny thing. Got a call about some noise comin’ from this place. Neighbors say you’ve been a little… disruptive.” His voice was lazy, thick with amusement.
You frowned. “I was just cooking dinner.”
“Mm.” He stepped closer, close enough that you had to step back or let him brush against you. “Guess I better check things out myself. Can’t ignore a complaint.”
He didn’t wait for permission. Just pushed past you, boots heavy against your floorboards, filling your little kitchen with the smell of smoke and whiskey.
“Nice place,” he said, slow, deliberate, as his eyes slid over the counter, the stove… and then back to you. “Shame if a girl like you ended up on the wrong side of the law.”
Your arms folded across your chest, though it didn’t do much to steady the nerves crawling up your spine. “What is that supposed to mean? I haven’t done anything.”
Bucky’s tongue pressed against his cheek as he gave a slow nod, like he was humoring you. His eyes didn’t leave yours, though, sharp under the brim of his cap.
“Sure,” he said finally, voice low and easy. “That’s what they all say.”
He drifted closer to the counter, his fingers brushing along the edge like he was inspecting it, like it was evidence. He picked up your glass of wine, swirled it once, then set it back down with a soft clink.
“You know how it works in a place like this, don’t you, sweetheart?” His smile was too wide, too knowing. “Doesn’t really matter if you’ve done somethin’. All it takes is me writing it down.”
Your throat tightened. “You can’t just—”
“Can’t? Darlin’, I’m the law here.” His lips curved slow and cruel, an expression that wasn’t a smile so much as a warning.
You froze. The word died in your throat, leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears.
For a moment, nothing happened. Just the weight of his eyes on you, heavy, deliberate. You couldn’t even tell if he was waiting for an answer or simply enjoying the way your nerves were unraveling.
And then the truth hit you.
It didn’t matter what you had or hadn’t done. In this town, his word was enough. Every shopkeeper tipped their hat when he walked by. Every neighbor lowered their voice when his cruiser rolled down the street. People looked away because it was easier. Because he owned this place, street by street, door by door.
Your little house wasn’t any different.
The smirk stayed on his face, as if he could hear the thoughts tumbling through your head. As if he already knew you were realizing just how small you were here—and how large his shadow really was.
He shifted his weight forward, one boot scraping against the tile as he took a slow, deliberate step closer.
Instinctively, you moved back, the counter biting into your spine as you tried to create even the smallest sliver of space. But there wasn’t much kitchen left to retreat into—he knew it, you knew it.
“That’s the problem with girls like you,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, smoother, as if he were letting you in on some private joke. “You think you’ve got choices.”
Your palms pressed against the counter, fingers curling tight around the edge. His nearness smelled of leather and stale smoke, the metallic tang of his badge catching the light just inches from you.
“You keep tellin’ yourself you’re safe ‘cause you haven’t done nothin’ wrong.” He leaned just enough that the brim of his cap shadowed your face, forcing your eyes up to his. “But safe? Safe don’t exist here. Not unless I say so.”
The words slid through you, cold and certain, and for a heartbeat you hated yourself for noticing the way he didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Every syllable felt like it was backed by the whole town—the quiet streets, the neighbors who wouldn’t meet your eyes, the sheriff’s cruiser parked like a sentinel.
And now, him.
He smirked again, slower this time, like he could feel your chest tighten against the press of his presence. “That’s right,” he whispered. “You’re startin’ to understand.”
Your heels bumped the cupboards, the last bit of retreat gone. He kept moving until his chest nearly brushed yours, until the air itself seemed to thicken with his closeness.
You turned your face away, desperate to focus on anything but the weight of his gaze but his hand came up fast, calloused fingers gripping your chin. The pressure wasn’t bruising, not yet, but it was unyielding as he forced your head back toward him.
“Mm-mm,” he drawled, his thumb pressing against the line of your jaw. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught, sharp and shallow, as his cruel smile deepened.
“See, I been watchin’ you a while now,” he said, slow and deliberate, every word dripping with the satisfaction of finally speaking it aloud. “Out on your porch with your laundry. Walkin’ through town with that little sway in your step. Those pretty dresses you like to wear—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
His eyes dragged down over you, lingering, devouring.
“You tempt a man without even tryin’,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “And you think that don’t come with consequences?”
Your throat worked as you tried to breathe, his grip on your chin making it impossible to look anywhere but into those sharp blue eyes.
“Well?” he coaxed, voice dipping lower, darker. “You gonna tell me you didn’t want my attention? Hm? After all the times you paraded yourself ‘round town in those little slutty dresses?”
The words burned, humiliating, but the worst part was the flicker of truth they struck inside you.
Well, yeah. Maybe you did have a little crush on him. Maybe you did straighten your posture when you saw his cruiser on Main Street. Maybe you did linger on your porch just a little longer, hoping he’d glance your way. He was handsome. Powerful. And when his eyes landed on you, it made your stomach flip in ways you couldn’t explain.
But this? His hand on your chin, his body caging you in, his voice dripping ownership…
You hadn’t asked for this.
Your lips parted, the confession tumbling out small, shaky. “I… I wanted you to notice me, but—”
He huffed, satisfaction flashing across his face like he’d just won something. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting your lips.
“Knew it,” he murmured. “Knew you were temptin’ me on purpose. Little tease.”
His chest pressed flush to yours now, the counter digging into your back as if the kitchen itself were conspiring to trap you. You tried to shift sideways, but his body followed, closing every escape before you could even think of it.
And then you felt it—him—hard, thick, pressing against your hip through the stiff fabric of his uniform. Your breath caught, shame flooding hot in your veins.
He knew you felt it. That smug smirk deepened, his grip on your chin firming as he angled your face just so.
“Pretty girl,” he drawled, the words a mockery of tenderness. “You went and got me all worked up, didn’t you? Walkin’ ‘round, makin’ me think about what’s under that fabric.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, but his thumb brushed your jaw, forcing them open again.
“Don’t look away now,” he murmured, voice a low rasp. “Not after you begged for my eyes on you all this time. You wanted me to notice… and I did.”
His hips shifted, grinding just enough for you to feel the thick press of him again.
“You feel that?” he murmured, his lips brushing close to your ear. “You feel what you did to me?”
Your pulse thudded in your neck. You closed your eyes again for a quick moment, hoping this was just a cruel dream. Just a nightmare you’d wake up from soon.
It wasn’t.
He chuckled low, dark, the sound vibrating through his chest against yours. “Couldn’t take it anymore. You lookin’ so damn sweet, makin’ me hard every time I laid eyes on you.” His hand slid from your chin to your throat, his thumb resting just under your jaw.
“That’s why I’m here, pretty girl. Had to come all this way ‘cause I can’t take you teasin’ me any longer. You pushed me too far.”
His hand left your throat only to trail down, rough palm skimming the fabric of your dress before tugging it upward, inch by inch. The hem rose over your thighs, the cool air of the kitchen brushing bare skin where it shouldn’t.
You jerked, pressing back into the counter as if you could melt into it, but his body caged you in tight, unmovable. His other hand clamped down on your thigh, the weight of it hot and heavy, spreading you just enough that the threat was clear.
“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes drinking in every flicker of panic on your face. “Tryin’ to act innocent, but we both know better.” His fingers dug in, a bruising reminder of who held control.
“You’re gonna admit it,” he whispered, leaning close enough for his breath to drag hot across your cheek. “Gonna say you wanted me. That you’ve been beggin’ for this.”
The pressure of his hand on your thigh burned, creeping higher.
“Go on, pretty girl. Take the blame.” His smirk twisted cruel. “Tell me this is all your fault.”
“Please…” Your voice cracked, small and desperate. “Please, don’t—”
His grip on your thigh tightened, and suddenly his voice snapped sharp, cutting through the air like a whip.
“Say it!”
You flinched at the sound, tears springing hot to your eyes. They spilled before you could stop them, rolling down your cheeks as your chest heaved against his.
“Don’t make me drag it out of you,” he snarled, his face so close you could see the cold glint in his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. “I don’t want beggin’. I don’t want excuses, you hear me?”
You nodded frantically, tears blurring your vision, desperate for anything that would make him stop, make him ease up.
His expression softened into something sickeningly sweet, lips curling as though your fear pleased him. “Good girl,” he murmured, his hand leaving your thigh just long enough to stroke over your hair, slow and patronizing.
The touch made your stomach twist, but you stayed frozen, too scared to move.
“Now,” he coaxed, voice low, almost tender, “tell me you wanted it. Tell me you’ve been wantin’ me to come here and take what’s mine.”
Your lips trembled, the words clogging in your throat. You didn’t want to say it—God, you didn’t—but his hand was still tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to remind you he could make it hurt. His body loomed over yours, every inch of him pressing in until you could hardly breathe.
“I…” the sound broke apart, but you forced it out, trembling. “I wanted it.”
The smirk returned, triumphant.
“There she is,” he whispered, thumb brushing your damp cheek as if wiping away tears he’d put there.
His hand slid lower again, dragging the hem of your dress higher until his fingers found the thin barrier of your panties. You jolted at the first press of his touch, a sharp flinch that made him chuckle against your ear.
“Shh…” His voice dripped with false comfort. His palm flattened, keeping you pinned in place. “Stay still for me. Be a good girl.”
You squirmed, legs trembling as his body caged you, leaving you nowhere to go. His fingers stroked slowly over the damp fabric, mocking in their unhurried insistence, and your breath caught in your throat.
“There we go,” he drawled, lips curling as his touch pressed firmer, deliberate. “So wet already…”
The words shattered something in you. The tears came harder, hot streaks down your face as you shook your head. “No—please, stop, I don’t want this, please—”
But he didn’t budge. If anything, his weight pressed you harder against the counter, the edge digging into your back.
“Shh,” he muttered, not even looking at your face now, his attention fixed on the way his fingers toyed with you.
They hooked under the elastic and shoved your panties aside, the cold air brushing where it shouldn’t.
You gasped, body jerking, but his hand was already there—touching your slick folds, sliding through your wetness like your pleas meant nothing.
“Goddamn—” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. “Listen to you beg… while your pretty pussy says somethin’ else entirely.”
His fingers moved in slow, deliberate strokes, sliding over your cunt with a sickening patience, never rushing, never relenting and each pass made your stomach twist tighter.
“There now…” his voice dipped softer, cooing like he was soothing a frightened animal. “That ain’t so bad, is it? Just me takin’ care of you.”
You sobbed, shaking your head, but he only hushed you while his other hand kept spreading you open.
“Don’t cry, pretty girl,” he whispered, lips curling against your temple. “Nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll be gentle if you just stay still for me.”
Your body tensed, but his palm pressed firmer on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you, forcing you to take every languid touch as though it was inevitable.
His hand shifted higher, finding the swollen nub of your clit, and the touch made your whole body jolt. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your knees nearly giving under you.
Instinct betrayed you—you clutched at him, hands fisting into the stiff fabric of his uniform just to keep yourself upright.
Bucky chuckled low, smug and steady, his fingers circling that sensitive spot with obscene care. “Easy now…” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”
He acted like he was doing you some kind of favor, like this was protection instead of violation.
But inside, all you wanted was for him to stop. The shame was unbearable, heat flooding through you where his touch worked you over, your mind screaming against the pull of your own body. You clung tighter, not out of want, but out of desperation—because there was nowhere else to go.
And he knew it.
“See?” he cooed, voice soft, mocking. “Feels good when you stop fightin’ me.”
Your breath hitched, your whole body trembling as his fingers circled you with agonizing slowness. “Please… please, stop. I’ll do anything.”
For a moment he stilled, the heat of his hand heavy between your thighs. Then he gave a soft, mocking tsk, shaking his head like you were a child who still didn’t understand the rules.
“I know you will,” he murmured, his mouth curving into a slow, satisfied smirk. His thumb brushed one last time over your clit, gentle as a caress, but his words cut sharper than any cruelty. “That’s the way it’s gonna be, pretty girl. You’ll do anything I ask.”
And then—without warning—his hand shifted, two thick fingers driving inside you in one harsh thrust.
You cried out, the sudden stretch burning, your back arching as pain shot through you.
“Just like that,” he rasped, grinding his palm hard against your clit, his fingers buried deep. “You’ll take what I give you.”
You whimpered, clutching at his uniform in panic, but he only pressed closer.
“Not so innocent now, are you, pretty girl?”
You wanted to die. Wanted to melt into the floor, disappear into nothing where no one could see you, where no one could touch you again. Every nerve screamed, every instinct begged you to run, to fight, to do anything—but your body was frozen under his weight. You couldn’t move, couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even stop the sick heat pooling between your legs that betrayed the terror in your chest.
You wanted him dead. Wanted him gone. You hated him for making you feel like this, for making your body respond when all you wanted was to scream, to curl into yourself and vanish. And yet… even as the tears streamed down your cheeks, even as your sobs caught in your throat, even as your chest heaved with humiliation and fear, your body betrayed you.
It was like being trapped inside a stranger’s skin. Every shiver that wracked your limbs, every involuntary quiver at his touch, every gasp you couldn’t choke back made you hate yourself more. You weren’t safe. You weren’t strong. You weren’t even yourself anymore.
You were just so fucking scared.
His fingers pumped hard, curling inside you until your legs buckled. Every thrust sent a sharp ache twisting into a heat you hated, a sick pulse you couldn’t stop.
“Yeah,” he growled against your ear, his palm grinding down on your pussy with every movement. “Feel that? Your pussy’s takin’ me so good.”
You shook your head, sobs tearing out of your chest, but your hips twitched despite yourself, a helpless stutter forward into his hand.
“Look at you,” he mocked, voice thick with satisfaction. “Cryin’, beggin’ me to stop—and squeezin’ my fingers like you don’t ever wanna let go.”
“Please, Officer—” you gasped, but the word came out strangled, broken, your body betraying every plea.
“Shh, babygirl,” he cooed, thrusting his fingers deeper, faster. “Can’t lie to me. I can feel the truth right here.” His thumb pressed cruelly over your clit, circling hard until your knees nearly gave.
His pace slowed, then stopped, his fingers slipping wet and shining from your body. You sagged against the counter, chest heaving with your cries, relief flickering for only a second before you saw where his hand was going.
He held his fingers up between you, slick with your arousal, his eyes burning into yours.
“Open,” he ordered, voice low, commanding.
Your stomach dropped. You shook your head hard, turning your face away. “N-no, please—”
His hand caught your jaw in an iron grip, fingers digging into your cheeks as he forced your head back toward him. “Don’t make me say it twice,” he growled, shoving his soaked fingers against your lips.
You clenched your mouth shut, tears spilling faster as you twisted away, but he pressed harder, his grip unyielding.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he mocked, voice thick with cruelty. “You’re not too shy now, are you? Taste what you’ve been beggin’ me for.”
When you still resisted, his thumb pinched your nose, cutting off your breath until instinct made your lips part with a choked gasp—and he shoved his fingers inside, coating your tongue in your own slick.
“Atta girl,” he praised, watching your face contort in shame as his fingers moved against your tongue. Then he chuckled low, cruel. “That’s it. Suck ‘em clean for me.”
When you didn’t, he simply pushed deeper, the pads of his fingers pressing down on your tongue until you gagged. His hand held your jaw tight, keeping you still while he fucked your mouth with his wet fingers.
“Look at you,” he rasped, rocking his hand in and out, slick smearing all over your lips. “Cryin’ so pretty for me while you taste yourself. You feel dirty? Hm?” His satisfaction grew as you whimpered around his hand. “Good. You should.”
Each thrust made your throat tighten, humiliation flooding you until your eyes squeezed shut, hot tears slipping past your lashes. You clawed weakly at his wrist, but he only shoved harder, filling your mouth until you had no choice but to swallow around the thickness of his fingers.
“That’s it,” he whispered, almost tender as he worked your mouth open wider. “Get used to it. This mouth’s mine now.”
You moaned around his fingers, drooling all over yourself as he pumped them roughly.
“So good, so obedient,” he rasped, fucking his fingers into your mouth one last time before yanking them free, spit and slick shining across your lips. You coughed, choking on the air you finally pulled in, but he didn’t give you a chance to recover.
His hand fisted in your hair, spinning you around with brutal ease. The edge of the counter dug into your hips before you could even catch yourself, his weight pressing into your back.
“Bend over,” he growled, shoving you down flat against the cold surface. One palm pinned the small of your back, holding you there like you were nothing but a ragdoll.
Your hands scrambled against the counter, trying to push up, but his grip only pressed harder, forcing your cheek down against the wood.
The sharp clink of metal filled the kitchen as he yanked his belt loose, the sound making your stomach drop. You tried to push yourself up again, but his hand shoved harder at the small of your back, pinning you flat.
“Stay down,” he muttered, voice rough with hunger.
Fabric rustled as he lifted your dress, dragging it up over your hips until the cool air of the kitchen hit your bare skin. You whimpered, face pressed to the counter, as he let out a low, approving hum.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his palm smoothing over the curve of your ass before giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so perfect laid out for me like this.”
Your panties tugged tight for a moment, then slid down your thighs with a cruel, deliberate slowness. His fingers brushed the back of your leg as he peeled them away, leaving you exposed.
A zipper followed, the scrape loud in your ears, and then he was behind you—close, hot, heavy—lining himself up with no hesitation.
“Mm,” he murmured, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your slick folds. “Right where you belong.”
The tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, sliding just enough through the wetness he’d already pulled from you with his fingers.
“Shit,” he rasped, pressing closer, grinding the thick length against you. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby…”
A sob tore through your throat, your nails scraping helplessly at the counter. “Please, please, stop. I won’t tell anyone. I promise, just stop—”
But he only chuckled, the sound cruel and disbelieving. His hand spread wide over your lower back, keeping you pinned, while his hips rolled just enough to push at your entrance again.
“Who would you tell, huh?” he sneered, leaning over you, his breath was hot against your ear. “Whole town’s mine. Nothin’ to tell. Nothin’ to stop.”
His hips snapped forward without warning, his cock forcing into you in one brutal thrust. The sudden stretch ripped a scream from your throat, your whole body jerking against the counter as white-hot pain tore through you.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice rough with satisfaction as he bottomed out inside you. His grip on your waist tightened, bruising, holding you still. “Feels so good.”
You sobbed, the sting overwhelming, your walls clenching desperately around him. “Please, it hurts—”
But he didn’t stop. He pulled back only to slam into you again, setting a hard, punishing pace from the start. The counter rattled beneath you with every thrust, the air punched out of your lungs as he used your body without restraint.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he growled against your ear, his cock driving deep over and over. “Cry for me. Beg all you want—still gonna fuck you just how I want.”
Your nails clawed at the wood, the sharp edge digging into your stomach as his hips smacked relentlessly against your ass, his grunts mixing with the sound of your breathless sobs.
He fucked into you hard, over and over, until your crying was nothing but broken gasps. And then—just when your body thought it couldn’t take any more—he slowed.
His thrusts dragged deep and deliberate now, his shaft stretching you to the hilt with every roll of his hips. Each one made your walls clamp helplessly around him, clenching so tight it drew a guttural groan from his chest.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, grinding in slow, heavy circles that made your stomach twist. His hand slid up your spine, tangling in your hair to wrench your head back. “Feel how full you are? Hm? That’s me, baby. Every inch of me inside this pretty little cunt.”
You whimpered, shaking your head frantically and squirming but he only pulled your hair tighter, forcing your body back against his dick.
“Say it,” he ordered, voice low and sharp. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how full I’ve got you.”
Tears streaked down your cheeks as the words caught in your throat, shame choking you. His hips snapped once, rough and deep, making you cry out.
“Say it,” he snarled, his lips brushing your ear. “Or I’ll make you scream it.” He growled, voice vibrating against your ear. “Tell me how it feels to be split open on my cock.”
Your walls fluttered around him helplessly. Your throat tightened, the shame unbearable—but the pain of his grip, the sheer force of his body, broke you down.
„I—” your voice cracked, the words stuck in your throat. He yanked your hair harder, hips snapping deep until you cried out.
“Fuck, I—” you finally let out, tears streaming down your face. “I feel— i feel s’full, I can’t—”
“Good girl,” he rasped, pounding harder now, his cock splitting you open again and again until your legs shook. His hand tangled tighter in your hair, dragging your head back against his chest so his lips brushed your ear. „Now say you’re mine.”
“N-no—” you gasped, clawing at the counter for something, anything to hold on to.
His hips snapped deep, his hand clamping hard around your throat this time, squeezing just enough to cut your breath. “You better or I’ll make it hurt.”
The pressure and the pain tangled together until the fight drained right out of you. Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as your voice broke.
“I’m yours!” you cried, choking on the words. “Please—please, I’m yours!”
He groaned low in your ear, the sound triumphant, his cock driving harder into you as if to claim you deeper.
“That’s right,” he whispered, “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine.”
His hand slid down between your thighs, finding your clit with cruel precision. You flinched at the touch, a strangled cry breaking free.
“Shhh, sweetheart,” he shushed you, circling hard as his cock drove deep. “Gonna make you come for me, pretty girl. Gonna make you fall apart on my cock.”
“No—” you pleaded, shaking your head, but your body betrayed you, clenching tighter around him with every drag of his fingers. The pressure coiled sharp and unbearable.
“Cry all you want. This pussy knows who it belongs to,” he rasped, thumb pressing relentless against your swollen clit.
Your sobs tangled with broken moans and whimpers as the tension snapped, your body shuddering violently. Heat flooded you, pulsing around him, the climax ripped from you against your will.
“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he growled, grinding deep inside you as your orgasm shook through your trembling body. „You’re fucking mine, baby. Cuming on my cock so prettily like a sweet girl you are.”
You collapsed against the counter, body limp, trembling from the orgasm still wracking through you. But he didn’t stop. His thrusts turned harsher, desperate now, his cock driving into your overstimulated walls with punishing force.
“Fuck—” he panted, his grip bruising your hips as he buried himself deeper, chasing his release. “So tight around me. Gonna fill you up, baby. Make sure you never forget how well I fucked you.”
“No, please—don’t—” your cries barely left your lips before his hips snapped forward one last time, his cock pulsing hot and thick inside you.
A guttural groan ripped from his chest as he spilled deep, holding you pinned down, forcing you to take every drop. His weight pressed heavy into your back, his breath ragged against your ear.
“Mm,” he sighed, satisfied, grinding slowly to push it all in deeper. “That’s it. All mine now.”
You sobbed weakly, face wet against the counter, his words echoing in your head as his seed seeped into you, sealing the humiliation.
Then he smirked against your skin, his hand stroking almost tenderly down your spine. “Good girl. Sheriff’s girl.”
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, greece au, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, manchild player bucky, mean!bucky, john walker back to playing the role of a toxic bf, cheating (not by bucky), jealousy, oral (f!receiving), squirting, overstimulation, reader mentions she's on the pill (no pregnancy), praise, dirty talk, angst, alpine feature, dead rat, miscommunication, insecurities, hurt/comfort
⭐︎ word count: 17.8k
⭐︎ a/n: if you like mamma mia, this fic might be up your alley. this is my contribution for the bwat summer collab hosted by the lovely @barnesonly and @iamthatonefangirl. thank you for taking the time to keep us in check. thank you to @tw1sters for being my beta-reader! happy brat summer even though it was two years ago
synopsis:
If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.
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Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.
It was the same wretched sound all over again.
From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.
There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.
“Keep it down, Barnes!”
But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.
Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…
“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”
He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.
With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.
It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.
Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.
“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.
I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—
“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”
I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.
Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.
“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.
You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.
“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.
Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.
He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.
“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”
Bucky didn’t react.
He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.
But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.
“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.
You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.
“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”
“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”
You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.
“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”
Bucky flinched, looking offended.
“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”
Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”
You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.
“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”
“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”
Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”
The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.
Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.
In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.
You grimaced, facing the door again.
“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.
Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.
You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.
You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.
“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”
“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”
“I know. But you like it.”
The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.
“—surfing….”
Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”
You gripped your hands tighter.
If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.
“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.
The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.
“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”
“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”
Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.
The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.
“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”
Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.
Well, almost silence.
Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.
Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.
Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.
“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.
She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.
“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.
Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”
“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”
Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.
You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”
“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”
The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”
“Yes!” you snapped.
“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”
“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”
You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.
You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.
“Honey? Are you here?”
Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.
Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.
“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.
You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.
“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.
“Wow, you look terrible.”
Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.
You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.
“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”
“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”
You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”
“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”
You felt utterly and completely defeated.
Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.
“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.
He frowned. “Well…?”
You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”
“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”
“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.
Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.
“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”
You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.
John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.
“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”
Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.
“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”
You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.
“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”
“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”
“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”
“What’s going on here?”
You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.
Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.
You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.
“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”
Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.
She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.
The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”
You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”
The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.
You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.
No.
He couldn’t have…
You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.
But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.
“John…?” you whimpered.
And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.
“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”
“Get the hell out.”
John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”
“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.
“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.
“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”
Slip up?
Was this what he thought this was?
Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?
You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.
Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.
“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”
Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.
“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”
Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.
“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”
John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.
He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”
“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”
If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.
John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.
“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”
You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.
Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.
If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.
“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”
John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.
When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.
He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”
He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.
You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.
Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.
Bucky didn’t know what to say.
There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.
“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”
“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.
“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”
Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.
For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.
He felt terrible.
He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.
“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”
As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.
One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.
He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.
“Bucky, turn down your music!”
“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”
“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”
Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.
Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.
“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”
Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.
Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”
“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”
Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.
“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.
But of course, they don’t.
Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”
“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.
Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.
“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”
“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”
Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.
Bucky grimaced at the memory.
Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.
Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.
He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.
How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.
“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”
Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”
Bucky frowned.
They had no idea what you were going through at all.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”
Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”
“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”
Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”
“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”
Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”
Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”
“Eeeeek!”
Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.
Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”
But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.
Had John returned to threaten you?
Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?
Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.
“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”
“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.
Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.
Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.
Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.
“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”
“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”
“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”
Bucky sighed heavily.
He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.
Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.
He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.
“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”
The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.
“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”
You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.
Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.
Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.
He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.
He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.
“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.
You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”
“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”
Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.
But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.
There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.
“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.
“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.
Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”
Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.
“Sam, I swear to God—”
Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.
“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.
“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.
“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.
Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”
With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.
Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”
He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.
Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.
“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.
Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.
They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.
You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.
“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.
Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”
“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”
He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.
“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”
You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.
Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.
The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.
Are you free this Friday night?
Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.
I actually named one of my tracks after you.
But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”
Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”
“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.
“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.
“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.
You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.
“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”
“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”
Without even realizing it, he started rambling.
“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”
You hummed in thought.
For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.
You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.
“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”
You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.
“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”
“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”
You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.
Bucky… helping you?
This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.
“I don’t know, Bucky—”
“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”
You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.
You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.
So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.
“Whatever you say, Barnes.”
To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.
He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.
It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.
“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.
“You’re already working on the window panels?”
Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.
“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”
He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.
“How… how do you like it?”
You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.
“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”
Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.
“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.
“Oh? You mean like this?”
You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.
Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.
“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.
“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”
From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.
Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.
During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.
Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”
Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.
“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”
He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.
“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”
Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”
“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?
“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”
Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.
You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.
“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.
Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.
“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.
Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.
He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.
“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
You hated him. You really did.
“Bucky, I swear to God—”
Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.
“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”
You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.
“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.
Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.
You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.
“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”
“God, no.” You laughed.
Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…
“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.
You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.
“Bucky, I…”
“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”
You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.
Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.
“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.
Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.
Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.
He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.
Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.
You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.
You?
Kissing Bucky?
You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.
“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.
Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.
He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.
Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.
His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.
Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.
Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.
He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.
“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.
He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.
“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.
It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.
But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.
“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.
“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”
He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.
In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.
When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.
He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.
“Eager little thing, are you?”
You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.
You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”
Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”
His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.
“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”
You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.
“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”
You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”
“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”
Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.
He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.
He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.
“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”
He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.
You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.
“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.
Bucky had no intention of stopping.
He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.
Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”
Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.
“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.
Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.
“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.
Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.
“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”
Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.
“I’m… I’m sorry…”
Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.
“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”
You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.
He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.
You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.
“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”
“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.
“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”
Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.
You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.
You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.
“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.
Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.
He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”
Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.
Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.
“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”
Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.
“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”
Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.
“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.
That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.
His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.
“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.
The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.
While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.
“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”
Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?
Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.
A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.
“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”
Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”
He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.
“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”
You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.
“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”
With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.
Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.
When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”
You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.
You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.
Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.
And of course, Bucky was right behind it.
He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.
You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.
Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.
A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.
“Hey,” you shouted over the music.
“What’ll it be, miss?”
“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.
The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”
You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.
With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.
After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.
“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.
“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”
“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.
With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.
You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.
“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”
“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”
You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.
During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.
But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.
A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.
You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.
You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.
“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”
Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.
You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.
You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.
It was a horrible, familiar feeling.
It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.
And yet, here you were.
You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?
Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.
You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.
“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”
And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”
He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.
You weren’t special.
You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.
Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.
“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”
You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.
You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.
“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”
Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.
And that’s exactly what you did.
You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.
You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.
The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.
The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”
Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.
“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”
You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.
“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”
You were going to find his lease.
You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.
The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.
Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.
He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.
“Why did you come back here?” He panted.
“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.
He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”
“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.
When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.
“What the hell are you doing with that?!”
You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”
Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.
“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”
You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”
“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”
You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.
“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.
You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.
“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”
What the hell were you saying?
None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.
Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.
Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.
With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”
You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.
Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.
You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.
One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”
You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.
He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.
“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”
He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.
“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.
“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”
You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.
You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.
Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.
“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”
Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.
Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.
The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.
But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.
Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.
Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.
Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.
“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”
Bucky kept his word and left you alone.
Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.
He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.
Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.
He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.
“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”
“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”
You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.
He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?
Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.
The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.
It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.
It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.
For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.
You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.
But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.
Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.
You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”
You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.
You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.
“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”
Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.
“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.
“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.
Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.
He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.
A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.
With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.
Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.
The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.
Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.
Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.
“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”
You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.
He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?
He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?
“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”
You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.
Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.
And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.
“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.
Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.
You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.
“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”
The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.
“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”
You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.
“Where is she?” you hissed.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.
“Where’s who?”
Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”
Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”
“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”
Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.
“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”
“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.
“That’s you.”
Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.
“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”
Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”
Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”
Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.
“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.
He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”
Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.
“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.
Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.
“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”
Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.
“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”
He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.
“No,” you lied.
“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”
You scoffed. “What are you on about?”
His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.
“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.
You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.
“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”
“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”
You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”
You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.
God, you missed him.
You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.
You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.
Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”
Bucky’s smile widened.
“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”
Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.
“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”
Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.
It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.
Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.
“I’ll try.”
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
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⭐︎ a/n: happy fourth of july! this mini-series will contain sensitive topics. each fic will be tagged accordingly. no posting date, but they will eventually all be written.
main masterlist | more steve and bucky x reader fics
★ chapter one (in progress)
synopsis — Your dad always kept his inner circle of friends small and close. Steve Rogers was one of them. He was respectful, kind, and someone you looked up to and trusted. What you didn't understand, though, was how your dad could also be best friends with a broody, grumpy man like Bucky Barnes. But when your dad leaves for a work trip over the Fourth of July, Bucky decides to remind you exactly why he’s so close with your father—except Steve keeps getting in his way to stop him.
★ chapter two
★ chapter three
★ chapter four
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
santa doesn't know you like i do.
⤷ ex-stepdad!bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 12k
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. you’ve made a nasty habit out of calling bucky barnes whenever you find yourself one drink too deep to drive. maybe the habit wouldn’t be so nasty if he wasn’t your mother’s ex-husband.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, modern au, congressman!bucky, smut (ex-stepcest, daddy kink, pervy!reader & pervy!bucky, piv, creampie, pussy and dick pronouns, pussy inspection, fingering/handjob, oral sex - f receiving, tip kissing?, dirty talk, exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, cumming untouched, breeding kink, tie used as a restraint, tummy bulge, window sex, wall sex, unsafe acts while standing on a chair, temperature play, a smidge of dub-con though both parties are fully consenting), age gap, congressman!bucky, taboo themes, alcohol consumption, parental death, reader has hair that can be tugged and is briefly implied to be shorter than bucky, yearning? in my stepcest fic? it's more likely than you think!, reader has a shitty boyfriend, reader cheats on said shitty bf, bucky calls the reader the following nicknames: kid/kiddo, princess, baby, sweetheart, doll, angel, slut, pervert.
ᯓ★ hyde's input. a sabrina carpenter song hates to see me coming.
disclaimer: bucky and the reader did not meet or know each other when she was a minor + this is a modern au, bucky does not have a metal arm.
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When did Christmas become the loneliest time of the year?
Though you may not be a scientist, you’ve been working on a theory.
Once upon a time, December was a month dedicated to love, in all shapes and forms. Christmas mornings were early to start, where a tinier version of you rose with the sun and shot down the hallway towards your parents’ bedroom, if only to force open their door and obnoxiously declare through missing teeth, “Santa Clause came!”
A rift split your family’s tradition with no warning. You had always been told your tenth year would be important, taking your age from single to double digits; but no one had told you it would also take your father. Silence stretched over the walls of your parents’ home like ivy, encasing all three of you within it. Hushed voices whispered of stages and terminal, never loud enough for you to fully grasp what they were saying. By the time you were old enough to understand, your father had already been living in the urn atop the mantelpiece for five Christmases, “There was nothing the doctors could do, he was half-way gone when they diagnosed it.”
The silence persisted until, one year, it stopped. Home for the holidays — your first time returning during your freshman year of college — you stepped foot into a wonderland of lights and noise, the smell of nutmeg dusting your nose with every inhale as you ventured into the once quiet home your Mother had made for herself, only to find her smile bright and her eyes brighter, while a stranger nervously wrung his hands by her side as she looked at you and announced, “This is James, my husband!”
While all the movies may push the narrative that step-parents are the spawn of Satan, you were quick to learn otherwise. The inclusion of James Barnes in your life may have been unexpected, yet the man had shown no qualms with making himself a comfortable, stable figure for you to lean on — one summer back at home was all it took for you to bond. And though there would never come a day where he filled the hollow shape your father’s passing had left in your heart, he carved out his own designated space, somewhere between friend and family. Suffice to say, no one had been as shocked as you when James — Bucky — informed you, “Your mother and I are getting divorced, kiddo.”
Now Bucky is running for congress and your mother is eat, pray, loving her way through life; and maybe that is the reason why you’re all alone, nursing a watered-down espresso martini and partaking in man’s oldest hobby: spilling your troubles onto an underpaid, uninterested bartender.
“- and he’s gonna leave me all alone? On Christmas!?” You almost choke on a hiccup, the outrage in your voice ringing off the walls of the empty bar. “What did I ever do to deserve all that? He can’t even apologise, because God forbid he admits to being wrong for once- ”
“Listen, it’s,” the bartender pauses mid-wipe of the dishtowel over a freshly steamed glass to check his watch, his patience lead to a drought in the wasteland of a December’s night shift. “Officially Christmas Eve. I’m exhausted, I have to be back here in less than eight hours to work the shift of Hell, and we’re forecast for snow. Why don’t you give me your boyfriend’s number and he can get you home, so you can sober up and talk this out?”
Your reply is barely intelligible, a slurry mess of numbers you recite off the top of your head — you’ve never been the best at remembering phone numbers, yet this one has a habit of flying out of you like it’s second nature. Fluent in drunken-speech, the man wastes no time punching the digits into his phone and pressing it to his ear.
As you trace your finger around the rim of your glass, you make out the faint gruff of a man’s voice ringing out of the speaker, “Hello?”
“Hey man, sorry ‘bout the late call,” he flicks his eyes over to you, heaving out a sigh while you fight off sleep with every heavy-eyed blink. “I’ve got your girl here and she’s drunk. Don’t know what kind of argument you guys had, but would you mind putting it on the back-burner for tonight and picking her up?”
Snow falls with patience, not a hint of hurry in the way it floats down to the ground, adding a new spec of white atop the road. It’s mother nature’s promise that, come morning, the entire city will sit beneath a blanket of glittering frost.
A sniffle pierces through the silent night as you press the cigarette butt to your lips again and pull in a breath, welcoming an inhale of cold nicotine. Frost nips at your nose, your cheeks, your eyelashes, threatening to freeze the tears dancing upon them before they even get the chance to spill down your face.
Inside the bar, the man continues to wipe down and clean up for the night, throwing cautious glances your way every so often. It had been a verbal struggle to convince him you would be safe outside, that you just needed to slip out for a breath of fresh air to sober yourself up. If he notices the sobs racking through your body and shaking your shoulders, he makes no attempt to interrupt nor comfort you, leaving you out in the cold to mull over your own emotional ailments.
Sudden and without warning, a vehicle pulls into the bar’s parking lot and a pair of headlights burn your retinas. Free hand reaching up to dampen the intensity of the brightness, a sense of familiarity washes over you with another gust of snow-filled wind.
The car is old. Much older than you are, as is the man stepping out of the driver’s side, his coat already half-way removed by the time he steps under the bar’s awning and brings his furrowed brows and worried mouth into view.
“Christ, kiddo, what are you doing out dressed like that in this weather?” Not once, in the five short years he was married to your mother, did you witness an ounce of anger upon Bucky Barnes’ visage. Standing before you now, draping the heavy weight of his coat over your shoulders and around your shivering bones, you swear you catch a hitch of something in his voice. Frustration. Irritation. Desperation? “Are you trying to give me a heart attack by catching frost bite? You’re old enough to know better than to do something so stup-”
“Why’re you here?” The interruption is harsher than you intend, and you witness how the words slap the older man across the face, forcing him back a step or two in shock.
“You called,” he states, frown returning full throttle as you take another drag of the cigarette, ash clinging to its tip and threatening to float down with the snow any second now.
“I did?”
Ice crunches beneath the red bottoms of his shoes as Bucky inches in a little closer, recuperating from the verbal shove you served him only moments ago. Something about his attire — a charcoal grey suit, wrinkled by a day of hard work yet stretched across the width of him like it’s tailor made and shaped to his body — feels out of place, distant, nothing like the version of him who spent years clinging on to tattered old pyjama pants because, “So what if they’re scruffy looking? They’re comfortable.”
But, then again, that’s all you two have now: distance.
No longer is he the man your mother called her own, nor the man who insisted on driving halfway across the country just to bring you home for the holidays, nor the man who became part of the furniture in your family home. This man is nothing but a would-be stranger, dressed to the nines and feeling ten million miles away, despite the hand reaching towards your mouth.
“We talked about this, kid,” he tuts, plucking the cigarette out from between your lips. “‘S no good for those little lungs of yours to be inhaling this shit.”
Then, with all the hypocrisy of a politician, he brings the nicotine stick up to his mouth and pulls in one sharp breath, before dropping it to the floor, crushing it beneath his heel and expelling a cloud of smoke in your face.
“Hey!” The whine in your voice is pathetic, half-arsed and fading into a hiccup as another sob tears through you. Reaching uselessly for the cigarette now one with the patch of snow on the pavement, your hand finds Bucky instead, who steadies it against his chest and condemns you with the knowledge of how warm his skin feels, even in sub-degree temperatures and through the fabric of a shirt. “That’s not fair! It’s okay when you smoke, but when I do, suddenly it’s a crime?”
“Life’s not fair,” perhaps the worst thing about all of this, in your alcohol-doused judgement, is the amusement Bucky finds in your pouting, the tiniest stretch of smugness turning up the corners of his lips. Unwillingly, it takes you back a few years to your mother’s kitchen. To a late night. To a bottle of wine. To no one but the two of you. To how your eyes kept drifting to his grape stained lips. “You have your whole life ahead of you. An old man like me though, ‘s no point worrying about my lungs.”
“But I do.” Maybe you imagine it, but you swear you feel his heartbeat falter beneath your hand; not for long, barely a beat, but enough for you to notice. “Worry about you.”
“Do you?” Bucky finally lets his mouth fully stretch into a smile, head tilting to the side while he takes to tugging the coat around you a little tighter, shielding you from the bite of the winter night. “‘Course you do. My girl’s still as sweet as she’s always been.”
The praise tugs at something inside you — primal, attached to a part of you no man his age, much less him of all people, should ever activate. Want, desire, an itch that needs scratching by hands other than your own. For the first time since you stepped outside, you’re thankful for the snowstorm, cooling the world around you enough to lend no power to the heat rushing over your cheeks.
Before you can dwell on it too long, the creak of a door interrupts you.
“Leave the girl alone,” there goes the bartender, stepping out into the snowy night with exhaustion on his face and a dishtowel over his shoulder, arms crossing over his chest in a way that’s obviously meant to emphasise his biceps. Nice, thick, firm; yet nowhere near to the muscle you know lies beneath Bucky’s sleeves. “Her boyfriend will be here to pick her up any moment now, so you’d best run along.”
There’s a chuckle from Bucky, tired enjoyment coming over his face as he snakes an arm around you and tugs you to his side, your shoulder pressing against his ribcage.
“Don’t worry, this one’s mine.” Mine. It reverberates in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull and echoing. Mine, mine, mine. Oh to be his anything. Did he call your mother that, mine, when he lay her atop their bedsheets? Would he call you that, if you let him lay you down too- “Thanks for calling, by the way. She can be a handful, but I’d never trust my girl going home with anyone else.”
My girl.
It warms you all the way over to his car — a vintage number, the vehicle he used to wax poetic about and polish every Sunday. For as little as you know or care about cars beyond their ability to drive, you miss witnessing his fits of passion dedicated to his precious Bentley.
A perfectly shined body, paired with twin headlamps and a vertical facelift along the bonnet; if you didn’t know any better, you would assume its engine runs on liquid gold instead of gas. You had asked him what model it was once, only to nod along like you understood when he listed off words like 1957 and Continental.
“Let’s get you warmed up, kid,” Bucky mutters more to himself than to you, keys turning at the engine and fingers flicking on the seat-heater, a modification he prided himself on having fitted with his own two hands. “D’you feel that? ‘S it nice?”
Empty-headed and speechless, your body has a mind of its own, thighs squeezing together and spreading a zing of pleasure through your lower abdomen, a new kind of warmth working in tandem with the heater beneath you, as your mind begins to wander off into a fantasy world where Bucky and you are exchanging body heat atop his passenger seat, hands ridding one another of the offensive barriers of clothing, his voice spilling into your ear in a mess of rasp and want, pleading you to tell him how he feels, how good he’s making you feel, how badly he’s wanted you all along-
“Hey, where’d you go?”
You snap back into reality, where his hands are no longer undressing you, cupping your cheek instead and forcing your focus onto his face.
“Huh?”
“Just now, you were drifting away from me, trapped in that pretty head of yours.” He’s gentle, yet everything about it hurts: his touch, his voice, the way his eyes scan over your features and sink deeper into a well of longing. “Thought you said you no longer needed me to come pick you up. What happened, hmm? Did you and Jonah get into another fight?”
“Joaquin,” you correct him softly, gaze daring to look at anything but him. Suddenly, you’ve never been more fascinated by an air freshener. “And no- Well, yes, but it’s not- We’re only- It’s not a big deal, I’m just over-reacting, as usual.”
“You’ve been crying,” a crease forms between his eyebrows, as Bucky slowly soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, smudging the tear tracks with his fingerprints. “I don’t know much about this Joaquin kid, but he shouldn’t be making you cry.”
“Bucky,” that name feels too intimate, coaxing a fresh wave of tears from your ducts and forcing you to grasp at straws for any kind of separation you can put between you and a man you once called family. “James, it’s not like that-”
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No! No. I just-” A sigh turns shaky as you feel your lower lip tremble, the constant back and forth motion of his thumb finally breaking the dam in your eyes, a fat tear spilling over your cheek. As though his hand is not cruel enough, he catches it with his lips, pressing gently to your cheek. “I don’t want to be alone… Not on Christmas. And I know Joaquin didn’t mean to but, he went home for the holidays and didn’t even think to ask if maybe I wanted to go too. He knows my mom is… Well, wherever the hell in the world she is right now, and that I don’t have anybody here, not really.”
Silence overwhelms the tight space of the car.
Outside, the wind howls and rattles at the windows, smearing the vehicle in tiny flecks of snow. The bar’s lights have gone out, the bartender at long last free to roam home and sleep what little he can afford to before returning to fulfil his opening shift.
Leather squeaks as Bucky shifts in his seat, inching a little closer, and that’s when you smell him. A tickle of lavender, followed by an earthy sweetness that melts into amber and masculinity; the scent of sophistication, of a gentleman.
How could you ever forget that scent? You gifted it to him, after all, the very same cologne your father used to swear by.
“That’s not true,” he finally replies, after what feels like an eternity. In reality, only a minute has ticked over on the car’s clock. “You have me. Do I not count as somebody?”
You expel a breath of laughter, disbelief marking your voice as you counter, “You know what I mean.”
“What, so, one measly little divorce, and suddenly I’m chopped liver?” That damned hand of his is still insistent on cradling your face, slipping down the length of it to grasp at your chin with its fingers while the thumb takes to stroking your jaw. “Cause it sure doesn’t seem that way, not when you keep calling me for a ride any time you catch a whiff of wine. I’m just sayin’, kiddo, I’m here, if you want me to be. You could spend the night, finally see my new place. Then we could head out in the morning, get ourselves whatever we need to cook up a Christmas dinner for two, and make the holidays a little less lonely for the both of us.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Who said anything about have? I want to.” Finite, full-stop, no room for you to bend the truth in his words and convince yourself of a fallacy where he merely feels pity. “C’mon, kiddo. I’ll even make those cookies you like, the ones with the marsh-”
“With the marshmallow in the middle,” excitement catches your tongue and runs off with it, forcing words out of your mouth before you can think better than to interrupt him.
“Exactly.”
Protesting is a fool’s game, and so you give in, let him reach over and buckle you in, before shifting the Bentley into gear and driving out into the night.
You do your best to relax, to let yourself sink into the comfort of the heated leather, and the softness of his coat, and the familiarity of his scent. Streetlights flicker by in a blurry haze of orange, spotlighting the snow as it continues to dance in the air, meeting the ground in its crescendo. When the radio begins to buffer, losing connection with the poor weather, Bucky whips out a cassette and slips it in to play.
Princess’ Playlist.
You’re almost beside yourself, rereading the fading marker along the tapes edge.
He kept it. Even after all of these months, where he likely thought he would never need to use it again — that playlist, the very same one he’d burned onto tape for you, a compilation of all your favourite songs, and all because he wanted to make the drive back from your college together a little more fun, a little more noisy, a little more full of him failing to hit the high notes in Hungry Eyes.
Just when you think you can find any semblance of normalcy, sitting next to your ex-stepfather and wrestling with the all too common taste of guilt at the back of your throat, he touches you.
More specifically, his hand meets your lower thigh.
Just above the knee, nothing scandalous about it, yet that doesn’t stop you from spiralling when he speaks, “Can’t believe you were out dressed like that, in December. You’ve been living in Washington a lot longer than me, and even I know you need more than a flimsy skirt to keep warm. It’s snowing, for god’s sake!”
“It wasn’t earlier,” you mumble, the embodiment of a petulant child as you cross your arms over your chest and pin your gaze out the window, away from those steel blue eyes. “When I went out.”
Fingers squeeze at skin, a reactionary thing; a piss-poor attempt from Bucky to quell that flame of irritation your defiant words spark up inside his chest. It only serves to make you more aware of him, and his hand, and the way it’s forced to inch further up your leg when he presses on the breaks, the car coming to a halt just in time for him to not run a red light.
You can already picture the scandal of it all, the endless headlines… Wannabe congressman runs through light! Worst of all — his passenger princess is his ex-stepdaughter! So really, even if it forces his touch to travel north, maybe it’s for the best that the next three traffic lights all turn up red.
Over the speakers, a wistful synth begins to play, the intro notes to a song you know all too well. While usually someone feels glee when they hear their favourite song, all you feel is the bitter chill of Bucky’s hand leaving your thigh and grasping at the volume dial. Sure, it only takes a moment or two for him turn the music up, and sure, his hand is back against your thigh before you can truly start to miss it, but it’s back at the bottom of your thigh, no longer skimming along the edge of your skirt.
The mixture of coffee and vodka swimming in your veins becomes your own aphrodisiac, poisoning your imagination with visions you promised yourself you would stop having.
Of Bucky, hand grasping your thigh and commanding you, voice slow and deep, to, “Spread your legs, sweetheart. Wanna see the mess I’ve made of you.”
Of that same hand dragging up the stretch of your skin, teasing the inside of your thigh, only for him to press two fingers against your clothed cunt and whisper, “Shit, she’s crying for me, isn’t she? Should have told me, princess, you know how I like to kiss your tears away.”
Of those two fingers taking their time with you, stroking you over your thong and daring to dip an inch or two into your pussy, as deep as the barrier of lace allows them to penetrate, all the while he’s taunting you for, “Just taking whatever you can get, aren’t you doll? Doesn’t matter if it’s that boy-toy of yours or your stepdad, that greedy hole just wants something to stuff it, huh? Well, go on. Ask nicely and maybe daddy’ll finally let you feel what all your mother’s fuss was about, why I had her screaming my name so loud you used to-”
“Merry Christmas!”
The sudden exclamation pulls you from your daydreams once more, Bucky’s hand now balled in a fist and at the level of your mouth, expectant eyes awaiting for you to sing the next line.
When all Bucky receives is silence, he brings his hand over to his own mouth and sings into the invisible microphone, “With a note saying ‘I love you’, I meant it.”
With the combined vocals of George Michael’s velvety voice and Bucky’s rasp filling the car, you pray to god it’s enough to cover the whimper that shakes out of you, sinking a little deeper into the passenger seat as you search for some relief for the burning between your thighs, shifting your hips until you feel the sweetness of pressure against your clit, the meat of your thigh kissing against your panties.
God, maybe Bucky is right.
Maybe you should have worn something warmer, covered up a little more.
At least if you were wearing jeans, you’d have something to rut against. Nothing too ideal, yet the stiff seam of them squeezing up against your aching, drooling pussy might have just been enough to quench whatever newly founded lust has taken hold of you.
“You okay, kiddo?” And, of course, Bucky just has to put his hand back on you, landing halfway up your thigh, all the while he shoots you a cautious smile. “You’re dancing all over the seat, my little squirmer. ‘S it getting too hot for you?”
Not hot enough, you think, and subtly roll your hips up to meet whatever pitiful friction you can gather from the damp lace, panties pulling tight around the puffy lips of your core.
Another readjustment, another shift of your hips, another goddamn red light, and you’re dancing on a tightrope, building yourself to a dull end, a climax serrated by the distance between his fingers and you.
Does Bucky know what you’re doing? Can he smell the tangy sweetness dripping out of you, threatening to leak down onto the leather and stain his seat with you forever? Is he aware of the slow movements, the subtle push and pull you make towards your own finish line, all the while he continues to hum along to whatever festive tune plays on the tape next, hand squeezing your thigh in time with the music?
It’s getting harder to fight the need swelling in your throat, a moan that’s clawing its way out of you. Before it can succeed, you sigh, head rolling to the side and finding the cold of the window, eyes forced shut when that first wave of ecstasy finally hits.
“You tired, princess?” Is the care in his voice fatherly? Or is it something deeper, something warmed not in his heart but in the fire of his loins?
Swallowing down another moan, cunt still grinding against your panties, you find the will within you to nod at his question.
He gifts you with a squeeze of his hand around your thigh, and now you wonder if he can feel the tremble in your muscles.
“That’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re home, okay?”
For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even this whole year, things do feel okay.
Bucky is taking you home.
“Well, what do you think?”
Bucky calls to you, rustling around the kitchen and doing who-knows-what, one hand stirring a wooden spoon while the other scours through a drawer.
With his coat off your shoulders, his scent does not surround you — it drowns you instead, fermented into the walls of the townhouse. Sleek, modern, refined. The new home he’s made for himself in the city only adds to that distance life has placed between you; no longer does he store his favourite mug in your mother’s kitchen, or keep his record collection on display in her living room, or ease his precious Bentley into the garage.
Not a single trace of Bucky lives within your childhood home any longer, and the thought of it brings you both distress and comfort. Distress at the thought of change, comfort at the fact you won’t be there to confront it this holiday season.
Instead you’ll be here, tucked away in suburbia with the very person you thought you would be missing this Christmas.
Speaking of missing…
“I think,” you draw out the word, a twinge of humour lifting your spirits as you venture towards the kitchen and prop yourself against the marble counter. “That you don’t know how to decorate a Christmas tree.”
“Don’t be mean, kid,” there’s nothing funnier than watching a grown man try — and fail! — to whip you with a tea-towel, the cloth wrapping around his hand and claiming him as its hostage. “I put a lot of effort into that. Shed my blood, sweat and tears just to assemble the damn thing-”
“Uh-huh,” you can barely contain the fit of giggles taking over you, a dull ache forming in your cheeks from smiling so widely as he monologues about the trials and tribulations of decorating the heap of tinsel and baubels by the windowsill. “Is that why you forgot to put the star on?”
Stove off, spoon down, he tilts the contents of the pot into that mug — his favourite one — and slides it over towards you, tendrils of steam dancing upwards to flood you with the rich smell of hot cocoa.
“‘S not going to drink itself. Taste it,” Bucky commands, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the counter. The first sip has barely flooded your taste-buds with the syrupy sweet warmth of chocolate when he speaks again. “Tailored to perfection, isn’t it? Made just the way you like.” All you can do is nod over a second sip, cocoa pooling at the corner of your mouth. “I don’t forget things. Ever.”
You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ear, and feel it in your throat, and taste it in your mouth; a constant beat that spells out his name in morse code. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…
“Then why is there no star?” You no longer feel that giddy amusement, frozen in your spot with the nervous anticipation of a baby bird about to take its first flight — will you soar high into the sky, or will you plummet to the ground and snap your neck?
His hand meets your face — a habit he’s growing all too comfortable doing this evening, touching you with casualness, as though it doesn’t bring you casualty.
“Because,” he reaches a little closer, thumb swiping over the stain of chocolate at the side of your mouth. “The star was always your job.”
The words hit you like a sucker-punch, leaving you winded and bruised. Torrid winds drag you into a tornado of memories; a twister made up of Christmases past, in which your first night back home for the holidays passed with a cup of cocoa and the starring of the tree, it’s top sitting empty for weeks in anticipation of your return. Heartbeat moving faster, mind working slower, mouth hanging lower; the only semblance of a reply you can muster is, “Oh.”
There’s every chance he’s lying, creating a fallacy to cover up his own forgetfulness.
But you want to believe it, believe him.
So, when he offers “Why don’t I go grab the star so you can finish off the tree?”, how could you possibly refuse?
If you knew the answer, then perhaps you wouldn’t have ended up in your current predicament: stood on a dining chair, perched on the tips of your toes with an arm reaching up helplessly, and the itch of Bucky’s stare pinned against you, tempting you to glance back for the millionth time and take in the mouth-watering sight of him. Tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair a dishevelled display of stress; he looks like something out of those dirty novels, a stiff-lipped CEO ready to fall head over heels in lust with his ditsy new assistant.
He looks like the only gift you want this Christmas, all wrapped together by a disapproving scowl.
“Let me help-”
“No, I’ve got it-”
“Kiddo, you’re going to fall,” thick fingers wrap around your calf, a look of anger melting into one of concern as Bucky glances up at you.
Staring too long would be a sin. You pin your eyes up ahead and remind yourself of what you are trying to do, turn it into a mantra that both grounds and controls you.
Put up the star. Put up the star. Put up st- Oh.
When did his hand reach the back of your knee?
“I said I’ve g-” Before you get the chance to finish the sentence, gravity declares itself your enemy as you inch a little taller, moments away from forcing the golden ornament onto the tree’s top, and the chair wobbles.
You tilt to the right.
Bucky pulls you to the left.
With the blink of an eye, you’re crashing down against him, arms flying out to grapple for any semblance of stability and finding his neck. Bucky’s own arms travel from legs to waist, snaking around your middle and shouldering the weight of you, now looming over him.
Eyes meet and words falter, a curtain of tension closing in around you both. Inches sit between your faces, a distance you could so easily end by simply leaning down and bracing for the ultimate impact — your lips colliding against his.
You feel Bucky pull in a breath.
His scent surrounds you once more, tempting fate with its erotic energy, a battery ready to charge up your lust. You’re more conscious than ever of the mess that stains your panties, a wetness that only seems to grow the longer you feel his hands on you. Around your waist, gripping your hip, returning to your thigh.
You’ve never seen his mouth this up close, a set of rosebud lips that practically beg to be bruised with kisses and nips.
Bucky rarely kissed your mother. A chaste peck, saved for special occasions. Yet there was one time… You arrived home early as a surprise, only to unlock the front door to find him pinning your mother against the couch, rutting against her while he unravelled her with his mouth. A mess of tongue and teeth, pulling lullabies of pleasure from your typically reserved mother.
That night, staring up at the bedroom of your childhood home, was the first night you gave in to temptation and let your mind wander, your hand slip beneath your cotton shorts and your ears tune themselves to the low register of grunts coming from the bedroom next door.
No words exchanged, just a primal orchestra composed by Bucky.
A dirty sense of shame stopped you before you could really start, two fingers barely dipped inside the entrance to your gummy walls before you remembered who he was fucking in that moment, who’s marital bed he was defiling.
“You’re staring, princess,” Bucky makes no attempt to straighten you up. If anything, you’re pretty certain he just pulled you deeper into his supportive hold. “Get lost in that dirty little head again?”
A bucket of ice-cold embarrassment pours over you, drenching you into a state of sweaty palms and burning cheeks.
“What- What are you,” flustered does not even begin to cover it, his question fully rattles you — almost as much as the hand inching up your leg. “Talking about?”
“Really, this is the route you’re going to take?” God, why is his hand still moving? “You’re a big girl now. Graduated with honours, got yourself that fancy paying job, living full-time away from home. I think you’re old enough to be honest.”
“Bucky I really don’t-”
“So you’re telling me, when my hand reaches your underwear, I’m not gonna find you wet as a whore on duty?”
Your response takes a moment too long, frozen with shock at the sudden shift in his tone, the eyes of a would-be father figure shifting into that of a predating animal that’s at last locked in on it’s prey, “No!”
The world tilts back into place in tune with the way Bucky slowly perches you back up onto the chair, the fingers trailing up your thigh slowly grazing inwards as they slip beneath the surface of your skirt.
“D’you know why your mommy taught you not to lie?” He’s mocking you with a pout, head tilting to the side.“‘Cause you’re bad at it, baby. Pathetically so.”
Two fingers ghost over the front of your panties, barely a shadow of a touch yet enough to send a ripple through your composure, lips parting to pull in a breath.
It’s getting harder to stand, knees weakened as you witness one of your dirty fantasies manifesting before you and forcing you to question life as you know it — Bucky is not supposed to touch you like this, not really. His hands are only ever supposed to be a thought, a prayer, a longing for you to cradle close to your chest and never speak aloud.
How are you supposed to think straight when a set of fingers are hooking themselves beneath your panties and tugging them down your body?
“Last chance for a little honesty, kiddo,” he calls up to you, gaze pinned on your face above instead of the lace pooling around your ankles. Words fail you as Bucky quirks an eyebrow, awaiting whatever poorly-crafted excuse you have to offer, only for him to cut you off before you can really start, “You really think I don’t know what you were doing earlier, hmm? Sitting in my car, feigning innocence. Pretending my touch didn’t have you creaming in those pretty panties. Did it feel good, grinding like a slut in heat, fighting for whatever semblance of friction you could find? Should’ve just said somethin’, princess, or asked me to help.”
Help is the opposite of what Bucky’s doing, especially when he’s grabbing at your left ankle and lifting it, nice and slow, perching it upon his shoulder. All the while his eyes never stray from yours, never give in to the darker temptations that clearly are calling for him to check on the mess he’s made of you, the mess he let you sit there and think he was unaware of.
“She’s soaking under this skirt, isn’t she?” When you shake your head at his question, he punishes you with the bite of his nails, digging into the skin around your ankle; the first mark he’ll leave on your skin.
How many more marks will he gift you, before the night comes to an end?
“If you won’t tell me the truth,” still burning you with the heat of his attention, Bucky turns his face towards your leg and caresses his lips against it, a mockery of a kiss. “Maybe I’ll just have to check for myself.”
In what may go down as the most mortifying moment of your life, you witness as satisfaction takes claim of his features and an I told you so takes shape on his tongue when at last he lowers his gaze to where your underwear lies, a streak of sticky wetness staining dark lace and brandishing you guilty as charged.
But Bucky cannot just leave this matter well enough alone, no.
It’s not enough that he’s caught you wet-handed, still teetering on a dining chair with one foot tossed over his shoulder and a star clenched in your fist, dusting your skin with golden glitter. No, this man is an observer, a researcher, a sceptic; and therefore it should be no surprise when circumstantial evidence is not enough to satisfy his curiosity. He simply must experience it with his own two eyes and his wandering hand.
Hostage to his touch, he grapples for your ankle and drags it back over his shoulder, the bottom of your foot now pressing down against his trapezius. The stretch in your thigh has a sting to it, one that pinches at both ends of your muscle. If the circumstances were different, maybe you would complain. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too conscious of your bare cunt, now thrust into the spotlight, to really notice anything else.
“Well isn’t she just the cutest thing? All drooling and glistening,” he’s not touched you, not really. Somehow, that feels more sinful, because it leaves you space to still wonder, to still hope, to still agonise over all things right and wrong that you never could have imagined this man truly doing to you. “Crying for some attention, isn’t she? Begging for someone to give her the loving she deserves. Y’gonna let me give her it?”
Your answer is half gasp, half stutter, a broken concoction of noise in reaction to the first press of his fingertips against your lower lips. Eventually, you manage a sentence, “I have a boyfriend.”
“You do,” nonchalant and free of care, he indulges in the luxury of spreading you open, parting your folds to take a peak at what’s between the curtains.
Where he hums in satisfaction, you bite back a squeal.
“You are-” like he can tell where your sentence is heading, Bucky chooses the right time to cut you off with the dip of a finger into your honey pot, barely the tip of it swiping up your slit and landing a warning tap against your clit. You correct yourself. “You were my stepfather.”
“I was,” he replies with a casualness that does not match the way he’s assessing your body, inspecting the state of carnal need he’s placed you in. “But this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
“James, n-no, I-”
“Shh,” he circles around your pearl, marvelling at the way your body reacts to him, subconsciously grinding against the rough pad of his finger. “You don’t have to lie, not to me. God knows I’ve wanted it too. That first summer you came back from college… Fuck, baby, you had me feeling like a dirty pervert. Strutting around the house in those see-through shorts, and laying out by the pool in the skimpiest bikinis; you were like every man’s dream and nightmare all wrapped in one.”
Just when you think you might explode or burn up in a cloud of dust and lust, Bucky eases a finger inside of you. Thicker than your own, the stretch is delicious, enough to have you throwing your head back and your eyes slipping shut.
In the heat of bliss, you forget where you are, who you are with, who you should be with. Joaquin becomes as distant of a thought as he is in presence, run away to his hometown with his precious duffel bag and his sorry excuse for an apology, and abandoning you to the capable hands of a man who picks up when you call, a few drinks too deep and searching for any excuse to see him — even if it lasts only the short drive back to your apartment, in which you once again feign that it won’t happen again.
How many nights have you forced him out of bed and behind the wheel? The tally is uncountable, at this point, lost in time throughout the near-year he’s been living in your city. And not once has he complained, or told you to stop calling…
Now, knuckle-deep inside of you, you’re starting to feel why he’s been so caring.
“Do you know how guilty I felt, getting hard over my pretty stepdaughter? I thought I was the biggest fucking cliche, seeing someone young… Something shiny and new… And wanting her all for myself,” despite the delicate delivery of his confession, there’s a certain kind of anger behind each word, brandishing you in his disappointment while his finger starts a slow rhythm, slipping out of you only for him to push back in. “So imagine my face when, after months of cold showers and trying not to picture you under me instead of my wife, I catch my precious princess burying her nose in my boxers and splitting herself open with a plastic cock.”
“Oh my god!” You’re not even sure if your exclaim is born from the shameful knowledge he just dealt you, the dirty deeds you’d long tried to keep to yourself, or the fact he’s slipping a second finger inside you, pointer meeting middle with a curl, fingertips pressing up against the spongy tissue.
“Turns out the real pervert was you. Wasn’t it?” He grants you no grace period, no moment to grow accustomed to the new stretch of your walls, and instead takes to working an ache into his wrist, fingers scissoring you open. Toes already curling, one spine-tingling thrust has you buckling into him, leg slipping back over his shoulder and your hand flying out to grasp his hair, stabilising yourself like he’d ever truly let you fall. With a sharp tug to his scalp, you witness him moan for the first time without the barrier of a bedroom wall. “I know all about how you used to listen to us, to me. Hey, hey, don’t look so shy, princess. It’s okay, d’you know why?”
Somehow, you muster the ability to reply — not verbally, but with a shake of your head.
Bucky shows no sense of urgency to finish his sentence, lazily fingering your cunt while he drags the length of his tongue over your inner thigh, teasing its way up to the crease where leg meets pelvis.
“‘Cause I was doin’ it for you. Wanted you to hear it all, wanted to be the reason you’d turn on that buzzing toy and get yourself off,” a third finger joins the fray and Bucky at last gives himself a taste of you, tongue brushing over the side of his fingers as he licks a stripe up your pussy. It’s unclear whose response is louder: your half-choked cry of his name or his animalistic groan. “God, sweetheart, she tastes so sweet. Like fucking ambrosia. Do I need to start calling you my little angel, hmm?”
Like any good drug, one hit of you is enough to have Bucky hooked.
In a matter of minutes, he goes from composed gentleman — still clad in a suit and tie, poking and prodding you in his living room like you’re nothing but a science experiment, the subject in a theory on wetness he’s trying to prove — to a debauched image of a man, knuckles bullying themselves against the dripping lips of your pussy each time he buries them deeper inside of you, while his tongue lavs over you with wanton abandon, hellbent on drinking you down and angling the right amount of pressure against your throbbing clit to have your leg clamping around his head and an orgasm ripping through you.
Gone is the star in your hand, slipped out of your grasp and now surrounded by a mess of gold dust on the floor. You’ve anchored yourself completely in his hair, your head thrown back while your hips buck against his face, guided by the firm grasp his spare hand has claimed one of your ass cheeks with, squeezing and playing with the swell of skin all the while he continues to worship up towards you with words of praise.
“Look so beautiful, you know that? So fucking pretty when you let me have my way with you.”
“Wanna taste ‘er all the time, angel. Can I do that, hmm? Can I make my sweet girl feel good everyday? I‘d treat you so good, princess.”
“Wake you up with my tongue in this tight pussy, and fuck her to sleep, send you off into your dreams with my cum stuffed nice and deep inside of you.”
“ You gonna cum? Yeah, you are. Can feel her squeezing me, gripping my fingers like a fuckin’ vice. Let go, let me see it, c’mon. Please, princess-”
“Daddy!”
Perhaps you spoke too soon earlier, believing that Bucky’s knowledge of your actions in the car was the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to you.
Perhaps, instead, the name you just cried out in a blinding pleasure is far more mortifying, enough to leave you wishing you would fall off this damn dining chair and smack your head off something sharp on the way down, leaving you dead on impact and unable to deal with the consequences of your own actions.
Locked and loaded with an apology, you poorly attempt to gather the fraying edges of your senses in hopes of stitching yourself back together and appearing as anything slightly more composed than someone still in the throes of pleasure, walls squeezing around his fingers and clit bumping against his nose, despite the fact Bucky has been frozen with no movement since that word tore through your mouth.
You keep waiting for it to happen: the rejection, the disgust, the polite send-off to be followed by him never picking up the phone again, never mind laying a single finger on nor in you.
Unlike you, it never comes.
“Come on, that’s it, put your foot down nice and careful,” it twists up your insides to hear him still speak to you so softly, like his fingers aren’t staining your skin in your own essence while they grasp your ankle and guide you back down onto the chair. “Let’s get you off of there, yeah?”
You already got me off, you bite back the urge to say.
Feet back on solid ground, you continue to feel the wobbling effect of an orgasm, legs shaky like a foal taking its first steps when Bucky’s hand flattens itself against your lower back and begins to lead you towards the grandiose windowsill.
Nearly reaching from floor to ceiling, the window sits divided by multiple wooden beams cutting through it and curtained on either side by a rich shade of crimson. Past the glass sits a neighbourhood stripped right out of a Christmas movie, with twinkling lights as far as the eye can see and the fluffiest looking snow settled upon rooftops. Fireplace blazing out into the living room and the stifling heat of Bucky’s presence at your back, the subtle chill radiating off the window is inviting, daring you to press your burning face against it.
“See all those houses, princess?” Just when you think you have your breathing under control, Bucky’s hands land upon your shoulders and send a shockwave through your system, stuttering over your next inhale. “All glittery and bright. Full of families excited to spend the holidays together, just like us.”
His hands are moving, curving down the stretch of your torso and settling momentarily on your hips. With a soft squeeze to them, his fingers slip beneath your sweater and begin to draw it upwards, trailing the cloud-soft cotton over your abdomen, your breasts, your sternum, eventually peeling it over your head and letting it drop somewhere in the room — it’s hard to focus or care when his hands dive immediately back into business, fiddling with the hooks of your bra.
“In fact, I bet there’s even someone else watching the snow fall right now,” slow, calculated, Bucky sets your breasts free from their confines only to wrap them up in his touch, palms curving around you to take them into his grasp. He tuts in disapproval, two fingers pinching at your right nipple, when you give in to the feeling and let your eyes slip briefly shut. They snap back open within an instant and faintly find his own glaring in the reflection of the glass. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think there’s another house in this street with a woman staring out into the night, about to be pressed up against the window and fucked by her daddy?”
Lost in the moment, still trying to process the way he sounds out that dirty word, you barely register the way he drags down the zipper of your skirt and leaves it to collapse to your feet, a pool of satin too delicate for the debauchery taking place between you both.
Condensation prickles your skin and raises your nipples as he forces your skin to kiss the glass, the weight of his solid figure pressing itself fully to your back. That’s when you feel him, for the first time.
Thick, heavy, trapped behind the confines of trousers; the shape of his cock pokes against your ass, enticing you with the answer to a question you would have never dared to ask aloud…
“Wait,” a little less secure than you would like to seem, you call out softly when you hear that unmistakable noise of metal unclasping, a belt unbuckling. “I want to- Let me do it, please.”
“How can I say no, when you ask so nicely?”
Turning to face him, you’re struck with the desire for something a little more intimate, a little too out of reach of what you’re comfortable asking for: a kiss.
So, instead, you take over where his hands once were and finish undoing his belt buckle, sliding the expensive leather out of the loop before letting it fall limp against his trousers. Next comes a button and a zipper, pried open by eager fingers that unwrap him like he’s the final present on Christmas day, the biggest and best that’s been saved for last.
“Careful, princess, you might break one of those pretty nails,” he says, teetering off into a chuckle when not even the prospect of ruining your manicure halts you, tugging at the navy blue band of his boxers and at last unveiling the part of him you’ve been most eager to see. “Shit! Aah- Gonna ruin me before we even start if you keep touchin’ him like that.”
His warning is half-hearted, void of sincerity, as you wrap your fingers around the width of him and slowly stroke, tip to base, imprinting the shape of his cock into your mind.
Longer than Joaquin, and thick enough to have you clenching around nothing, pussy twitching at the thought of how sweet the burn will be when he finally splits you open on it. A mushroomed tip, blushing pink and rhinestoned by a bead of pre-cum that dribbles down the underside of him and traces over the pretty blue of his vein.
He’s mouthwatering, so much so that you feel yourself swallow back a mouthful of stale saliva, your gaze fully glued to the way your hand works over his cock, somehow getting him even harder than he already is, the tip playing a game of peak-a-boo with your fingers each time they encase it.
“Does that feel nice, doll?” His own touch meets your face, thumb brushing an imaginary hair from your cheek before Bucky reaches up fully to grab a fistful of it, blunt fingernails scraping over your scalp. “Having a big, hard cock in your hand? Bet it feels like home to you, huh? Like the only thing you were put on this earth to do is to make me cum.”
“Yes,” you breathe out, without truly meaning to.
Bucky welcomes your confession with a glowing smile and a tightened fist, shifting pressure on your head and forcing you to follow the path he drags you down, mouth hovering over the heat of where his cock stands at attention against his abdomen.
“Then get him ready for you, princess,” Bucky coos, fingers massaging at your jaw as you slowly let it drop. “Show a little gratitude and give him a kiss.”
The heady scent of man floods your nose and the salty tang of cum streaks over your taste-buds as you lay a delicate kiss against his tip, gazing up at him from beneath your lashes and watching as the pink tip of his tongue — a shade you now know matches his cock — wets his lower lip.
Before you can taste much more of him, swallow him as deep-down as your throat and temperamental gag reflex will allow, Bucky is prying you off of him and turning you back around. Hands pin your own to the cold glass of the window, a silent threat commanding you to keep them there, then his touch slips elsewhere, tracing over the skin of your spine and settling at your waist.
His foot kicks at your own, nudging you to deepen the spread of your legs and make way for him. Moulding you into whatever shape he likes, tilting your hips back to an angle he deems satisfying enough — one that grants him the sight on your naked core, glistening like the lights decorating the tree, and winking at him as you clench around nothing, your body far too aware of how exposed it’s become.
“Think she can take it, angel?” Bucky’s mouth finds your neck, smattering it in a series of sloppy kisses. Between your thighs, his cock starts to edge back and forth, rutting over your folds and lathering himself in your liquid lust, head teasing your clit with a gentle nudge or two, enough to remind you of how good the friction can feel yet never enough for your moans to come to fruition, dying out in your mouth as he retreats. “Or am I going to break her? Hmm? Do I need to fuck her so loose, no man but me can ever fill her again? Go on, want you to ask for it. Beg for me, tell me how bad my baby’s cunt needs her daddy.”
Why does it feel like such an impossible task?
Each time your mouth parts, ready to shape thoughts into words, all you seem to give is whines and mewls.
Until you manage a simple, “Want it, daddy, please!”
“I know, baby,” the head of his dick presses against your entry, slipping into you with a slow roll of his hips. The action is not merciful, meant to spare you from the discomforting stretch of him splitting you open. No, it is purposeful, a way for him to make sure you feel every cunt-drooling inch of him as he sheaths himself to the hilt. “Daddy knows.”
You’ve always been a quick learner: quick to learn that your mother’s curling wand was not to be touched, quick to learn that boys often say one thing and mean another, quick to learn that secrets tend to travel places they shouldn’t once you speak them aloud.
And now you’re quick to learn that Bucky fucks with no inhibitions.
There is no learning curve, no push and pull where he tests the waters of what feels good for you, no gradual descent into a feral state where an exchange of words becomes a cacophony of grunts and groans. Where Joaquin treats you gently, takes his time to build up the heat, Bucky throws you into a immediate state of boiling, blood bubbling beneath your skin as he pounds into you.
Full does not begin to describe the feeling, the walls of your cunt gripping at his cock each time it reaches that eye-rolling spot inside of you. The sound is enough to fuel your shame, a wet shlick filling the living room with each thrust he gives, balls slapping against your pussy lips.
His hands paw at you. Deepen the arch in your spine, dig bruises into your hips, separate your cheeks just to watch the way your pussy swallows his length, in and out, coating him and yourself in your juices.
Your own hands are faltering, slipping from the glass podiums he perched them on and making their way down the length of the window. Fingerprints imbedded in condensation, you smear streaks where your hands have been, grip failing you. Bucky stops them in their tracks, the rhythm of his hips never even faltering while he grasps at your wrists and manoeuvres them behind your back, hands pinned against your tailbone.
In the reflection of the glass, you spot as he reaches for his throat.
Silk binds itself around your skin, the brown of his tie now encasing your wrists and affording him a makeshift rein, the perfect tool for Bucky to bend you to his will, fingers tugging at the fabric around your wrists and forcing your body to jolt back against him, ass smacking against his pelvis and grinding his cock that little bit deeper into you, tip teasing at what must be your cervix.
“Fuck- That’s it, princess, fuckin’ grind,” teeth clenched, he drags the word out and emphasizes it with his own hips, stilled to the hilt inside of you and sending you slumping forward, whining as your face meets the chilled glass. “Back against him, show daddy how much of a slut you are for this dick.”
“Such a slut- I’m- Oh god!”
“D’you even know how hard it used to be for me, baby? Fucking your mother, trying not to call out your name? Shit, think I actually did once, but she was too cockdrunk to notice.”
The rational side of you is begging for a little shame, for you to find repulsion in the way he’s speaking to you. But you’re too far gone, barely managing cohesive sentences while Bucky continues to fuck you against the window, imprinting more than just the shape of your hands against the cold glass.
“You had me thinking I was seeing visions, baby. Thinking I was imagining your eyes lingering over me- So tight, wanna- Ngh! Wanna fuck this pretty pussy forever. And then I caught you, saw how dirty my stepdaughter was behind close doors. All those tabs on your computer, all those girls begging for their stepdads. Knew then that I wasn’t imagining any of it.”
It’s electrifying, like walking a tight rope between ice and fire. The skin-prickling chill of the frost-bitten window against your form, pairing delectably with the thigh-shaking warmth of Bucky blanketing you from behind, mouthing at your neck, filling your cunt with cock and your ear with filth.
“Now look at my precious pervert, all fucked out for her daddy and still begging for more. Wasn’t bad enough for you that you made yourself cum in my car, with nothing but my hand against your thigh, then you had to lie to me and feign like you didn’t want it, want me. Shut you up real quick, didn’t I, once I got my fingers and my tongue on this cunt. Now you remember that you’re mine, don’t you? Remember how badly you used to dream about me having my way with you.”
It’s all becoming too much, too fast.
His thrusts. The contrast of temperatures. The sounds of his moans in your ear. The sight of your own breath stretching over the cold of the window.
You’re losing yourself, faster than you can find yourself.
“Bet you’d have even let me take you in my marital bed, right where your mother slept-”
“Stop!”
The moment that cry leaves your mouth, the world comes to a halt.
Bucky peels himself off of you like you’re on fire, tearing at the binding around your wrist only to grab at your waist and turn you to face him, stare full of care and worry as he assesses you.
You can already taste the next question he’s forming, before he even says it, and so you beat him to the chase.
“I’m okay! I just-”
In a reaction unbefitting of the man who was just fucking you six ways into Sunday, you watch his shoulders deflate and the stress exhale out of him with a single breath, the confirmation that he hadn’t inexplicably hurt you in anyway soothing an ailment inside of Bucky.
Like he can sense your hesitance, fingers pinch at your chin and steady your eyes on his, “Just what, kid?”
“I want to, you know,” you blink away a shy look, swallow back a lump in your throat. God, why does he still make you so nervous? “See you, when I- When you make me-”
“Cum around my cock?” A shit-eating smirk takes over him as you shamefully nod, hands grabbing at your face as he presses his forehead against yours. “Aren’t you just the cutest? One minute, you’re acting like a cockslut, calling me daddy and squeezing around me while I list off all your perverted actions. And then, the next minute, you can’t even tell me how you want me to make you cum.”
“Stop being mean-”
He cuts you off with a kiss, mouth melting against your own.
You feel as Bucky sighs, like he is relieved to finally grace you with the intimacy of a lover, tongue prodding at your lower lip before you open and let him in. He still tastes like you, like cum and cunt, heady and sweet as he explores the warmth of your mouth.
The buttons of his shirt fall open much slower than the one on his trousers had, the movement of your fingers slowed by his kiss. Sad to feel him stray, even if only for a moment to discard the white button-up, you pull him back into your kiss with renewed fervour.
Bucky takes the lead, guiding you away from the window and over to the wall, forcing your back against the expensive wallpaper a personal assistant or underpaid intern picked out for him, the kind of home decor a man who thinks purple socks pair well with textured green shorts would never think to use.
Next to go are his pants and boxers, shoved unceremoniously over the globe of his ass and kicked away from his feet in a joint effort from the both of you, mouths still exchanging spit.
He’s boxing you against the wall, cock pressed flush between your bodies and drooling over your torso, the faintest stain of sticky white liquid leaving his own custom art behind on your skin. Leg perching itself on his waist, Bucky takes the hint and with ease slides both hands down to the back of your thighs, scooping you up and helping you wrap yourself around him fully.
“This how you wanted me, sweetheart?” His hands rise to find your ass cheeks, squeezing them as he guides your pussy over his cock, sinking you down nice and slow. This time, he’s savouring it, watching with awe how your pelvises meet and the subtlest bulge that makes itself known beneath your skin, a visual display of how deep inside of you he is. “Face to face, watching how eager you are to swallow my dick, and how those pretty eyes stretch almost as wide as your cunt?”
“Yes, daddy,” empowered by the desire swallowing his irises in a pool of black, you find that words come a lot easier in this position. “Want you so bad.”
“God, think I need to record that, make it my goddamn ringtone so I know who’s calling every time my baby gets a little tipsy and needs her daddy to come rescue her.”
Nerves still on edge and body pushed to its limit, it doesn’t take long for Bucky to build you back up to the same electrifying state as before. Cock filling you over, and over, and over, sending your back further up the wall in tune with each thrust of his hips. With one hand gripping your waist and the other weaving itself between you both in search of your clit, something rough and steady for you to grind up against while he chases your high from inside, Bucky is rewriting the meaning of heaven, reworking the wires of your brain and showing you that this was all you’ve ever really needed, ever wanted.
Someone to pick up each time you call, and to kiss all your tears away, and to know you in a way not even you do.
“He doesn’t get me-” Cut off by your own whine, your teeth bite down on your lip as you take a peak at the fluid motions in which he slips in and out of you, a white ring forming around the base of his cock the longer he wears you both out. “Doesn’t know me like you do.”
“Who, angel?”
“Joaquin-” It feels illegal to even think of his name, never mind speak it, while tangled up with Bucky.
“‘Course he doesn’t, sweetheart.”
His pace is turning brutal again, as mouthwatering and back-arching as it was against the window.
Fingers flex in search of him, weaving themselves around his neck and up his head, tangling in his hair while Bucky smothers you in him, chest to chest. Kissing at your neck, mouthing at your ear, nipping at your collarbone. Every inch of you is connected to him, body and soul.
“He doesn’t know how desperate this cunt is,” he’s panting into your ear, the exertion he’s putting into fucking you clear in his voice. “I mean, look at how she’s behavin’ for me, baby. Crying all over daddy’s cock, screaming out for more, more, more. Have you ever told him how much of a slut you are? Ever let him see those perverted links you use to cum?
“No, I never- James! God. Please- So good.”
“Stepdad gives his stepdaughter a thorough spanking,” he lists the title off so casually, like this hasn’t plagued your guilty conscious each time you finish to it. “Stepdaughter swallows her new daddy deep. Stepdad licks his stepdaughter’s pussy. Did you always have such a depraved mind, or was it because of me?”
Gone is the shame, you find no point in even attempting to feign a different answer as you cry out, “It was you, daddy. Just wanted you.”
The longer it goes on, the further you feel yourself straying from sanity, mind lost in lust and pleasure, tightening like a coil inside of you.
“That’s right, it’s just daddy that you want,” he stills against you momentarily, hips beginning to falter like he too can’t keep going much longer, the ache in his balls growing deeper and begging for a release of pleasure. “Wanna know my favourite, the one I keet going back to?”
“Yes! God yes- Bucky- Keep going- I’m gonna-”
“Stepdad stuffs stepdaughter full of cum.”
You recognise the title better than the rest, a tab still open deep in your phone from the last time you made yourself cum to it. Now, knowing Bucky has watched the very same video, hand wrapped around his big, thick, desperate-to-cum cock…
You squeeze around him without really meaning to, sending him into a flow of curse words. Recuperating a tiny bit of restraint, he continues speaking.
“‘S that something you want, princess? Want me to paint your walls with my cum? Fuck- Cause I’ll have you feeling me for days, have it staining your little panties and letting the whole world smell it on you,” He’s so close to caving in, the end in sight for both of you, yet he still awaits that last bit of approval. One last chance to make you beg. “Shit, maybe it’ll stick. Oh, she squeezed me extra tight at that, I think she wants it, angel. Wants me to breed her real good, give you no choice but to tell your mother how you went and fucked her ex-husband, seduced him right out of her arms.”
It doesn’t matter that your mother asked for the divorce.
It doesn’t matter that it was a mutual agreement, where both parties agreed they never truly loved one another and now wanted different things.
Your mother wanted freedom, to find herself in ways she never had before.
And Bucky wanted… Well, you.
Why not give yourself entirely over to him? ‘Tis the season of giving, after all!
“Cum in me, Bucky! Please, wanna feel it- Want you to flood my pussy, to have it dripping out of me while you just keep fucking it deeper- Oh god. Yes, yes, yes!”
A blinding light overcomes your vision, turning everything hot white as your walls clamp around Bucky’s cock one last, definitive time.
One twitch of his tip and he’s spilling into you, ribbons of hot, sticky cum filling your cunt. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t still the movement of his hips. No, he keeps rolling into you slowly, whining and whimpering in your ear as he milks himself dry into your womb, a shiver shaking down his spine.
The two of you pull the other closer, as though there’s any space left to cross, hands reaching and grasping and searching for an anchor in the hectic haze of your climaxes. Just as you feel a tear of his cum roll down your thigh, the soft stab of his cock still pushing into you, something pulls you back into the living room: a meow.
There his cat sits, a ball of snow-white fur, pawing at the forgotten star on the floor.
“We still haven’t put up your star.”
Hearing his laugh warms your heart, just the same as it always has, despite the lewd position you’re in.
There’s the faintest brush of his mouth over your cheek, the same spot he’d kissed earlier in the car.
Except now the tears in your eyes are full of love and ecstasy, instead of pity and despair.
“Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re here next year to remind me.”
No longer homesick, maybe Christmas won’t be so lonely after all.
+ extra hyde!
· raise of hands, who here is a freak?
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· pov: alpine watching these two freaks get it on:
𓍯𓂃 hyde-mas taglist ! @absinthe-xxx @angryoilslick516 @bucky-mylove @loveandlewis @jeezlouiisee @tooflef + add yourself to the list!
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
Canto IV - The Emerging Stars
℘ this was a mistake. all of it was. from the very beginning, it was doomed. you're too similar, too ambitious, too cutthroat. at the end of the day, you're only ever meant to be rivals...aren't you?
Warnings: angst, some sexual references but no smut, fluff, not really much to say except hope you guys don't mind that this is not proofread either sorry, when I upload the other chapters to AO3, I promise it'll be proofread
Word Count: 10.6k
Canto III - Masterlist
The lecture hall smells faintly of old paper and radiator heat. Morning light filters weakly through tall windows, catching dust in slow suspension. At the front, Professor Aldmahn adjusts his glasses and turns a page.
“As we see in Book XI,” he says, voice projecting in a way only one with experience can do without much thought, “the katabasis is not merely a narrative descent, but a ritualised confrontation with memory. Odysseus does not simply visit the dead or observe them — he negotiates with the dead. Knowledge, in this context, is therefore transactional. This is important to note.”
A few pens scratch. Someone coughs.
9am lectures always carry a sense of death to them. Something about waking up before the sun’s risen kills a person’s soul and leads them down quiet corridors with dark shadows under their eyes, life saving coffee cups in their hands.
Most students don’t like 9am lectures. Most students want to sleep in. You’re no exception.
Drained as you are though, there is a restlessness in you. A thing that itches to move its legs, to stretch, to run up and down the hallway screaming. Perhaps a ball of tension looking for release, perhaps some unresolved trauma from childhood, or maybe, much less interestingly, you’re just bored.
Boredom is a human experience.
It is a painful experience.
One that could be likened to pushing a boulder up a hill or walking in a field for eternity. It is an experience shared by all, an experience as natural as breathing. It is an experience you’ve never felt in a lecture before. Because, yes you are one of those people that others look at weirdly when you excitedly riff with other students or with the professor, who's done the further readings, who always has something to add, who leaves the hall buzzing. One of those people that can’t have friends in the course because you’re considered too much at any hour of the day.
Today, however, people seem to tolerate you just fine; someone to your right even asked how your weekend was and what your plans for the week are!
You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad change.
Professor Aldmahn continues, “In this sense, Tiresias is exceptional. He alone retains the ability to speak coherently and offer guidance. The other shades, in comparison, lack agency. They require blood to speak, and even then, what they offer is fragmented. Tiresias stands apart as a stable source of knowledge.”
If the professor’s deterred by the soulless faces that stare back at him, he doesn’t show it.
There’s a small shift to your left.
A few heads turn.
You don’t look.
“But that stability is questionable,” he says, calm as ever, voice carrying without effort. “Tiresias doesn’t provide a full account. He gives Odysseus what he needs to return home, nothing more. I think his wisdom is overstated.”
Professor Aldmahn tilts his head slightly. “Interesting. So you argue Tiresias’ usefulness is exaggerated? Is that a limitation imposed by the narrative, or by Tiresias himself?”
“Both, I believe,” he replies. “The information is selective. It’s shaped by what the poem needs Odysseus to know at that point.”
“And what do you think?” Professor Aldmahn’s voice redirects. His gaze settles on you. “You’ve been quiet today.”
A beat.
The room shifts with it.
You feel it. The familiar shape of an argument forming, precise and sharp. You could dismantle that. You know you could. It’s too neat, too contained. There’s a gap there, something unaddressed, something—
Your pen lowers to the page.
Some people sigh, as though aware that another miserable thing is going to make them regret turning up to this lecture. And for once, you’re on their side, and not on the other.
Lifting your head, you meet the Professor’s gaze easily. “I think the selectivity is the point; the underworld isn’t meant to be a place of full revelation. It’s a place of suffering, of punishment. The underworld offers partial knowledge, and only under strict conditions. To find any hint of stability and aid is already a miracle in and of itself. Narratively, the characters cannot rely too much on Tiresias — knowledge is supposed to be limited, restricted.”
There’s a small murmur. Approval, maybe. Or irritation. Certainly some grumbles of ‘Am I even in the right class?’
Professor Aldmahn nods slowly, smiling and revealing deep wrinkles in his eyes. “Controlled by whom?”
“The poem,” he cuts in. “Or by the structure of the nostos. Everything in that scene is oriented toward getting Odysseus home. Even the dead only matter insofar as they contribute to that.”
“Do you concur?” the professor asks you.
There it is.
The opening.
It’s almost instinctive: the way your mind turns, the counterargument rising sharp and immediate. You could push back, point out the inconsistency, pull at the thread until it…
You don’t.
Instead, you nod. Once. Politely. No more than that. “Sure,” you say.
Eyes bore a searing hole into the side of your head, challenging. You pretend you don’t feel it.
Professor Aldmahn’s pen stills in his hand. “…I see,” he says after a moment, though he doesn’t sound entirely convinced of anything at all. If anything, he seems confused and cautious in one breath. “Well, those were good thoughts, you two. Glad to see some people are paying attention.”
People whisper. Some glances between the two of you, waiting, expecting the familiar escalation, the relentless, eye-rolling back-and-forth that usually follows. It doesn’t come. Judging by the look on people’s faces, one would think the world was ending and trumpets were singing.
And when Professor Aldmahn clears his throat and resumes the lecture, there’s a faint, unspoken sense that something has gone slightly, inexplicably off course.
Is it really that big of a deal that you didn’t continue debating, you wonder to yourself, with a little self-consciousness dragging you deeper into your seat to avoid the looks people are throwing at you.
After the lecture, you pack up your things and head straight for the door. A presence appears at your side. Blue sweater, blond hair, long legs, and a tight frown.
“You don’t agree with me,” he says. It could come off as a question to someone else, perhaps an accusation or a reminder. To you, it comes with a tone of surprise, a hint of betrayal that almost makes you scoff.
Still walking, you hike your bag up your shoulder and reply, “No, I do not.”
“So why didn’t you say?”
Usually, daring to dispute the other’s point so publicly, or even at all, would warrant a long back and forth battle that didn’t resemble a debate at all, more like turn-based lashings. The two of you would glare at each other, scoffing, turning your noses up. You’d point out how he has bed hair and he’d say your lips are crusty, or something of the sort. People would roll their eyes around you but no one would step in. Not professors. Not campus security. Not your friends.
It could go on for hours.
Today, you don’t have it in you.
You sigh and, for the first time in about a week, you meet his eyes. He looks the same as usual, albeit more tired. It’s hard to tell if that pleases you or not. Seriously, you ask, “What do you want? To gloat? Or maybe you want me to get on my knees and blow you?”
He flinches like you struck him. Pink tinges his pale skin. A visceral reaction to the emotionless voice that pierces him. “No,” he says firmly, blinking hard. “No, of course not.”
“So? Is there something I can do for you?”
“A chance to talk, perhaps?” Nanami says, running a hand through his hair.
Coldly, you remind him, “You had that, remember?”
Nanami freezes. He blanches. Pales like a ghost. You know he knows exactly what you’re referring to. Is he actually surprised you brought it up? Did he think you were just never going to say anything? Did he think you’d roll over and carry on as usual?
“I did what you would have done,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
You grip your bag tighter. “Is that what you tell yourself? Is that how you justify setting me up to yourself, to your friends, to whatever higher power you answer to? All for an assistant job you’ll have for only a month, maybe some time into summer too if you’re hanging around, before you go off and have an actual, graduate job?”
Nanami frowns. “She would have asked you if I had said no. She would have offered it to you, and you would have said yes.”
“Maybe,” you admit, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Maybe, but guess we’ll never know because you eagerly took the offer, didn’t you?”
To that, he has nothing to say.
Nanami Kento…
Finally rendered speechless.
The sight doesn’t offer you much satisfaction. Another sigh, and you’re telling him, “Don’t be a pussy. You did what you did and you’re better off for it. Stand on all ten toes and keep your chin up. You got what you wanted from me — orgasms, momentary companionship, a job, the ultimate sense of superiority. You won. You won. There’s nothing else left you could take from me. It’s over. Don’t you get it? It’s done. We’re done. You won, Nanami, and it better fucking feel good, because it sure doesn’t feel like it on my end.”
Each syllable you utter leaves a deeper indent on the crease between his brows. He blinks through the words, tries to process them as he would a text written in Latin or a Shakespearean puzzle. His hands flex. His shoulders roll back. He takes every hit with slight winces. And for once, he doesn’t argue with you.
Today just doesn’t seem to be a day for debates.
You glance at your phone screen, and nod. “I gotta get to class.”
You look up at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the space between you. There’s no telling what he’s thinking, and at this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care.
From your position, he doesn’t look as tall or as blond as you remember. “Congratulations, Nanami.”
Your legs don’t stop moving. You let yourself be carried forward with the crowd, down the hall, where the lights flicker and the sun doesn’t reach.
Behind you, he remains standing, following you with his eyes and pleading for you to look back once.
You don’t.
.
.
.
Nanami Kento has known loss.
He knew loss at 6 years old, when he was passed for class representative in favour of a badly behaved boy who couldn’t even tie his laces on his own, simply because he was louder. He faced loss the two times he placed second in exams as a pre-teen — both times having been because he was ill the days of the exams, so he hardly counted those as reflections of his performance. And lost too many times to count in high school.
Oh, and how could he ever forget the horror that was the obnoxious loudmouths in his school, who always roped him into their shenanigans? The same horrors that followed him into university and became his closest friends.
Loss, he learnt from a young age, is a part of life. It builds character. Motivates one to work even harder, to reflect upon their mistakes, and grow.
Loss is natural.
Inevitable.
Loss…
Loss is good.
He knows that.
So why is losing to you so hard to swallow?
From the very beginning, from the very first day, you were a pain in the ass.
He remembers Induction Day so clearly — he had already memorised every single fact about the university and the course before arriving, so he thought the whole day was nonsense, but his parents had forced him to go. They wanted him to be more outgoing, to get out of his shell. To please them, he went.
“Does anyone know where our campus library ranks in terms of collection size in the country?” the student tour guide droned.
She was clearly tired. Fatigued. Bored of herself. Whatever pay she was getting for this little gig, it wasn’t enough. Perhaps that’s what contributed to the drained mood he was in; they were putting out the energy they were getting themselves, leading to an endless cycle of misery that not even a bullet to the temple would end.
“Yeah, it’s the second largest library in the UK,” a voice said brightly to the group, turning back with a smile that was a little too pleased with itself.
He recalls the wide eyes and bushy-tailed quality of that person, the sincerity in the smile, and the twinkle in those eyes that spoke of excitement and profound interest. They stood out in a crowd of anxious, pimply-faced, shy individuals whose faces and names he could never remember even if he was held at gunpoint.
That person on the other hand struck him as being someone who everyone’s gaze would naturally gravitate towards in a hall of people.
That person was you.
Of course, he had no way of knowing exactly who you would become in his life — a rival, a pain in the ass, a colleague, a… lover, and a reflection of all of his worst qualities. He did, however, know in that very second he looked at you that you would be a face he’d always notice on campus.
“First,” Nanami corrected, without looking up from the pamphlet in his hands. It slipped out. He hadn’t even planned to say anything, to make his presence known to the group of people he was sure he wouldn’t remember meeting after the day. Yet, he did.
And whether he regrets it to this day, it remains unclear.
There was a beat.
Nanami looked up then, feeling the weight of many eyes upon him. Most distinctly, yours. There was a challenge in your gaze. A spark of a flame that was being stifled by the lack of enthusiasm the tour guide was showing.
You wore an off-the-shoulder top he never saw again. It was somewhat out of fashion, a fact he only knew from seeing what the other students were wearing, both prospective and existing. Your Converse, however, were already worn in and you never could bring yourself to part with them, no matter how dirty or busted they became through the years.
The two of you cocked a brow at each other.
At the same time as he was sizing you up, he knew you were doing the same. He was sure you were looking at his shiny Oxfords, his ironed trousers, the structured blue sweater over his white button up, his smudgeless glasses, and combed back hair, and came to the conclusion that he was a complete and utter nerd.
He’s certainly heard the words come out of your mouth often enough.
Tilting your head, you said, “It was second, as of last year. They updated the figures.”
“Your source?” he coldly asked.
You smiled wider. Like you had been waiting for him to ask. Like he shouldn’t have. Like he was going to regret that. “Current.”
“Yes,” the tour guide drawled. “It’s second now. But second isn’t bad.”
The both of you thought otherwise. That was why you looked so smug, and he was fighting the physical urge to show his devastation. How could he have outdated data? How could he so casually humiliate himself like that, especially in front of a pretty girl?
Yes, in the very distant past, Nanami had once, quite briefly, considered you an attractive young woman. But something about you was off-putting — maybe your arrogant smile, your refusal to raise your hand to answer questions, your loud talking, your too-shiny lipgloss?
Or, maybe, he simply recognised a deeper evil inside you.
One that prompts you to fold the corners of pages, to crack spines, to eat as you read and leave greasy residue on book covers, that encourages you to rate books as you read, to chew on your pen lids, to mutter under your breath as you read passages, to clench down on him when you knew he was trying not to orga—
“…I see,” Nanami said at last.
You hummed. “Yes, I hope you do.”
“Your course?”
“Classical Lit.”
“Me too.”
“Hmm.”
And just like that, it was understood: you were going to be seeing a lot more of each other.
It’s silly, really. To be so caught up in petty rivalry to the point that you become infamous around the department, that admin staff have to separate you as much as possible. Even sillier that it would keep Nanami up at night.
Oh, he’s pondered how to destroy you so many times.
After every exchange, he’d be left seething, grinding his teeth, bouncing his knee, plotting how to best you at the next opportune. Sometimes he’s successful, sometimes he’s not. The latter mattered most. He could win 999 times, but that one time he doesn’t never fails to have him tossing and turning in bed, replaying your smug smile, your repulsive laughter, cutting words, and the way you spitefully strut away.
Nanami would love nothing more than to wipe your smile away, to smother your laughter, to dull your words into something resembling admittance of defeat, and to drag you back so he can continue his scathing monologue about the superiority of his own points.
He did all that but the last when it mattered most, and again when you gave him the opportunity to talk; he had nothing to say for himself.
What does it matter?
He won.
He got you to admit defeat. He got the job, got to have the last real word in the lecture, got to see you at your lowest. And he’ll have so much more beyond you after graduation.
So why can’t he focus on shelving the damn books? Why can’t he feel a sense of pride at the grateful smiles patrons give him after he helped? Why can’t he sleep satisfied and knowing he won’t have to be at the top of his game come the next day because you won’t challenge him anymore?
Why can’t he stop thinking about you?
“Any other symptoms?” Shoko drawls.
Nanami jolts.
“What?” he asks, straightening up with a small frown.
Shoko’s brow rises but ultimately says nothing about whatever trance he was just in. Instead, she continues stirring the olive in her dirty martini with the toothpick. “You were asking what that ‘painful squeezing’ in your chest was, remember? Like, I’m the Doctor of everything. I’m not even a doctor of anything,” she grumbles.
Right…
They’re at a bar.
The campus bar.
He’d invited her out for a long overdue drink, since he’s been so busy at the library for weeks. It’s a catch-up between cynical friends. Also an excuse to get an informal check up without the hassle of making a doctor’s appointment and trekking across the city to find out that he’s merely overworked and underpaid.
Adjusting his glasses, he says, “Yes. It’s been persisting for about a week now. Eight days exactly. It’s nonstop. Although, the intensity comes in waves. It’s distracting. Even debilitating. I also experience a shortness of breath — a panting, of sorts — that renders me unable to think, to see clearly, to remain standing. It happened last night.”
She leans closer. “Oh?”
“I was at my desk, studying. The pain was dull then. Forgettable. Out of nowhere, a notification from my bank came through — a deposit from my assistant librarian job, if I recall correctly. That’s when it happened. I suddenly felt like the room was spinning,” Nanami continues, fingers drumming on the sticky bar table. “I couldn’t process where I was or what was happening. I ended up…”
“Ended up…”
“Huddling in the corner of my room, clutching my body,” he admits. There’s a hint of a blush on his cheeks, yet he persists. “Does any of that sound familiar? Perhaps something you covered?”
Shoko blinks at him from across the table.
Then she laughs.
It’s loud enough to attract the attention of people around. She doesn’t care. Nanami does. Very much. But he knows he can’t do anything about the chortling she’s letting out.
All he can do is mutter, “What an overly-insensitive response to your dear friend’s admittance of medical concerns,” beneath her unrestricted laughter.
Five whole minutes must pass before she could get herself together. She’s wiping the tears from her eyes and clutching her side as she recovers. “Are you kidding me?” she asks. “Nanami, you big, tall idiot. You had a panic attack. You had a panic attack because you were reminded of your day job. I’m no psychologist but I’d say you’re feeling guilty. How can someone who reads and knows so much not know that?”
“Is that what Freud’s diagnosis would be?” he dryly responds, feeling foolish for having thought she would be able to offer any real help.
She snorts. “Freud would say you’re overwhelmed with a sexual urge to mount your mother, so I really wouldn’t listen to him.”
Left with no choice, Nanami contemplates the concept a little longer.
Did he have a panic attack?
The hyperventilating, the rocking oneself back and forth, the feeling like the world was going to end—
Yes.
Yes, he did have a panic attack, didn’t he?
He releases a long, heavy sigh. Resigned, he drags a hand down his face and asks, “And the chest thing? Why does my chest clench so tightly? Why is my chest so painful I almost can’t walk?”
Shrugging, Shoko responds, “Dunno. Could be something serious. I really wouldn’t rely on Med students for official diagnosis. Like, at all. Go to the doctors.”
“I know, and I will, if it continues on like this. But I wanted to talk to you first.”
“You’re not coming to me for medical advice,” Shoko points out. She leans back onto the wrinkled faux-leather booth and pops the olive in her mouth. “You came to me as a friend. You want my personal opinion.”
Nanami swallows a ball in his throat.
Her words ring true. Shoko may be a lot of things — mischievous, rebellious, a delinquent — but she is neither stupid nor a liar. Which begs the question: why did he not realise these things about himself? When did he stop being so sure of his character, of his thoughts, of his own body? And why doesn’t he know what to do?
He’s always known the right path for him. He’s always known the rational course of action. He never hesitates when it comes to helping someone pick their fallen items up from the floor, never doubts his judgment regarding someone’s intentions, never worries about anything other than his future.
So what the hell is happening?
“Guilt, you say?” Nanami murmurs, finding the word particularly bitter. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible. After all, I did do something unethical to get ahead; I should have never resorted to underhanded tactics.”
Shoko rolls her eyes. “You’re telling the wrong person, babes. Look, you’re a friend of mine so I’m always going to have your back even when you do dumb shit. You really don’t need to justify yourself to me. Talk to her. Explain all of this to her. Be honest, to her and yourself.”
“Her?”
He hadn’t mentioned a ‘her’ to anyone. He’d been quite vague about his time at the library, and how he came to be the last one standing.
She takes a sip of her drink, as though needing something to dull the frustration of dealing with clueless men. “Her. The her. The only her that matters to you. The one you jilted. The one you can’t stop thinking about. The one that’s literally causing your body to shut down, that’s breaking your heart into little pieces. Her.”
That gets the man rolling his eyes. “A girl can’t possibly be the reason for my symptoms. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Yet you knew exactly who I was talking about,” she points out. He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off immediately. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out. Here’s my professional diagnosis: you are burdened with a great sense of guilt over what you did, or whatever. To relieve yourself of your pain, you should address your guilt. In other words, apologise to her. Talk to her and reach a settlement. And maybe by doing so, you’ll finally realise something.”
Then she smiles to herself. “Hey, that sounded Doctor-like, right? God, I’m awesome.”
Brows furrowing, he asks, “‘Realise something?’ Realise what?”
She groans. “Oh my god, Nanami, I can’t do everything for you. Go do something to get her attention. Do something to force her to listen to you. Just talk to her. Confront her and all the things you don’t want to process, don’t want to admit to yourself. Just do something!”
A barrage of kicks under the table lands on his shins. Nanami shuffles out of the booth soon after. “Alright, alright. I understand. Right my wrongs, confront my source of malady, and relieve my psychological torment. Got it.”
Shoko watches him pull out his phone as he hurriedly strolls out of the bar. She rests her head on his hand and thinks, he don’t got a clue in the whole wide world.
Outside, Nanami sends a text to his friend:
Do you happen to know either of the numbers of Needa and Frend?
.
.
.
“Where are you guys?” you murmur as you text the words out to the group chat.
They’d texted you this afternoon, asking to meet up at the library before going to get coffee, which in and of itself isn’t odd — you meet up at the library often, being the diligent students that you are — but something about the location had your spine growing rigid.
You arrived on time, and had been waiting for about five minutes before they asked you to come inside. That was going to be a problem, you thought. You didn’t want to go inside. You haven’t been inside the library in over a week.
Mrs. Collins was in there. He was in there.
You didn’t want to run into either.
But you need to see your friends, and they won’t reply to your messages about waiting outside. Were they doing an intervention on you? Were they fed up with the depressed mood you’d bring back to the apartment after every class? Were they forcing exposure therapy upon you?
Or maybe, they really do just need you to come in as they pack their things up. Ugh, why is this so hard for you? Why can’t you be nonchalant and pretend none of what happened bothers you?
It’s a big library, you tell yourself. What are the chances you’ll see them?
Though, as you finally walk in, chanting those things in your head over and over again, you know you don’t quite believe in them.
The first thing you notice is that not much has changed. It’s the same library. Same polished floors, same tall shelves stretching endlessly, same muted hum of turning pages and quiet footsteps. The smell hits you too — paper and dust and something faintly woody. Usually, it settles you. Grounds you.
Not today.
Today, it feels suffocating.
The air is thicker. Every sound is sharper. The space itself is watching you, waiting.
You slow your steps.
You’ve always loved it here. Loved the quiet corners, the weight of books in your hands, the feeling of getting lost between aisles and emerging hours later with something new tucked under your arm. It used to feel like a sanctuary, like a slice of heaven.
Now it feels like a place you’ve overstayed your welcome in.
Familiar spines, familiar sections, all arranged how you would have done it. Then, something new catches your eye. A display near the front, freshly arranged. Hardcovers, crisp and untouched, their jackets gleaming under the overhead lights.
New arrivals.
Your fingers hover over one of the books, tracing the sharp edge of its spine. Untouched. Unclaimed. No creases, no history yet. For a moment, something in your chest loosens.
You almost reach for it.
“They came in just today.”
His voice.
Right behind you.
“We’ve been having more and more new arrivals recently. More so than before,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Hand dropping, you reply, “How interesting.”
Nanami says, “It is. It’s really quite interesting how Mrs. Collins had been able to acquire an increase in funding during a time of budget cuts, don’t you think?”
See?
This is exactly what you were afraid of.
“I suppose that was her plan all along when she purposely hired two people she knew hated each other — she waited for us to cause trouble, to make a mess of things, so she could go cry to the board about needing more support.”
With a sigh, you turn to him.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle, watching you. He’s exhausted, you can tell — dark shadows under his eyes, a slight stubbling on his jaw, a crease in his pant legs, his Oxfords not as shiny as they usually are, and his shirt untucked under his sweater all tell a story.
You’ve never seen him look more like a mess. Not even when it was in the heart of exam and application season.
Bitterly, you ask “Is this the part where we bond over how we were both used? Because the way I see things, it isn’t an us versus her set up. It’s me against you, like it’s always been.”
Nanami ignores you.
He strolls over to where you are. His chest meets your back, arms caging you in between the shelves. The familiar warmth, the woody scent over his soap, the slotting of bodies, it hits you all at once. You remain still. Very still. Wondering what he’d do.
Behind you, he lets out a shaky breath, nose skimming your hair. “We were too good at our jobs. We took too long to mess up. And one ripped page from a random book, when we were… She couldn’t prove it was us, and it wouldn’t be enough to convince the board what the library needed: one, protection from the budget cuts; and two, an increase in funding. So she got her hands dirty. She staged a crime scene, so to speak, inspired by what we reported to her.”
“I don’t care,” you tell him, unable to shove him away and get some air.
Shaking his head, he continues, “Now, she’s received special money to increase security and pity money to order more new additions. That, and she gets to go on holiday more often this year. It’s sickening, and we can gather evidence of it.”
“Stop ignoring me.” You spin around, glaring at him. “I. Don’t. Care.”
He frowns. “I thought you would want to do something about this. Call her out, report her—”
“Are you not hearing me?” you snap.
Stunned into silence, he blinks rapidly, as though reeling from your failure to meet his expectation — he expected that you’d care about justice, about vindication, about being right. He expected you to stand up for yourself, to fight, to win. What he didn’t expect is for your eyes to turn glossy and for a flicker of pain to flash in them, all while you stare up at him like he’d kick you in the stomach after petting you.
“I care that you called me unreliable, emotional, and not cut out for the job.”
“That was in the interviews,” he defends. “When she asked me why I was a better fit. That was before..”
You don’t hear his words; blood is rushing in your ears. “I care that you ignored me for a week. I care about being blindsided. I care about the reason why you would…” you stammer out, blinking back tears that were rising, “...after everything we did, everything we said to each other… How could you not warn me what she was planning? How could you stand there and do nothing? How. Could. You.”
“You…you would have done the same thing,” he repeats like it’s the one tether he has and he’ll grasp it till it frays and snaps. “I didn’t want to be the one left behind. I-I thought that was your intention from the start, with all our little games, the ones we knew we shouldn’t play. I thought you were fattening me up for the kill. I thought you would have done the same thing when given the chance.”
Perhaps disappointed, you laugh to yourself. It’s cutting, both yourself and him.
So that’s what all of that was to him: a complex plot to sabotage him.
You straighten up, tears drying and the towering walls you’d erected returning. He can feel the chilling gust breeze through him. He’s losing you. Again.
“Yeah, sure. You’re right. Maybe if she’d come to me first, I would have agreed to set you up. Maybe I would be raking in a bonus for my help. And maybe I wouldn’t even be chasing you to explain myself, to try and backtrack, to apologise. Maybe we’d just part ways understanding that in some ways — in ways that matter most — we lost to each other.”
You’d already figured out that, somehow, he’d gotten your friends to agree to help him set this up, so he can have an opportunity to talk to you. It’s likely that they thought it’d help you. It’s also as likely that Nanami had smooth-talked his way into weakening their defences with some promises or the other.
They’re not here, but they will be at home, and you’re going to give them an earful when you get back. Then you’ll lean on their shoulders and get the suffocating waves of sobs threatening to rise up and out of your mouth out of your system once and for all.
Nanami reaches for your arm, fingers grazing the material of your sweater. “No, it doesn’t matter,” he decides right here and now. “I don’t care if you would have.”
“Stop trying to talk to me. I have nothing more to say to you. Just leave me alone,” you say, snatching your arm away.
“I can’t!”
You draw back.
He…
Nanami had raised his voice for the first time since you’d known him.
People passing by stop. They’re staring at him, at the assistant librarian they recognise. They eye you too, but you pay them no mind. You’re far too shocked by how crazed he looks — hair a mess from the frequent running of his hands through them, face flushed, chest heaving, and stoic face crumbling into a look of total panic. He starts pacing back and forth between the shelves.
“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, and outside of sex, it’s so jarring to hear him say something so uncouth. He resembles nothing like the Nanami you know. The Nanami everyone knows. “I’m doing this all wrong,” he mutters to himself. “I prepared a speech. I ran through this scenario hundreds of times in my head. I anticipated your insults, your revenge, physical attacks, and I was ready for it. Any of it. All of it.”
Those piercing eyes look at you, insisting, as though begging for you to understand.
“Yell at me. Hit me. Right here,” he says, grabbing your hand with his own. He presses it to his chest, over his heart. “Hit me. Please.”
You try to tug your hand away out of his grip. He doesn’t let you. A little disoriented by the manic tremble of his voice, you carefully say, “Nanami, I’m not going to hit you.”
“Please,” he breathes out. Nanami keeps your palm flat against his chest. You can feel the thundering of his heart. It’s so strong you fear it might leap out of his ribs. “Please, hit me. Hurt me. Do something other than ignore me. I-I don’t know what to do when you don’t look at me, when you don’t argue with me, don’t shove your opinions down my throat, don’t gloat, don’t put me in my place, when you’re indifferent to me.”
The word came out like it’d been barbed.
He draws closer, unwilling to let you go. “I can take your constant chattering, your glares, your grating laughter, your differing opinions — wrong as they are.” That almost gave you enough strength to pull away with a deadpan face, but his soft gaze keeps you glued to the spot. “I can take your hate. Because it means you feel something for me, because it makes me special. It gives me a role, a goal, a fucking purpose. So hit me, hurt me, hate me. Anything but writing me out of your life.”
Your heart’s pounding in your chest now too. It’s beating with an intensity that nearly has your vision spotting.
Nanami was right, a thing he often is; you had been ignoring him.
It hurt too much to look at him, to listen to his voice, to know his eyes were on you instead of the lecturer. You couldn’t understand why he was so insistent on getting your attention, on talking to you, when he had been the one to cut you off.
He rejected your invitation to come up to your apartment. He kept his distance the last week before Mrs. Collins, the old hag, had made her decision. He accepted her offer. He stood by and allowed you to take the fall, because it benefited him, because he expected the worst from you.
And yes, you kept agreeing that you would have done the same thing. The truth is, however, you really don’t think you would have.
Values aside, because sabotage truly wasn’t below you, you’d grown to consider him a…friend. He was an ally on long days, a person to glance at when an older man asks where a copy of Lolita can be found for the third time in a week, a person who’d let you drink from his thermos when you’d ran late and couldn’t grab a cup of coffee, a person who brushed your hair into place after rendezvouses.
The line between you had been crossed and blurred; it was impossible to define your relationship. But an alliance was there. A loyalty you’d come to expect. An understanding you would have gone above and beyond to protect. He didn’t feel the same.
That was fine.
It was fine when that ache in your chest thrummed so hard you couldn’t sleep, when you’d spend classes and lectures with an empty notebook spread and a blank document. It was fine when you would find yourself standing in the shower for what felt like five minutes, but was actually an hour, just staring off into space. It was fine when you saw him talking to girls who he hadn’t betrayed, hadn’t sold out for a job, and it had your knees weak and your breathing staggered.
It was fine because it defined what you were to him.
Him grasping your hand like it was the only thing keeping him on the ground, like you’re about to disappear at any given moment and it would kill him, however?
Not fucking fine.
“Nanami,” you exhale out, scared, “that…that sounds an awful lot like a confession…of love.” The last syllable has your wide eyes meeting, equally as frightened by the word. “Is it?”
He lets your hand drop. You step back. No, stumble back. Nanami follows. His breathing is growing ragged, more so than before, and you can see a tempest spiralling inside.
“You tell me,” he says, laughing a little. “No, seriously. Tell me. Because all I know is I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t focus on any of my work. I can’t breathe when you’re not looking at me. I feel like I cease to exist if you’re not perceiving me, ever the proverbial fucking tree in the forest.”
Every step you take back, he counters with a step forward. He maintains the short distance between you, keeping you in arm’s reach.
Nanami continues, sounding angry, whether at himself or at you, you can’t tell: “I do things I shouldn’t do, that I wouldn’t do if it weren’t for you, like damage priceless books because I think your body’s more precious than historical artefacts. I steal manuscripts because I want to make you smile and annoyed in equal measure with the fact that I’ve gone ahead and written my thoughts all over it, left my mark, my soul, on something I desperately and pathetically hope you’ll go on and cherish.”
How did he get his hands on the manuscript?
The look on your face has him laughing mirthlessly.
“Of course you didn’t open it,” he says to himself. “You must have been too mad to, right? I ruined a beloved author of yours? Forever tainted your reading experience?”
No, you hadn’t read it; you couldn’t bring yourself to. You tucked the heavy thing under your bed, and, once it started to feel like it was burning a mark under your back when you slept, you hid it in Frend’s room, along with all other copies you have of the authors’ works.
Did she give it to him?
Now that you know he’d written things inside it, you realise you should have burnt it — you’ll never be able to fight the curiosity otherwise. You’ll forever be haunted with the need to know what he’d written, what he said, what he thought.
“Want to know something?” Nanami wonders. He doesn’t wait for you to respond, though you’d already started to shake your head. “I’m beyond happy to know I’ve made my mark on you, that every time you hear that authors’ name, you’ll think of me.”
Voice hoarse, you can’t help but ask, “What did you write?”
His lips quirk up at the corner. “Nothing you’d agree with, I’m sure.”
“You were insulting one of my favourite writers?”
“Critiquing,” he corrects, taking another step forward right as you step back. “I wrote down my thoughts, and anticipated your counters during my breaks at my internship, every time I was thinking of you and wondering what you were doing. If you were stocking, shelving, dusting, offering recommendations, cursing me out. I argued with my imagination in those pages, because I’d clearly gone insane.”
He certainly looks it, you think.
Especially when your back meets the wall in a corner of the library no one ever goes to and he cages you with his body, shielding you from locking eyes with anyone but him.
“That’s where I’m at now,” Nanami says, resigned to the fact. “I pleasure you with my body where we could be caught, and I don’t think about how terrible it would be to be seen in an intimate position, to get into trouble, to lose everything I’ve built. I think about how devastated I’d be if someone else were to see you in a way only I should. But then it eats me up that I think that way about you, that I dare lay claim to your body, when no part of you is mine. And I so badly want to have a part of you. Any part — your body momentarily, your pleasure, your laughter, your smile.”
You’re panting as hard as he is.
Your head is reeling.
You’re dizzy with every confession, every brush of his breath against your cheek, every graze of your heaving chest against his, every inch of skin his eyes touch. “Nanami…”
Bending down, he presses his forehead to yours. At the same time, your eyes flutter shut. All you can feel is him. A pained noise escapes him the moment skin touches skin. He sounds accusing, betrayed, when he whispers, “You’ve taken all of that away now.”
He’s everywhere, a shade from the depths of hell, that spirit that follows you and you cannot, under any circumstances, look back at.
His head falls to your shoulder, and you’re so still you could be a statue carved by Bernini himself. “And fine, I deserve it. I’m the worst. I’m a monster. And I finally understand why you’d prefer to talk over me in our debates — I cannot stand the sound of my own voice either.”
Lips slide up the curve of your neck.
You gasp.
It’s light. Barely there. Yet, it lights up a path under your skin, your jaw, your cheek, temple.
“But please, please, do not take your hatred of me away,” Nanami pleads at your hairline, unable to face you. “It is all I have left, all I know, and I don’t know how to function without it. So yes, tell me. Is this love?”
“Let me go,” you murmur.
He says your name in response like a prayer.
You push him away, and this time he lets you. “No, Nanami. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Wrapping your arms around yourself at the sudden chill in the air, you continue, “I need time to think. I need time to process all of this, a-and we’ve got exams, and graduation to worry about. I don’t know if I should even forgive you.”
“Don’t,” he says resolutely, licking his lips. “Don’t forgive me. I want to be kept in your heart and your mind, even if it is for all the wrong reasons. If resentment is all you can give me, then I’ll take it.”
God, when did the most cynical, pragmatic man you know become such a romantic?
With a nod, you back away as he stays where he stands, watching.
“Alright,” you agree. “Time and space. That’s all I need.”
Nanami tries to give you a reassuring smile, but his heart isn’t quite in it. He says, “Whatever you need.”
Like your feet are on fire, you start walking away, confused and adrift in a sea of thoughts and voices.
The last one you hear says, “I’ll wait for you.”
.
.
.
“Smile, sweetheart.”
Groaning, you force yet another smile on your face as your mother takes the millionth picture of the day.
“Just one more,” she insists, again. She tilts the phone, steps back, then forward, then back again. One would think she’s directing a full photoshoot instead of capturing you in an oversized gown and a cap that won’t sit straight.
“It’s been ‘one more’ for the past twenty minutes,” you mutter.
Behind her, your father fixes you a look that says, ‘make my wife happy or you won’t get your graduation gift.’ You smile even wider.
The campus is buzzing — families calling out names, bursts of laughter, the sharp pop of champagne somewhere in the distance. Caps are already being tossed, hugging circles forming and dissolving just as quickly. All around, mothers are fussing over their no-longer-children children, fathers patting their sons on the back, and friends are crying in huddles.
“Hold your certificate higher,” she says. You do, barely adjusting your grip. It still feels a little unreal in your hands; it feels like it belongs to someone else, someone more put-together, more certain of what comes next. “Perfect,” she says softly this time, snapping the photo.
With a plea in your eyes, you groan, “Please, mom, that’s enough. My feet hurt and I’m hungry. That ceremony took forever.”
“Okay, okay. Come here,” your mother says, pulling you into a hug before you can say anything. It’s tighter than usual. “I’m proud of you,” she murmurs into your hair.
Your dad steps forward, pressing a smile to your forehead with a kiss. “I’m proud of you too, honey. You worked hard, and I know you’ll do great, all that cheesy stuff fathers are supposed to say without crying.”
Something in you loosens at that.
When they pull away, eyes a little glassy, you have to clear your throat and pretend you don’t want to bawl up and cry. “Stop, you’re going to ruin my makeup.”
“Go ahead, dear. I brought your makeup bag,” your mother teases. “After all, it’s not everyday my baby graduates.”
Graduation…
The day you’ve been waiting for for years. It’s the culmination of all of the work you put in every day of your life. When you missed plans with friends to study, when you pulled all-nighters to make sure you’ve memorised your essay plans, when you’ve missed mealtimes, when you beat yourself up for losing easy marks.
All of it was for this day.
And it’s pretty bittersweet.
For as long as you can remember, there was always a next step laid out — another year, another exam, another goal to chase. School, college, university…it had been a constant, something steady to measure yourself against.
Now it just… ends.
A strange quiet sits beneath all the noise around you. Beneath the laughter and the congratulations and the endless pictures, there’s this soft, unfamiliar feeling, like standing at the edge of something vast without quite seeing what’s on the other side. Yeah, graduating has clearly been having a cheesy effect on you. You’re contemplative, poetic, melancholy, already nostalgic.
You think of your friends, scattered somewhere in the crowd. The ones who knew your worst habits, who sat beside you in lectures, who shared notes and snacks and stress in equal measure. It’s so easy to pretend nothing will change, that you’ll still see each other all the time, but you know better. Life has a way of pulling people in different directions.
That part aches.
But there’s something else too. Something lighter.
A thought that, for the first time, nothing is decided for you. No timetables, no deadlines, no predetermined path. Just space, wide and open and yours.
You exhale slowly, shoulders easing.
Maybe it’s okay not to know yet.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe you’re allowed to take a leap and just follow your heart, not your brain now. Maybe it’s time to give logic and reason a break.
“Come on,” your mum nudges, already reaching for your hand again, eyes bright despite the tears she’s pretending aren’t there. “We’re going to be late for our reservation.”
“Hold on. I have something to do.”
You push through the crowd, leaving them there for a moment. You bundle your dress up with a fist and hold your cap down with the other. Through the gaps between bodies and crowds, you move. You meander, searching.
Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
Then, a flash of blond.
“Nanami!”
He turns at the sound of your voice over the din. He’s dressed just like you — cap in hand, gown with the Literature department’s colours, in his best clothes under it. His family surrounds him.
For a second, he just looks at you, surprised. Then something in his expression softens. Hope, maybe. Or caution; he doesn’t want to assume. He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself.
You slow to a stop in front of him, suddenly aware of your heartbeat, of everything you meant to say slipping just out of reach. “Hi,” you manage, a little breathless. “Um, congratulations.”
He lets out a small huff of a laugh, almost disbelieving. “Hi.” Nanami steps forward, away from his family, who are sharing glances with interest and mischief. You feel his eyes take all of you in. “Congratulations to you too.”
Up close, he looks the same, and not. Still composed, still steady, but there’s a looseness to him now, something less guarded than before. He’s matured, you realise. He was so stiff when you first met him, so rigid. He’d grown more lax in the years, but especially in the last couple months. Nanami doesn’t look like the nerdy, condescending boy you corrected on Induction Day; he looks like a man about to take on the world.
“I, um…I saw you,” you say, gesturing vaguely, wincing at how inadequate it sounds. “I thought I should come over. Just to—” You trail off. Just to what? “Say hi?”
He tilts his head slightly, watching you in that quiet, attentive way of his. If he finds your sudden weirdness off-putting, he gives no indication of it. On the contrary, he just looks happy. “I’m glad you did,” he says simply.
And he means it. You can hear it in the way his voice dips.
Your chest tightens.
A month ago, you’d asked for time. Space to think, to feel, to figure out what his apology, and his confession, meant to you. You hadn’t reached out. Hadn’t known how. Part of you had wondered if that silence had already said everything. And you know, by how surprised he was to see you approach him, he was thinking the same thing.
Nanami’s gentle gaze skims your features. His voice is a mere whisper in the air when he admits, “I wanted to say hi too. At the very least, congratulate you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”
He’s being so meek, so shy. It doesn’t suit him. And it doesn’t suit you either. So you admit something too: “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
“I always want to.”
This whole time, you’d been wondering if you left it too late to respond. If by the time you came up with an answer, he’d look at you strangely and ask, ‘what are you talking about?’, and you thought about how much more that would hurt than whatever he did wrong to begin with. But Nanami’s not leaving much room for doubt now that you’re standing in front of him.
“I read the manuscript.”
He blinks. “Oh.” He recovers. “The courteous thing to do is ask what you thought of it, but I’m not certain I’d like to know.”
“Your notes in the first section, where she traces the history of the word, were irritating as hell,” you tell him anyway. “You kept trying to ground everything in formal sources. Legal language, institutional use. That’s only one part of it. She’s looking at how the word moves in everyday use. Who says it, when, and why. That’s where the meaning shifts. You can’t ignore that just because it’s harder to pin down.”
Nanami, despite your lecture, stays standing in front of you. “I see.”
“And the part on the reclamation of the word? She’s clear about that, and its feminist roots. It depends on context. It depends on who is speaking and who is listening. You kept trying to make it consistent when it isn’t meant to be, and I didn’t appreciate you writing quotation marks around ‘empowerment — it is empowering!”
“Sure,” he says. “Or is that another way the patriarchy keeps women down, by indoctrinating you to believe normalising degrading language against women by both women so that you will accept it when a man says it?”
“Shut up,” you counter, because he made a good point and you don’t really have the time to break that down. “Also, you kept anticipating what I would say. Some of it was right. Not all of it. You assumed I’d defend everything she wrote. I wouldn’t. Some of it is speculative, I’m smart enough to recognise that, despite my biases towards Rightur.”
He adjusts his glasses. “Of course you are. I did write some of those comments to get a reaction. Forgive me.”
“No, I knew that,” you say. Shuffling in your heels, you fiddle with the tassel on your cap. “I just wanted you to know that I read your notes, and I didn’t find it as completely irritating as I initially thought. I actually kinda enjoyed reading them, and there were times where I anticipated what you’d say, and I could imagine the faces you’d make, and that was the annoying part. I couldn’t read without thinking of you.”
Nanami’s brows knit together.
“I don’t understand.”
Taking a deep breath, you say, “Listen, I won’t keep you; I’m sure you have plans with your family. I do too. All I wanted to say before we parted ways is that, I’m thankful for you, for the manuscript, for the games we shouldn’t have played, for our debates.”
His mouth opens, you stop him with a hand.
“No, just let me speak,” you huff. He does. “I’m grateful for you pushing me, for you being a pain in my ass, for making these three years memorable and fun. I know that if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have pushed myself as far as I did. I wouldn’t have found every achievement as gratifying and fulfilling as I did; they would have been like all my other successes: a relief.”
It’s funny how you hadn’t rehearsed any of these words and yet they flow out of you so naturally. You’d thought about how hard it’d be to face him, but as it turns out, it’s not that hard at all.
You continue, cheeks heated under the watchful and curious eyes of his family,“And most of all, I’m thankful for your honesty that day. I never stopped thinking about what you said, and all I worried about was whether I’d be able to say anything remotely as heartfelt and poetic, and that really grinded my gears, y’know?”
“That I’d be more eloquent and sophisticated with my confession than you?” Nanami fills in the gaps, cocking a brow as he does.
Sheepishly, you nod. “Yeah. I had all this time, and all I could think to say is… I hate you.”
He falters just slightly, then recovers with a smile. “You do?”
“Yes,” you say, meeting his eyes with certainty. “I hate you. I hate you so, so much. I hate everything about you: your blondness, the fact that you sometimes make good points, that you remind me natural intelligence isn’t enough. I hate that you judge me for dog-earring my pages and cracking my spine. I hate that you read a new book every week and I read the same ones all the time. I hate that you’ve got impaired vision but you see better than me.”
His family behind him try to step up, concerned as to why their beloved Nanami is probably being bullied, but he steps closer to you, ignoring them.
“Yeah?”
Sniffling, you mutter, “Yeah. I hate that you’ve already formed a little wrinkle between your eyebrows because you’re always so serious, and it makes me giggle to see you look so mad when you’re just writing notes or putting books away.”
Nanami smiles wider. “You hate my wrinkle? What else?”
“I hate that you’re so patient, even when people say and do the stupidest things. I hate that you match your sweaters to your mood — light blue for when you received good news, dark blue when you’re tired, and brown for when you’re meeting friends. I hate that I associate blue and yellow to you, and I can’t look up at the sky or the sea without thinking of you. I hate that you’re everywhere I look. I hate, hate, hate, that we might never see each other again.”
He draws closer till you’re craning your neck to look up at him. He’s smiling really hard now. Grinning ear to ear. Hands cradle your cheeks and you let him feel how heated they are, let him brush his thumbs over them.
“Oh, you poor thing,” he drawls. “You must be overwhelmed with hate.”
You scrunch your nose, even as you lean into his touch. “Yeah, but it comes naturally to me. You drive me insane, you see.”
“Mm,” he hums, thumbs still brushing gently over your cheeks, like he’s committing the shape of you to memory, like he thought he’d never get the chance to touch you again. Not a hint of embarrassment at the fact that his family’s watching shows on his face. He might have forgotten they’re there at all. “Sounds terminal.”
“It is,” you murmur, though your voice wobbles. “I don’t think I’ll recover.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he says. “I think I caught the same thing. Must have gotten it from me. Forgive me.”
The two of you share light laughter. And it’s so easy. It’s as easy as arguing, as reading, as wishing the worst for someone who made you the best. You could spend hours like this. But your parents are waiting, and so are his.
Your hands come up, almost without thinking, settling over his wrists. “I was serious about the not seeing you again thing. I want to see you after this. I don’t—” you shake your head, searching for the words, “—I don’t want that to be how this ends. I don’t want you to just become…a person I used to know.”
“Neither do I,” he says, sure.
“So,” you say, forcing a steadiness you don’t quite feel, “can we try again? Not necessarily to fix everything right now and pretend nothing happened, but just…to meet? Talk properly?”
His answer comes too quickly to be anything but honest: “Yes. Yes, please.”
It almost makes you laugh, how immediate it is. “Okay,” you say, a little breathless. “Okay, good. Then, when are you free?”
That’s when he hesitates. It’s subtle, yet you catch it instantly. He glances back briefly, like he just remembered they existed. “My family’s going on a trip, to celebrate. We’ve got more relatives to visit around the country, and it was planned weeks ago.”
Nanami’s explaining as though he needs to justify any of it, but all you’re thinking is, of course it was. Of course the timing would be like this. Of course you’re too late.
“Oh,” you repeat, softer this time.
Something in your face must give you away, because his hands tighten slightly against your cheeks. “I’ll come back,” he says, firm now.
You blink. “What?”
“I’ll drive back as soon as I can,” he continues, as though he’s already decided it, as though it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “We won’t leave it like this again. I won’t.”
“Nanami—”
“I mean it,” he insists, quieter but no less intense. “If this is…if this is you giving me a chance, I’m not going to miss it. I’ll come back. We’ll talk. Properly.”
There’s something almost desperate in the way he says it; he’s already mapped it out in his head, already prepared to bend whatever he has to just to make it happen, already rushing through conversations and parties with relatives he’s not even very close to.
You stare at him for a moment, a little stunned. “…You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. None.
A small, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “God, I hate that you’re like this.”
“I know.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling now, really smiling. “Okay,” you say. “Then… go. Do your family thing.”
“I will,” he says, though he doesn’t move. Not yet.
“And come back,” you add.
“I will.”
A beat.
“…Where are you even going?” you ask, suddenly realising you don’t actually know, realising that if you’re going to do this — whatever this is — you have to ask questions. It’s what girlfriends do, or whatever you are or will be to him.
For the first time since you started speaking, something unreadable flickers across his face. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, smoothed over into something fine.
But not quite as warm.
“Shibuya.”
“Shibuya,” you repeat. “Sounds fun.”
Nanami peers into your eyes before he draws back. Crowds reappear in your peripheral. The noise sets in again, almost deafening. He’s smiling, and so are you. Whatever you wear on your face, he reflects threefold.
You back away too, back the way you went, back to where your parents are waiting.
The wind blows between you, carrying petals with them, which swirl around your bodies.
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
Canto III - The Dark Descent
℘ stakes have been added to the pot. you should stop letting him part your legs, should stop allowing him to light your fire, but no harm no foul if you guys just continue as you have been, no?
Warnings: smut, cunnilingus, public sexual activities/trying not to get caught, fucking in front of a mirror, inappropriate use of a cart/book/stamp, body marking, outercourse, cúm eating, kicking someone in the balls, rivals to lovers, not very slowburn at all, some dark humour, Nanami and reader being mean to each other, both are Classical Literature students, some sexual jokes, not proofread — actually not. this went through so many revisions I doubt it's even coherent (do let me know if you spot typos and inconsistencies, that would be very helpful!)
Word Count: 15.1k
Canto II - Masterlist - Canto IV
Low grunts fill the bathroom stall.
Your mouth is full with his cock, which he’s desperately thrusting inside you.
“God, look at you,” he rasps, a hand guiding your head back and forth on his impressive length. “So sweet and agreeable when you -hah fuck- have something to occupy that dirty mouth of yours, aren’t you?”
Soon as he clocked in this morning, he’d claimed victory over the fact that he was first to arrive. It was a flimsy excuse for a competition, but you let it slide. Nanami took you to the women’s bathroom — well, he initially tried to lure you to the men’s, and that just wasn’t going to happen so you dug your heels in — and was initially going to eat you out whilst you were sitting on the toilet lid but you insisted.
You roll your eyes. You’re always sweet and agreeable, just with people who aren’t bitter and hard to agree with because they’re wrong. Aggrieved, you grip his balls too fast and too hard all so you’d hear his sharp intake of air and feel his cockhead bump the back of your throat.
“Mm, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”
Tossing his head back, he explodes in your mouth with no other warning except for the final throbbing of his cock.
You swallow it all. Whilst you get to your feet, you think about how much easier it’s becoming for you to take him down your throat, for you to swallow his cum, and generally tolerate his entire being.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
“Don’t mention it,” you reply, wiping your lips.
He’s still panting by the time both of your phones ping.
“It’s Mrs. Collins,” you announce, frowning.
Nanami tucks himself back inside his slacks. “I wonder what she wants.”
The two of you exit, taking advantage of the fact that the library has yet to open to the general campus. You both wash your hands in relative silence as though he hadn’t been bruising your throat and smacking your chin with his swinging balls for the last ten minutes.
Outside is clear too.
You walk to her office, down from the second floor.
A little worried, you ask in a hushed voice, “You don’t think she knows what we’ve been doing, do you?”
He takes a second or two to think about it. Then, certain, or at least wanting to convince himself he’s certain, he answers, “No. We’ve been careful.”
Though as he says those words, you know that, with the awkward air hanging over you, neither of you really believe those words. The absolute truth is, you haven’t been very careful at all. In fact, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’ve been indulging in being careless too much; it turned you both on to know you could be caught by anyone at any second.
Eventually, you both reach her door. You knock.
“Good morning, Mrs. Collins,” you say in unison.
She’s sitting behind her desk, rubbing at her temple with one hand and holding her reading glasses with the other. A beckon with her hand has you sliding in a seat across from her desk, Nanami in the other.
Despite yourselves, you share a glance — this looks serious.
Mrs. Collins exhales slowly, setting her glasses down on the desk with a soft clink.
“Yes, good morning,” she replies, though there’s a weariness in her voice that immediately puts you on edge. Her fingers press briefly to her temple again before she straightens, folding her hands together in a way that feels…rehearsed almost.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “No point in beating around the bus with you two.”
Your spine stiffens.
Beside you, Nanami goes still.
Is this it? Is she going to out you two for indecent behaviour? Is she going to reveal CCTV footage of your pussy being munched right by the feminist literature section and lecture you on the irony of it all? Did you leave behind evidence? A panty, drops of cum she got forensics to do DNA tests on, or witnesses?
Are you going to be fired?
Expelled?
Sent to jail?
Drawn and quartered?
“There have been some…adjustments made to the department budget.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Unfortunately, the library has not been spared.”
A beat.
You feel your stomach drop — for a different reason than you’d been anticipating. Relief doesn’t settle inside. How could it when a different bomb’s been dropped on you?
“We’ve had our funding cut,” she continues, more firmly now. “Quite significantly.”
Silence settles over the room. You glance at Nanami, and he’s already looking at you — sharp, assessing, like he’s trying to piece together the implications before they’re fully spoken.
Mrs. Collins doesn’t leave you waiting long. “As a result,” she says, “I can only retain one of you through to the end of the academic year.”
The words land heavily. For a moment, neither of you reacts.
“What?” you blurt, sitting forward before you can stop yourself. “You can’t be serious.”
Nanami’s jaw tightens, though his tone stays controlled. “On what basis is that decision being made?”
Mrs. Collins sighs, as though she’s already had this conversation a dozen times in her head. “That,” she says, “is precisely the difficulty.”
You swallow, exchanging another quick glance with Nanami. You can see it in his expression too: the rug’s been pulled from under him. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Too much uncertainty rides along in her words.
Mrs. Collins continues, oblivious. “You’re both excellent in your own ways. Truly outstanding,” she says. “But I don’t have the resources to justify keeping you both on. So…” She leans back slightly, eyes moving between the two of you. “I’m giving you a choice.”
That growing knot in your stomach twists again.
“You may decide between yourselves,” she says plainly. “Or, I will observe your work over the course of the next three weeks and make the decision myself.” The room feels smaller suddenly. “By the end of the month,” she finishes, not sounding the least bit pleased about any of this, “I will inform one of you that your contract will not be extended. Whoever gets to stay will have the opportunity to work for the last month or so of the academic year, and as long through summer as they please.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “You’re asking us to…what? Compete for a role we already competed for?”
That truly shouldn’t be such a disgusting word to utter; you’ve been competing for years. Now, however, when it’s being enforced by a third party, it feels cheap, ridiculous, completely and utterly absurd.
“I’m asking you to be practical,” Mrs. Collins replies, not unkindly. She is not happy with the turn of events herself. “This is an unfortunate situation, but it is the reality. You needn’t do anything but be yourself. I’ll take on the burden.”
Another pause. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the office suddenly feels deafening. You glance at Nanami again, but this time it’s different. Not shared amusement nor quiet complicity. Something tighter. More uncertain. Because for the first time since this whole…thing between you began, the two of you are being placed on opposite sides of something real.
Mrs. Collins folds her hands again. “I’ll give you some time,” she says. “But not too much. I expect an answer soon.” Her gaze lingers, measured, final.
“You may go.”
Neither of you moves immediately.
And when you do stand, it’s slower than before, like an invisible thing has shifted between you on the way in, and neither of you quite knows how to step around it on the way out.
Nanami’s the first to speak ten minutes later as you’re both opening the heavy doors and letting the early birds reserve their seats. He says, “There’s no conceivable way we’ll agree on who should stay and who should leave, so I suggest we leave it up to her. It’s the fairest option.”
Already walking away to push a heavy cart down the shelves, you follow him. “You’re not actually considering competing for this role, are you?”
“What’s so wrong about that?”
That familiar wrinkle between his brows has appeared as he frowns down at you. He begins shelving the books away cool, calm and collected, like he always is, and it’s irritating you more than usual.
“Um, maybe the fact that we’d already competed to have this job in the first place? And now she’s just taking it from us? After all the interviews, the bullshit application forms and the ‘tell us something no one knows about you’ farce?”
Sighing, he leans against a shelf, arms crossed. “We have no choice — the decision was clearly made above her head.”
“So that’s it?” you ask him. “You’re fine with us having to fight each other for a job?”
Nanami looks at you over the rim of his glasses. There’s a certain weight to his question when he counters, “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this entire time? What’s the difference now? Apart from the tangible consequences looming beyond our…”
You don’t need him to finish his sentence; you got it.
Technically, he wasn’t wrong — a thought you keep to yourself. Competing is something you’re familiar with. Even once you both secured the jobs over many other applicants, you were aware that the competition hadn’t ended. You were always going to have to be on your A-game to show him up, for your pride and satisfaction.
However, you can’t seem to shake off the feeling that something’s different this time, something irreversible, a loss that the loser will suffer that neither of you are ready for.
“You’re aware then that we’ll have to really give this our all, right?” you say, finally coming to a conclusion he already reached. “We can’t keep sneaking around, blurring lines, getting involved with each other. If we’re rivals, we’re rivals.”
He swallows hard and adjusts his glasses. Nanami extends a hand out.
“May the best man, or woman, win.”
You don’t shake it. You walk away from him and from the conversation with pursed lips. Under your breath, you mutter, “Oh, she will.”
The rest of the morning is spent not in each other’s pants but rather in a blur of menial and meticulous tasks that leave barely a moment to breathe or fucking think — collecting returned books, helping people find what they’re looking for, checking books out, giving recommendations, cataloging a fresh shipment of books that seems to have doubled overnight, your fingers sticky with dust jackets and your eyes straining to read tiny print on the spine labels, and blah blah blah.
Nanami is elsewhere, reshelving rare texts, stamping due dates, checking inventory lists, or killing babies, you don’t know.
Once, you caught sight of him and a girl. She gave him a shy smile, and he returned a warm one back. You didn’t hear their conversation, you don’t know what she wanted, and what he replied, and you realised it’s probably best — if she can successfully distract him, that would be wonderful.
Generally, though, you try not to think too much about him; getting caught up in what your competition is doing, after all, is a sure-fire way to lose your footing.
But perhaps tension in your shoulders did release when you notice she’s nowhere to be seen after and he’s still here, as serious as he always looks when he’s focused.
The library is large, but the quiet makes every movement sound like an announcement, and you’re acutely aware of the other’s presence without needing to see him.
When your paths cross, it’s brief, perfunctory. You’ll reach for the same cart, hesitating a heartbeat too long before sliding past each other, shoulders brushing lightly, eyes flicking up and meeting, just for an instant. Each glance is careful, loaded with silent calculation.
Neither of you smiles, neither speaks, but it’s a conversation all the same.
A warning, a challenge, a question: who will falter first?
It’s nearing lunch break — when you can clock off, grab some food with your friends, and then head off to your afternoon classes.
You’re behind the desk, taking over for Loretta, one of the older ladies. Stamping due dates, a voice makes you look up.
“Hey,” he says, leaning casually against the counter. Tall, well-dressed, a little sun-kissed from the outdoors, with a smile that’s perfectly practiced. “You’ve been avoiding me, huh?”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
He grins, tilting his head as if that should explain everything. “I gave you my number weeks ago. Why haven’t you messaged me?”
Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I…what?”
Is he drunk? Do you need to call campus security? Maybe he’s a crackhead; the well dressed, rich-looking kids were always on coke, you’ve noticed.
The guy laughs, a little embarrassed, but persistent. “Yeah. Remember? I gave it to—” he glances to the side of the desk where Nanami had been helping with the returns earlier— “your coworker here. Asked him to hook me up.”
Something clicks in your brain. You pause mid-stamp, eyes widening. “Wait…you’re telling me you’ve been trying to reach me…through him?”
“Uh… yeah?” he says, shrugging, still smiling like it’s not a big deal. “He said he’d get me your attention, but—” he gestures vaguely—“guess that didn’t exactly happen.”
There’s nothing you can do but blink. The whole conversation’s confusing you so badly. What on Earth is happening?
When he doesn’t see you fawning, he sighs and mutters to himself, “Shoulda listened to the others. That guy’s really not helpful at all.”
Others?
Over the past month, several guys in the library had given you looks, had lingered a little too long at the front desk, and nothing ever happened. Sure, they’d come up to you and directly ask, but you’d turn them away because you’re too busy trying to put away the most books. You didn’t think much about any of it.
Things are starting to make sense and simultaneously only leave you more confused the more you try to think about it now.
You look toward the stacks, half-expecting to see him watching.
And there he is, precise as always, shelving a row of books, perfectly still, expression neutral but eyes flicking toward you ever so slightly. Nanami can’t do subtle even if it kills him.
Gazes clash.
Something thrums beneath the surface. You swallow.
The guy at the desk, oblivious to the internal storm, smiles again. “So…lunch? Or are you gonna make me beg?”
You stare at him, then at the silent figure of Nanami across the room, and finally mutter, half amused, half exasperated, “I think you’re going to have to wait your turn.”
And just like that, you’ve made up your mind.
He’s in the cloak room of the conference hall when you seek him out right before lunch break, after you’ve completed the imminent task at hand. It’s a tight space but that doesn’t stop you from bulldozing your way in and taking him by surprise with a slap on the back.
“What— What are you doing here?” he asks, twisting his neck to look back at you.
“Punishing you,” you say, casually. You wind your arms around his hips. You find his soft dick with ease.
Nanami grunts.
In the narrow confines, he puts up a fight at first, something about right and wrong you’re sure, and the competition for the one assistant librarian role, but he quickly loosens up with a long sigh. “What have I done now?” he wonders, resigned.
With expert skill, you take his cock out. It’s already so heavy even though it’s only now starting to chub up. Lightly, you pet it, bringing it to full mast.
Meanwhile, your head is buried between his shoulder blades. You tease, “A little birdy let me in on your shenanigans.”
One of his hands envelops yours. It drags your palm up and down the length at the pace he likes. Nanami groans. “Get to the point. You’re frightening me.”
“Always so on guard with me, aren’t you?” you say, smiling. “I’m talking about how you’ve been hoarding all the numbers guys have been trying to give me.”
Nanami stiffens.
Slowly, like he’s being careful not to set you off, aware you’ve got him by his literal dick and balls, he says, “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you sing.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, yes, I have been withholding the many numbers and messages men want me to pass along. But it is only because I believe it is unprofessional, and certainly not because of whatever you’re accusing me of.”
Thumb guided by his, you collect the bead of pre that’s escaping his flushed tip. You smear it on his pretty, pink cockhead. He’s fully hard now, and the familiar heat, weight, and length has your mouth salivating.
“Oh, so you didn’t purposefully and proactively stifle a possible competition for who could be asked out more while on the job? God, you’re such a baby. You knew I’d win by a longshot because not many people want to date your grumpy ass, so you didn’t even let me know I was being asked out at all. Wow. Really. Wow.”
Nanami exhales. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You got me.”
“Yeah, I got you by the dick. Now that I’ve found you out, you have to accept my punishment. Them’s the rules.”
You round his body. The warm light from the flickering bulb doesn’t do much to illuminate the small space. With coats sandwiching you in and hangers rattling, you peer up at him.
There’s a vanity behind you.
Leading him by his dick, you get yourself up on it and slot him in between your legs. Nanami casts a shadow over you as he eyes you suspiciously. You don’t blame him — just hours before, you two had decided to go back to your old ways and compete as fiercely and as normally as you always have.
Now, you’re stroking his cock and spreading your legs so he can see the wet spot that’s grown on your panties.
He releases a shaky breath.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters, deeply troubled if the furrowing of his brows and the tentative placement of his hands on your bare thighs are anything to go by. “Why are we playing games at all? I thought we’d made an agreement to take the competition for the permanent role seriously. I thought…I thought you’d never talk to me again, much less touch me.”
You watch him seek out your sopping pussy, thumbing the clit and prodding the wet spot. With little patience, Nanami pulls your panties to the side and feels you skin to skin. You moan.
“I thought that too,” you tell him, lifting your shirt to reveal your bare breasts to his eyes. His mouth parts. A finger of his slips inside your pussy with ease. “But I realised something — our games didn’t just start when we got the job. We’ve been playing games since we met: who can correct our professors more, who can find a way to insert ourselves into discussions more, who can get better marks, who can get the best compliments, who frequents the Dean’s List more often.”
Nanami bends down. His lips grazes your chest, skimming and basking in the softness of your skin. He travels down the valley between your breasts before pressing a kiss to the curve of one. All while he’s worming a second finger inside your drenched pussy, wringing out slippery squelches muffled by the coats around you.
“Don’t you -hah- get it, Nanami?” you ask him, back arching. “Everything is a game between us. So why don’t we just commit to it? Just stop pretending? We can keep playing our games whilst we let Mrs. Collins decide which of us she wants to keep. I don’t know about you, but I need the orgasms.”
He finally takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking it into a hard bud. His thumb rubs your pussy’s bud too. “Kento,” he says.
“Huh?”
His tongue flicks your nipple at the same time he curves his long, slender fingers against your g-spot. You gasp.
“If we’re committing to our ridiculous games, then you should commit to calling me Kento when I’m knuckles deep inside your pretty pussy, don’t you think?
You laugh. “You’re such a narcissist you’ve got a fetish for your name, don’t you?”
“I plead the fifth,” he says, squeezing your tit as he makes his way down your stomach.
Nanami’s about to kneel and have a go at your cunt when the doorknob rattles.
The two of you freeze.
You only have a second to process what the hell’s about to happen before he carries you in his arms and tucks you both at the back, behind some thick, furry coats.
Someone’s in here. You don’t turn to look to see who, lest you make a noise. Instead, you clutch him tightly, face buried in the crook of his neck as he grips you up by your ass. Nanami breathes low and even despite the redness of his face.
It’s dark and crowded enough in here to blend in if whoever the person is doesn’t go looking through the coats. And it’d honestly be fine if his cockhead wasn’t prodding your clit.
His cock has slipped through your pussy lips. You’re pressed up against it. Every slight shuffle, every inhale, every minor adjustment has him rubbing your pussy.
He whispers right into your ear, bare audible even to you, “Stop. Moving.”
“You stop moving,” you fire right back.
When his grip slackens a little, it leaves you sliding down his length. Nanami reflexively hikes you up higher the very moment it happened. Which is a mistake. Because he had just effectively rubbed you up and down his cock.
You whine, fingers threading through his hair and pulling for a tether. He hisses.
A shit show is what this is — each reaction has an equal and opposite reaction and each of those has you oozing more juices on his cock, making the slip and slide easier, and all the more pleasurable.
The person’s still here; they’re humming as they use the very same vanity you were sitting on.
They left the door open, and the light thrumming of life beyond covers a little of the noises you two are making. You hope, at least.
“Kento,” you whine, hips moving on your own now.
He shushes you. “I know, I know. Me too. Just bear with me, alright?”
You’re grinding on him now, using the length of his cock and the prominent veins there to stimulate your poor clit, and he can’t do a thing about it. Nanami throbs here and there when your clit nudges his frenulum or the slit of his tip.
Whoever the newcomer is, they’re taking their stupid fucking time. You want to strangle them. Especially when they trip over something and send a bunch of things clattering. “Ah, fuck,” they groan.
The act itself is harmless. Accidental. A mercy because it means they’re distracted with re-righting whatever mess they’ve made.
But you can’t find it in yourself to be grateful because it had startled you and Nanami. Your bodies jolted, sending you higher up his hold and falling down right onto his dick.
His tip pushes in.
You barely manage to bite back your moan.
Eyes wide and body tense, you stare at him in the shadows. Through his glasses, his eyes are just as wide as yours. His jaw is clenched tightly, grip on your body bruising. “S-stay still,” he commands shakily. “I’ll pull out.”
“No,” you find yourself breathing out before you can process the word. When he stares right through you, disbelieving but so badly wanting to believe, you find the courage to say, “No, I want it. I want it so bad, Ken. Please?”
Nanami’s eyes almost roll back. “Yes, baby. Fuck, if you ask so nicely, how am I meant to say no?”
All he has to do now is lighten his grip on you; you slide down and down and down until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re feeling fuller than you ever have. His size is almost impossible to manage but you’re so wet, so needy, that it only takes a couple winces and fluttering of your walls.
Foreheads pressed together, you moan into each other’s mouths, lips just touching.
Feet pad away.
A door closes.
“You’re so tight,” he groans louder, unhesitating to exploit the fact that it’s just you two in here again.
“So big,” you whisper.
He emerges you both from the stuffy corner and walks over to the door. Each step has his fat cockhead prodding your g-spot over and over again. He locks it without breaking eye contact.
The heat in his gaze sets your skin alight.
Nanami sets you down on the vanity, still inside you. He pinches your chin and says, “Are you sure about this?”
You roll your eyes. You clamp down on him.
He gasps, cock throbbing inside you.
Swallowing down the choked, animalistic noise about to creep up his throat, he snarls, “Always so difficult with you, isn’t it?”
To your satisfaction, he starts rutting into you. Shallow thrusts at first, testing the waters, getting used to your warmth and the exact feel of your walls. Then faster and deeper, bumping the exact spot that has you mewling and writhing.
“Here?” he asks, voice hoarse. He splays a hand out on your lower belly, pushing down a little. You cry out, back arching. “Oh yes, I see now. This is where you feel me most, no?”
God, he feels so good.
There’s no barriers between you, and if he was anyone else, you’d be deeply worried. But Nanami is Nanami. He’s cleaner than a surgery table.
“Ken,” you moan. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”
He nods, lips to your head as he holds you close. He rams his cock in with greater force, rattling the whole desk.
You whine. “Yes! Yes! Just like that.”
“Tell me how to please you,” Nanami whispers, cradling the back of your head before it can hit the mirror behind you. “Tell me everything about you, about what makes you feel good, your fantasies, who you want me to be, what you want me to say.”
Arms wrapped around his neck, you shake your head, fucking down onto him. “This is great. It’s perfect. God, hngh! J-just be yourself. Keep fucking me like this.”
Nanami groans.
“I hate how good you feel,” he confesses, angry. “Hate how perfect your -ngh fuck!- body is, the sounds you make. How one touch, one look from you, has me weak in my fucking knees.”
He pulls your head back by your hair. His hazy eyes scan every inch of your face, drinking up every wince, every flutter of your eyes, every gasp out of your lips. He wants to be mad. He wants to say something insulting, something to make your cunt clench down on him. But when you mumble his name, Nanami’s whole face softens.
Burying his face in the curve connecting your neck to your shoulder, he presses a kiss there. “God, you drive me insane.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t cum the moment you finally felt a woman’s insides.”
His lips twitch.
“And I’m surprised you haven’t melted with how wet you are around my cock.”
Nanami pulls out and spins you around before you can make a retort. You see yourself in the mirror. You make eye contact all the way as he pushes back inside you.
The way he bites his lips, blows air out to get some clarity, flush and sweat — you can’t take your eyes off him, can’t unnotice all these things about him.
Soon his pelvis is flushed with your ass. He pummels his cock in and out at a rhythmic pace, controlled and measured. Your eyes roll back. The squelches, the slapping of skin, the fwop fwop fwop, everything is simultaneously muted by the intensity of the pleasure blooming inside your core and heightened by the finite space between you.
He can’t seem to decide whether he wants to watch his cock entering you or to watch your face scrunch up in bliss. With a frustrated growl, he finally decides instead to shut his eyes tight.
Weak.
Both hands sneak under your body. He gropes your swinging tits in one and rubs your clit with the other.
“Are you going to cum for me?” he asks though it’s not a question, not really.
You grind back into him, wanting him deeper and deeper as you near your climax. Unable to help yourself, you answer, “I’m gonna cum for me.”
Nanami’s low chuckle sends chills down your spine. His dark eyes keep you pinned through the reflection.
“Then cum,” he says.
And you do.
He stifles the too-loud moan that was about to alert the whole library to what you’re doing with a palm slapped over your mouth. You don’t care. Muffled moans are subdued and spasms wracking your entire body, the waves of euphoria race through you, rendering you a dumb, soaked mess.
“Ah, fuck!” Nanami’s hips stutter. “T-too tight. Don’t -fuck- s-squeeze down on me.”
“No, w-wait,” you stammer, unable to lift any of your tired limbs to physically prevent him from cumming where he shouldn’t.
But it’s too late.
He orgasms right after you.
Hot, searing cum explodes inside you. It paints your walls white. You pant, made dizzy by the feeling of his pulsing cock staking its claim inside your pussy.
“So good, so good, so fucking good,” he gasps.
The two of you catch your breath, neither one pulling away. His hands are still all over you, squeezing and absorbing the sensations of a flushed, clammy body. You hope the two of you were quiet enough not to be noticed.
He softens inside you. Finally, he pulls out.
You wince.
“Forgive me,” Nanami mutters, rubbing a hand over your pussy as though to soothe it.
When he pushes two fingers inside, wringing squelches out with your mixed juices, you reach back to smack him. “Hey!”
Nanami apologises again. He pulls his fingers out and clears his throat. The flush on his face renews with the suspicious glare you throw at him. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I know came inside of me,” you grouch, slapping his chest. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill, idiot.” To that, he has no reply. He only regretfully uses someone’s inside sleeve to wipe his fingers clean. Spinning around, you grimace. “Got anything to clean me up with?”
“I’d use someone’s coat or scarf, but I can’t vouch for how clean they’d be,” he mutters, troubled. He thinks for a second, looking around and patting his pockets. There isn’t anything. Nanami tucks himself back in, zips his pants up, then gets down on his knees before you.
“Woah, what’re you doing?”
“Cleaning you up,” he says simply, like it’s supposed to be obvious and he’s disappointed you didn’t work that out yourself. Firm hands spread your legs apart.
“Hey! No, don’t.” Your protests fall on deaf ears. Nanami won’t budge. He buries his face right up against your pussy, unhesitating to lap up the juices flowing out of you. “Oh, fuck, Kento. Y-you’re a freak.”
The man doesn’t seem to care that he’s eating his own cum out of you. Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants. You can’t tell, and you can’t think too much about it when he’s circling your clit with his tongue.
Nanami licks through your slit like a dog, just cleaning you up and all the wetness that’s made your thighs sticky. He says, “No, I’m thorough. We can’t leave behind any evidence.”
Your head leans back on the mirror, accepting that you’ve got no choice but to let him do what he wants with your cunt. Though that doesn’t stop you from remaking, “Please, you just wanted to taste me again. Can’t get enough, can you?”
It’s a joke. A statement made with humour.
But his unwavering gaze — the way he’s looking up at you and reading every expression, every thought and flicker in your face and eyes — suggests he’s not when he ponders out loud, “Is that so wrong?”
Nervously, you gulp, then smile.
“Probably, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?”
Nanami kisses your clit so gently, so tenderly that your smile drops.
“Far too late.”
.
.
.
Like something awakened, a dam burst, you two have been fucking nonstop.
Every opening and closing since Monday morning have begun and ended with sex in the storage room. Quick, dirty sex. Mindblowing sex. Neither of you can seem to get enough of how each other feels, of the momentary washing away of all that was looming by the end of the week, but your rivalry never ended.
You two would compete to see who’d cum first in the toilet stalls, each taking turns to be on their knees. He’d eat you out as well as he could, pulling all his tricks, and you’d blow him like you wanted to suck his soul out from his balls. A timer would be going on your phone, and you’d battle it out to the very last second. Currently, you’re winning 3-2.
The loser gets a stamp — one that you’d snatched from Mrs. Collins office — pressed right on their pelvis: Late Return.
They’d have to walk around like that till they can get home and wash the ink off.
When you lost, Nanami had thumbed the mark right above your cunt, both his lips and your pussy lips still glistening. He hummed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t misty-eyed. I’m gonna get you back.”
He looked up at you and smiled. “Of course you will.”
And when he lost, you stamped it high enough that whenever he reached up, it’d be visible by virtue of his sweater or shirt riding up. You passed by, running a nail across that sliver of skin. He shuddered. His cheeks reddened. He muttered, “Tease.”
You muttered back, “Loser.”
On Wednesday, you both started a game that involved not touching each other and seeing who could hold out longer. Of course, there were caveats: he had brought a vibrator with the intention of leaving in your panties, thrumming away at your sensitive clit, and you would send him faceless nudes every five minutes.
The fun of it was that you could back out at any second; you could take the vibe out and he could just not open your messages. But he had given you his phone number for this reason and so it’d be a waste of your time to chicken out.
It seemed easy enough at first anyway.
For the most part, you could keep a straight face when dealing with other students and researchers. He’d pass by and press some button on the remote control he has all to hear your voice hitch or watch your eyes cross. In retaliation, you’d send him pictures and videos of you playing with yourself and moaning his name.
He gave in first.
What broke him wasn’t the nudes, though they certainly pushed him close. No, what did it was the fact that you had experienced a full-body orgasm right in front of some guy asking you out. The guy was about to touch you, to ask if you were okay because you were breathing weird and all squirmy.
Nanami swooped in with a casual excuse of you being sick.
You tried to hobble over to the nearest room, the coat room, but couldn’t make it any further than a study booth in the back corner. The same one you first blew him on. You were pawing at his cock, fishing it out right there and then, and he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
So, whilst no one was there, he took you right in the booth, ducking low.
“You showed him something you shouldn’t have,” he growled, a sound you’d never heard him make before.
Weakly, you argued, “That was your fault, asshole.”
And when he stacked two hardcover books over your lower belly, pressing on your bladder and driving you fucking insane?
You made a mess all over him that he forced you to clean up with your tongue.
Which was fine since he was going to be punished with pen markings all over his body as a result of his surrender.
Vibe dead and tossed, you met up after in the break room, knowing that all the other staff members would be having a meeting about the budget cuts, and since they had yet to decide which of you they were going to keep, neither of you were privy to the information. And that too was fine, since it meant you had an hour or so to yourself on the comfortable sofa.
Gleefully, encouraged by the blush on his cheeks and the way he was throbbing right under your pussy, you drew ‘loser’, ‘inferior intellect’, ‘pleb’, and ‘my bitch’, among other things, on his bare torso.
He protested each new label but with how you were grinding on his cock and pouting down at him to play fair, he couldn’t exactly fight against it.
It was a delirious high to keep him pinned under you, covering his pristine skin with proof of your superiority.
“Hush, Ken,” you scolded. He was groaning and complaining incessantly. It was hot.
Nanami huffed, hands on your thighs as you straddled him. “You’re taking too long; there can’t possibly be any more space on my body.”
“Thou doth protest too much.” You gripped his face, smiling down at him, and said, “You’ve never looked prettier than with my name written right here on your chest, Kento.”
He pulsed right up against your clit.
Another quickie was slotted in before the meeting ended and the staff would be roaming around again.
A fire drill has taken all the occupants of the library this Friday afternoon. Instead of following procedure, the two of you decided to stay behind, with everyone none the wiser.
Nanami’s buried balls deep inside you, a hand splayed out over your back as he keeps you bent over one of the carts you use to transport books around the library. It’s empty and you’re clinging to the metal thing for dear life, moaning wantonly with every harsh shove of his cock inside your sloppy pussy.
He’s holding the cart, dragging it back and forth the way he would with your hips. You have no choice but to let the cart yank you on his length.
“Ken,” you mewl, “we need to hurry. They’ll be back any time soon.”
He grunts behind you. “I know. But I will not cum until you do.”
Your clothes are still on, just slightly shuffled around to allow you to touch where you wanted. The clothes always stay on; you can’t seem to cross the line of being completely bare. Mostly because you two keep fucking in places where you could caught, and partly because it seemed to be an unspoken boundary you won’t cross.
It hardly matters to you — his cock is all that you need to see.
The way the hot thing bullies a path through your gummy walls is delectable. It’s honestly all you can think about in class or at home. He fills out every nook and cranny, stretching your walls and making sure you feel all of him.
“You’re insatiable,” you say, riding the snappy movements of the cart. “You’re a sex maniac, just obsessed with me.”
Scoffing, he yanks the cart back harder. He thrusts in deeper. You cry out. Nanami retorts, breathy and hoarse, “Says the girl who chose to greet me by squeezing my cock through my pants. You were already wet when I touched you. Dirty girl,” he rasps. “Must have been thinking about me all day.”
“As if,” you mutter. Then, you add, “You were already —wait, Ken, deeper, yessss— you were already hard when I felt you up. Bet the sight of me was enough to get you going, huh?”
“I’ll admit to your —f-fuck, loosen up— a-accusations if you do.”
“Never.”
Nanami chuckles.
His hips are relentless. They never tire, never falter. Not till he’s about to come anyway. No one’s ever fucked you this good, and it kills you to admit to yourself that the person you’d deemed the devil just weeks before has the best dick game full stop.
Ugh, you just love when he fucks you from behind, when his balls swing and smack against your clit, when he covers your back and groans right into your ear.
It’s no wonder then that you cum mere minutes later.
“Oh god,” you moan. “So, so good.”
“Hmm, fuck. Perfect. Just perfect.”
He slides himself out of you, coming to kneel behind you to eat the cum spilling out from behind. Yeah, after all the sleeping around, you still hadn’t enforced the rule of wearing a condom. It just seems so pointless when he’d already been inside you. And you don’t want a layer muting the feeling of his prominent veins scraping your sloppy walls.
“Do we taste good, Kento?” you ask, smiling lazily. You reach back, drumming your fingers over the hand that grips your thigh in place.
Nanami moves his hand to trap yours in his clutch. A thumb brushes over your knuckles. Voice muffled, he responds, “Mmm. Best choice of breakfast I rather think, though that’s mostly because of me.”
“Ugh, don’t act like I don’t often have to kick you away from my pussy because you won’t stop eating her out otherwise. Lying is a sin, Kento.”
He chuckles, suckling your pulsing clit. “So is pre-marital sex, but we’ve already done a lot of that.”
“See you in hell then,” you say, wistful.
“Yes. Save me a seat.”
The distant alarm stops by the time you cum again. Noises outside get louder. You two, like experienced criminals, rearrange your clothes so that no eyes would be able to tell what you’ve done. You even sneak around to blend in with the group, as though you had been out with everyone else.
It’s somewhat of an impossibility how you two managed to balance fucking like rabbits with your tasks. There’s not a single book gone unshelved, no student left waiting around, no emails about late returns unsent. In fact, Mrs. Collins had complimented you both on a couple occasions for how well you two worked. She seemed especially pleased that you weren’t arguing — though you’re sure if she knew what exactly you had taken up on doing, you’re not sure she’d keep looking at you with pride.
Naturally, the week passed by quicker than all the others before it.
And made the next week feel so much slower.
.
.
.
Nanami didn’t come into work.
His internship had set him on a project that would require his attention and efforts most. Or at least that’s what you heard from Mrs. Collins, who warned you that you’d have to be picking up his slack, at least until next week, when he should be back.
Which is great.
Really.
Because it can be an opportunity to show you’re better for this job than he is.
A heads up from him himself would have been nice though. Why hadn’t he told you anyway? Sure, you were just fuck-buddies with much less emphasis on the buddies than the fuck, but still. And honestly with how this week is going so far, you’d place less emphasis on fuck too, since he hadn’t even opened any of the nudes you sent him.
The more you grumble about it, however — when wiping tables, logging returns, reshelving books, touring prospective students — the more you turn your negative energy to yourself.
Nanami doesn’t owe you an explanation, nor does he owe your nudes a viewing, even if they are works of art.
He’s never explained his own schedule to you, and you’ve never thought to do the same to him. Really, why would he tell you anything? And why do you care? You have toys and fingers you can use if you need to get off so badly.
Once in a while, you’ll see him on campus, on your way to your respective classes. The two of you don’t pause to chat, don’t say hi, don’t even look at each other. Which is how it usually was between you. Although, there used to be the occasional glares or snide comments if the other gave a smug look after gaining higher marks on some essay. Or if you two just felt like it.
Now, there’s nothing.
No one to look at with a ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ when someone spills their drink all over a table, or knocks over a pile of books you were reorganising. No one to mutter a quiet ‘what idiot gets Camus and Sartre mixed up?’ to or a ‘not it!’ if someone reports a clogged toilet in the men’s bathroom — and it was always the men’s.
Was this job always so fucking boring?
“Hi.”
“What.” The word spews out of you faster than you can process the one syllable the stranger uttered. You look up at the girl. She’s staring wide-eyed at you. Standing up, heat growing in your cheeks, you say, “I am so, so, sorry.”
She waves it off, shuffling on her feet. “No, don’t worry about it. I work at a bakery, so I understand what a bad day looks like when you’re dealing with people,” she says with a laugh. “I just wanted to know if you could pass a message along to the guy you work with. Um, Kento?”
How does she know his first name?
Did he introduce himself to her as such?
They don’t seem to be close friends, one because he has a very small number of friends, and two because she almost didn’t remember his name.
The girl’s pretty: brown hair in a ponytail, kind eyes and a warm smile. She looks like the kind of girl you bring home to mother. And she bakes?
Nanami loves bread; you’ve seen him snacking on pastries and sandwiches far too many times not to notice that. She can bake for him, or at the very least, get him a discount at the bakery she works at. Bet he’d like having sex in the toilet stall at a bakery. The smell of a pain au chocolat can get him off.
“What is it?”
A blush blossoms on her cheeks. You fight the urge to frown in disgust. Is she blushing because of that guy? The blond with poor eyesight? The one who wears business casual clothes everywhere? What kind of sorcery did he use on her?
“Oh, um, I guess I just wanted to tell him I really enjoyed the book he recommended to me when I was here last week. I’ve been looking for him every day but I haven’t seen him.” A thought occurs to her. She adds, “Maybe I can tell him myself — do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No idea,” you lie through your lying teeth.
Disappointed but not discouraged, she suggests, “Could you ask him?”
“I can’t.” Another lie — you have his phone number now, but it’s not like you can explain to her that you only have it because you were sending him nudes.
Baker girl sighs. She smiles at you, a smile so full of goodness that you have to mentally swat the instinct to hiss at the burn. “Alright. Then, could you tell him that I’d love to hear his thoughts on the book over coffee? I hope I’m not giving you too much trouble!”
“Sure. I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you!”
With that, she strolls away, still smiling, still blushing, and no doubt thinking of him.
Turning to the books in front of you, you finally scowl.
“Nanami? Seriously?” you mutter.
The same Nanami who called you a strumpet under his breath for suggesting that he would have been a concubinus in the Roman era with how passive he is? The Nanami that stretches his legs out to trip you but claims he’s simply exercising his right to take up space? The Nanami that was literally eating you out at the very same spot you’re standing in now?
Ugh, there really is no accounting for taste.
Thankfully the message she left with you was short and brief, easy to remember. You ponder over it every hour of every day — as you work in the library, as you’re in class, showering, walking through campus, meeting up with friends, laying in bed awake.
The end of the day at the end of the week arrives pretty soon after.
Waving goodbye to the nighttime caretaker, you exit through the front doors.
You’re exhausted. More so than usual.
Technically, you had done two people’s worth of tasks. And perhaps it was just your annoyance clouding your judgment, but you could have sworn it was busier than ever this week. The burden of doing the grunt work finally caught up to you; your feet hurt, your back aches, you feel greasy and hideous, and ready to burn down libraries for no reason.
Fresh air envelops you, and it helps a little.
The cold night air is lovely. A much needed relief after spending a whole, stuffy day in the heart of academia and after back to back morning classes. At least the weekend is ahead of you. That’s something, you guess.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
The voice slurs a little around the edges.
You turn your head and immediately regret it.
Some guy lurches toward you from the direction of the dorms, one hand stuffed into the pocket of a puffer jacket that looks like it’s seen more beer spills than washing machines. His cheeks are flushed a blotchy red, eyes glassy, hair flattened in strange directions like he’s run his hands through it one too many times tonight. There’s a plastic cup clutched in his other hand, whatever’s inside it sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
It’s a typical frat guy.
The kind of guy you’re rarely ever around as a Classic Lit student, and as what most people would call a nerd.
Yet, here he is, passing by the library, right on time for you to be walking home in the dark, alone. Terrific. Fantastic. Just great!
He grins at you — the confident grin of someone who has absolutely no reason to be confident. “Where you headed?” he asks, leaning a little too close, the sour-sweet smell of cheap alcohol drifting over. “Party over at Sigma something. You should come.”
You stare at him.
Frat Guy takes your silence as encouragement. “I mean—” he gestures vaguely at you with the cup, nearly spilling it, “—you look like you could use a drink. Loosen up a little, y’know?”
His eyes drag down and back up again in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Bet you’d be real fun once you’re not all…” he waves his hand again, searching for the word, “...uptight.”
A laugh escapes him as though he said something clever. He leans against the brick wall beside you, missing slightly and having to correct himself.
“So what’s your name, pretty lady?” he presses, smile widening. “C’mon. Don’t be shy.”
Full body shuddering, you ignore him and start walking off. There’s streetlamps lighting paths, and you do see the silhouettes of a couple people walking by in the distance. Worse comes to worse, you’re ready to drop kick the guy as soon as he shows any sign of being a problem.
Which, right on cue, he does.
“Hey,” Frat Guy says, losing his dopey smile. His voice has dropped an octave, taking on a deeper, darker tone, and you stiffen. “Who the fuck do you think you are ignoring me? You think you’re all that, you fucking loser?”
Your steps don’t stop.
Behind you, you hear his shoes scuff faster against the pavement. “Oi,” he calls, irritation bleeding into his voice. “I’m talking to you.”
You’re already turning slightly, gauging distance, weight shifting instinctively to the balls of your feet. If he grabs you, you’ll—
A hand settles lightly on your shoulder.
Neither grabbing nor restraining. Just there. Warm. You know that hand. You’ve felt that hand, but it’s never provided comfort, reassurance, not in the dark of the night, and certainly not when it shouldn’t be here at all.
“Is there a problem?”
You look up.
Nanami stands beside you.
His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. There’s still the faint stiffness of the office about him — creased trousers, polished shoes, suit jacket draped over one arm — but the long day clings to him too. A shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes. A faint crease between his brows.
He glances down at you first. A quick once-over. Checking. Then his gaze shifts to the guy behind you.
It sharpens.
Frat Guy squints at him, clearly trying to process the sudden appearance of a tall, broad man in business clothes standing between him and his intended target.
“Who the hell are you?” he scoffs.
Expression unchasing, he steps forward just slightly, positioning himself so you’re fully behind his shoulder. “A passerby,” he says calmly. “Who noticed you harassing someone who has clearly chosen not to engage with you.”
Frat Guy lets out a drunken laugh. “Oh, she wants me.”
“She walked away.”
“So?”
Nanami tilts his head a fraction. It’s such a small movement, but something about it drains the air from the space between them. “Then the conversation,” Nanami says evenly, “is over.”
“Fuck. You. Four. Eyes.”
“Hey, I call him Four-Eyes! Well, not really, but I’ll start, you dickless piece of shit,” you yell.
Uggo reddens even more in the face. And when Nanami snickers, that’s when he reacts: he lunges forward for Nanami with his teeth bared and his fists clenched so tight the knuckles have turned white.
You get in between before he lands a punch. With a swift kick to the balls, you both watch as he doubles over, heaving and red in the face. He clutches his groin, veins popping in his forehead. He wheezes.
Oh, fuck. You definitely kicked him too hard. Like hard enough that his testicles definitely turned back into ovaries inside of him.
You make eye contact with Nanami, who’s wincing with second-hand ball-pain.
“Run.”
You both bolt down a random direction. Cool air whirls past you, pushing your hair back. You pump your legs, feet pounding the ground. He’s right beside you, running with ease, though with less heavy breathing, you bitterly notice.
Laughter rings out.
It’s only until your lungs begin to hurt that you realise it’s yours. And his.
What you did was a crime. And Nanami’s an accessory to the crime. Which is fan-fucking-tastic because it means you won’t go down alone. Or could you rely on self-defence? It hardly matters. You both fled the crime scene together, laughing shamelessly, and disturbing the peace.
You’ve never kicked someone in the balls before. It felt pretty fucking awesome.
Eventually, you reach a good enough distance from the library, from the scene of the crime, and come to a slow stop.
“Why would the assailant go for me instead of you?” Nanami asks, bewildered as he processes what happened. “You were the one who called him a ‘dickless piece of shit.’ And I cannot get blood on my work clothes. Certainly not for someone who thinks Shakespeare was a homesexual fraud.”
“He is.”
“He is not.”
“Oh, cause you were there?”
“Were you?”
“In spirit, yes.”
“Well, then in spirit, you are deluded, and as always, wrong.”
“Whatever.”
“Hmm.”
Releasing a breath, you run a hand through your hair. “I can’t believe I kicked him in the balls. What a rush.”
“I can’t believe he called me ‘Four Eyes,’” Nanami muses, half-humoured, half-offended. “Having glasses does not give me two new eyes. It basically only makes my two existing ones work the way they should.”
You pat him on the back. “Sure.”
The two of you begin walking, reorienting yourself based on where you are. For a while the only sounds are your voice, the distant thrum of music from somewhere deeper in campus, and the soft rhythm of Nanami’s footsteps beside yours. Soon, that asshole becomes what feels like a figment of your imagination. So does the adrenaline.
The fight in you weakens. Slackens. He doesn’t comment on it. On any of it.
When you can’t stand the silence any longer, you ask, much calmer and less worked up now, “Why were you there? By the library, I mean. I thought you’d be coming back from your internship.”
Nanami hikes his bag high up on his shoulder. “My commute involves walking through campus at this time.”
“Liar,” you say not a moment later. “The publishing house is not anywhere near here. You’d have to go out of your way to be on campus to get to your place — and before you say something about how I must be stalking you if I know where you live, I want you to know I overheard Haibara remarking quite gratefully that you live near the big supermarket. So spare me.”
A small twitch comes to life on the corner of his lip, one you would have missed if you two hadn’t just walked under a streetlamp. Clearly amused, Nanami responds, “Fine, you got me. I came by because I wanted to gloat.”
“You’re lying again.”
He glances down at you. “Are you suggesting I’m not capable of doing something for completely self-serving, sadistic reasons?” he wonders, a teasing lilt to his voice.
Laughing, you answer, “No. You’re more than capable. I’m saying, you’re not the type to admit to it. They’re more inside thoughts.”
Nanami chuckles and doesn’t argue.
Instead, he wonders, “How was the library?”
“Oh, you know,” you begin, shrugging, “same old, same old. Real dickhead behaviour not warning me, by the way. That you’d be gone the whole week.”
“Did you miss me? Is that it?” he teases. “I did not peg you for the sentimental type.”
You scoff. “Of course I didn’t miss you. If anything, I missed your tongue. Or your dick. You know how annoying people get me so tense.”
Adjusting his glasses, he points to a dark spot behind a tree. “If you’re in quick need of release, I’m sure we can manage something before the next person passes this trail.”
“I know you’re joking,” you start, feet slowing down, “but that would actually be nice.”
A hand at your back pushes you along, forcing your walking to pick back up. “There are limits to how public our sex can get. Move along.”
‘Boo,’ you almost say. That, or ‘pussy.’
Shaking his head, Nanami says, “I did debate over whether to tell you. It’s…difficult for me to know the do’s and don’t’s of our new dynamic. And truthfully, seeing as you didn’t reach out to me with a complaint, I thought you didn’t care.”
If he’s expecting you to rebut that, then he’s sorely mistaken. Because you don’t care. You really do not care. It was nice to have him gone, actually. You had more room to breathe. You didn’t have to worry about him scolding some poor soul about their preference for translated works on account of their inability to read the original text, didn’t have to share the sixth floor seating area when you needed some downtime, or anticipate him scoffing at your chosen book for the week.
“It’s fine,” you mumble loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Nanami hums.
With a small frown, you mull your next words over. “Some girl wanted me to pass a message on to you.”
That piques his interest. “Oh? What did she say?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
A laugh escapes him. It’s loud. It takes you both by surprise.
You thought he would have been mad, would have thought you were playing games again, wanting to take a little revenge against him. On the contrary, he seems entertained.
He continues walking with you. His suit and tie are wrinkled with the day’s hard work (and the running), and despite the slightly dishevelled look to him, he still looks like he could charm the pants off any recruiter. You can tell he hasn’t been on a break from responsibilities — whatever they did to him on that internship this week has dragged him through the mud.
Good.
That’s precisely what you wanted after you had to clean up what smelt like piss on a spot on the carpet by the children’s development section, which was a concern in and of itself.
“I do sincerely hope you don’t hate me too much for abandoning you this week,” Nanami muses eventually, returning to the previous subject matter. “Whilst it brings me great pleasure to imagine that crease between your eyebrows leaving a permanent mark because you couldn’t stop yourself from cursing me out every shift, I don’t very much feel like walking into a boobytrapped workplace come Monday morning.”
A small smile playing on your lips, you fiddle with the strap of your back as you say, “I was pissed. Like you wouldn’t believe. But I feel better now that I’ve seen you.” Your eyes meet. You hurriedly add, “Because you look like shit; I’m sure they put you through it at the publishing house, right?”
Nanami makes some kind of face, a mix between a grimace and a nod. “Hmm. There was some printing error for a book that’s about to have a big launch. There was a lot of scrambling happening.”
“What book?”
“The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by Phayk Rightur,” he answers.
Your jaw drops. You grab his arm. “You’re joking. I fucking love Rightur! She wrote about the history of sex toys and how deeply ingrained they are in history. One of my most favourite books ever!”
“So she did,” he replies, smiling. “And so it is.”
“How do you manage it?” you ask, smile fading. “Studying, attending classes, the internship, and being president of a society? I’d drop dead if I had to do all of that. I mean, I had a taste of it last year when I was working a part time job to afford a ski trip with my friends while I was on the committee for two societies. But president in your third year? Damn.”
You’re on the main road now, just walking side by side as cars zoom past. Light from stores, from headlights, and from overhead streetlamps keep you both clear as day to each other’s gazes.
“A lot of late nights,” he replies humourlessly. Then something indiscernible passes in his eyes as he looks down at you. “I ought to thank you, I think.”
You blink. “Thank me?”
He nods, looking straight ahead now, posture straighter, renewed energy channeling itself though his bones. “Yes. Without you, I wouldn’t have been motivated to work late nights, forced to open my notes and read and read until I passed out at my desk from exhaustion; I knew if I slacked off at any point for any reason, you would have eaten me up.”
This is the first time he’s ever revealed personal information to you, willingly anyway. Most of what you knew about him came from your own observations and from things heard in passing.
Now, he’s readily offering information.
And you don’t know how to feel.
You stay silent, afraid that if you speak the bubble will burst. Nanami strikes you as the kind of man who, if he realises he’s divulging too much, will pull back and restrain himself. Maybe if you keep quiet long enough he’ll tell you a secret so embarrassing you can lord it over him in the future.
“I hate late nights,” he starts with absolute certainty. “I hate booking office hours and sitting in dull rooms when all I want is to take a stroll through the park. I hate staying in the library longer than I need to when the weather’s lovely and my friends are pestering me to hang out. I hate flicking through pages and pages until I get papercuts. I hate drinking energy drinks and coffee at terrible hours, and ruining my diet, and relying on ginger shots to keep my immune system protected enough to sit through an exam.”
You’re not a fan of late nights either.
Who is?
All your friends would confidently say you hate them, in fact; you complain enough. Sacrificing parties and dinners out for dusty old books isn’t easy, and you love dusty old books. You love learning, not cramming dates and foreign names into your head. You love constructing arguments, not typing away for hours and hours until your eyes are red and words start to lose all meaning.
Suffice to say, there’s certainly been many times when you’ve driven yourself mad wondering what it’s all for, but failure is not an option for you.
It just isn’t.
You never really thought about if Nanami felt the same way, if he hated late nights too. Maybe in the back of your head you just saw him as an absolute machine powered by vitriol and a need to be pretentious. Maybe you just never saw him as someone who struggled, not like you.
“I’m already set to graduate with honours, with an impressive résumé and enviable references, and I have offers for graduate jobs lined up. So all this unnecessary bullshit — pardon my French — leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.”
Frowning, you say, “What a long winded way to flex—”
“But there was,” Nanami continues, the weight of his eyes landing on the side of your face, “and is, nothing I hate more than seeing you claim victory over me.”
You look up at him, footsteps stuttering.
He’s not looking at you, yet he’s aware enough of your positioning to pull you by the crook of your elbow closer to his side when a fellow pedestrian walks a little too closely.
“You’re not a good winner: you’re loud, you want everyone to know, and you’ll never let any of your competition live it down. And that uncoordinated display you call a ‘victory dance’ you do all over campus whenever you’re the top of your class leaves me with so much second-hand embarrassment, I have to sit by a pond and really reflect on where it all went wrong.”
Rolling your eyes, you say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m awful. I’ve heard that before. Mostly from you. But also from plenty of other people. Thanks for the reminder.”
Nanami shakes his head, still smiling. “It wasn’t intended as an insult. Granted, it wasn’t a compliment either. I simply meant to say that if it wasn’t for you, for our rivalry, I would not be where I am today. Do not let it get to your head though. It doesn’t mean anything more than a comment I’ll deny in the future, but I thought it’s something that should be said aloud at least once.”
Knuckles brush against each other. Neither of you snatch your hands away.
“Yeah, well, I guess I could say the same for you,” you reluctantly say, huffing uneasily. “I admit I wouldn’t have worked as hard as I did, and do, if it wasn’t for the incentive of rubbing it into your face that I’m better than you. Thanks.”
He chuckles. “You’re very welcome.”
You reach your apartment before you realise it. It hadn’t even occurred to you that that was where you were walking. The walk felt as long as it was short. Your friends will be up, doing their own thing in their rooms. They wouldn’t notice if you came up unless you announce yourself.
You don’t make your way inside. The two of you stand by the doors, leaning against the railings of a ramp facing the road.
Why did he walk with you the entire way? His place is in another direction entirely.
That should have been your question. What comes out instead is, “Why didn’t you ask me what the girl said?”
“What girl?” he asks, blinking.
“The girl,” you say as though that should be enough to spark something. It doesn’t. Somewhat exasperated, you add, “The girl with the message she wanted me to pass onto you?”
“Ah.” Nanami drops his bag and jacket off on the ground. He crosses his arms and legs at the ankle. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I expected you wouldn’t tell me even if I asked, especially considering that I hadn’t been giving you other men’s numbers or whatever message they have either.”
You forgot all about that. It never even occurred to you to ask for what exactly they’ve said.
“I would have,” you say. “Told you if you wanted to know, I mean.” Your eyes flit to him. “Do you? Want to know?”
He looks at you quizzically, likely suspicious of your sudden inability to piece together a full sentence. “I suppose so,” he replies, slowly, carefully. “What did she say?”
Your arms are brushing together. Neither of you move. Despite the chill of the night, you don’t shiver, don’t think you should scurry off inside where it’s warmer, where you can put your sore feet up and sleep like the dead.
“She was pretty. A baker. Or just works at a bakery, I don’t know. Brown hair, brown eyes, petite. She seemed nice. Dresses well too. Cute top, classy jeans, clean shoes—”
“The relevance of her appearance will soon make itself clear I hope,” Nanami sarcastically drawls.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. “Just wanted to set the scene, maybe jog your memory.”
“The message will suffice.”
Why is it so hard for you to say it aloud? Why can’t you just tell him? It’s not like she said anything offensive or embarrassing. Maybe you’re worried he’ll be upset that you withheld the information for so long, that you buried the lede, or didn’t chase her up on it on his behalf.
Maybe…
“She said she liked the book you recommended to her last week.”
He hums. “Is that why you’re dragging your feet in telling me? Because you’re jealous that no one has given you that feedback?”
Offended, you turn to him. “Um, actually, no. A lot of people have told me that. More people than you, I’m sure.”
Nanami looks at you too. His eyes soften out of lethargy. “Then why are you upset? Did she say something to you, something insulting? Or was she rude? I know you’ve encountered your fair share of impolite people, as have I, but try not to let her ruin your mood. For every bad customer, there are many more good ones,” he reminds you.
“No,” you breathe out, feeling guilty not that he’s assuming the worst of her, of someone who has a crush on him. “No, it’s nothing like that. I told you she was nice. Really nice actually. I think you’d like her.”
“I’ve yet to understand the relevance of any of these comments,” he says, concerned now.
People pass by. None that spare either of you more than a glance, the kind of glance people give strangers to make sure they’re not a danger.
Although you’re in public, there’s a twinge of intimacy colouring the atmosphere, one that not even being pressed up in a storage room together can bring.
Finally, you give in.
Head slumping on his chest, you mutter, “She wants to go on a date with you. To discuss the book or whatever.”
If he’s surprised by the weight of your body leaning on him, he doesn’t show it. Nanami wraps an arm around you, patting your back. He bears both of your weight as he leans back on the railing and you slot yourself between his legs. Your exhaustion has returned and you can no longer stand on your own.
“I see. And this is upsetting to you?”
He’s like a therapist gauging your reactions, trying to see if you need to be restrained and kept away from sharp objects. It almost makes you laugh. Fiddling with a button on his shirt, you mumble into his chest, “No, I don’t care.”
Nanami’s warm. Like a furnace. It’s nice. He also smells good in spite of having worked a whole day. So unfair.
“Of course you don’t. You’re far more concerned with beating me in our classes, in our library, and in life right, my little victory-fanatic?”
You nod weakly. “Yep. That’s it. You got me.” Slowly, you peer up at him. Whatever he sees on your face has his gaze softening again, though not with exhaustion this time. You ask, “Are you going to say yes to her?”
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “What would you like me to say?”
“No. I want you to say no.”
Where did the honesty come from? You’re really dying to know. Because that was a truth you didn’t realise you bore. How odd. How seriously odd.
His nose skims your hairline, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re in luck — I have no intentions of agreeing to date her, or anyone. I’m far too busy to be a very good partner I fear.”
You hum. “It’s great to be self aware.”
The answer was a relief, but it also leaves you unsatisfied, restless, unsure. Let’s just chalk it up to sleep deprivation, you mentally decide.
“Before I forget,” he says suddenly, pulling away a little to pick up his work bag, though he keeps a hand at your hips, fingers drumming, “I snuck a little something away from the firm. A gift for myself, I thought, after all the work they put me through for minimum wage.”
Curiously, you watch him open his bag and pull out a big envelope. He hands it to you.
“For me?” You don’t wait for him to reply; you rip open the envelope, eyeing him with a warning in case what’s inside is a dead spider or a mousetrap. It’s neither. A hard, flat thing is pulled out by your tentative hand. “Is this…”
He adjusts his glasses, pink tinging his cheeks. “It’s not quite of my interest. I figured you’d find it of more value than I would. Especially after I noticed you brought another of her book to class some time last year. Although, that being said, you are under no obligation to like it, a fact which you’ll no doubt make clear if history with you is anything to go by—”
“Kento, shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, alright.”
The hard, flat thing in question is a manuscript. Bound in a hard case, like a notebook with coil binding. When you open it to the front page, you see in uppercase and in bold, The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by none other than Phayk Rightur.
Squealing, you jump into his arms, wrapping your own around his neck, and placing a long kiss on his lips before you can even think about your actions. Nanami’s grip on your hips tighten at first in surprise. He drops his guard, melting, and tugging you closer to him.
His eyes are half-lidded, staring down at your lips and chasing them when you pull away with a fat grin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you repeat, peppering kisses all over his face. “This is the best gift ever!”
You’ve never been given a manuscript before. It just simply isn’t a gift one could buy. And your family and roommates know very well how many books you have — this is by far the most valuable one you have. Who even knows how much it could sell for? Not that you would; you’d both get into a lot of trouble if the firm knew their intern had stolen from them.
Clearing your throat, you ask,“Do you, um… Do you want to come up? It’s late and you’ll have a lot of walking to do. It might be best to wait till the morning.”
Nanami brows are knitted together as he runs a finger along the seam of his lips. Something seems to pass in his eyes. A realisation. A dawning. A something you can’t quite figure out. He straightens up, picking up the work bag he placed on the ground. “No. I appreciate the offer. Haibara will be expecting me. Go inside.” He raises a taunting brow up. “I won’t go easy on you even if you come in on Monday with a cold.”
Is he rejecting you?
Does it sting or are you just cold now that he’s let go of you?
“Y-yeah. Alright.”
The two of you stare at each other for a moment or two, unsure and waiting for the other’s next move. Why is it suddenly so awkward?
“Um, goodnight, I guess,” you say, internally cringing.
He gives a tight lipped smile, which isn’t really a smile at all. “Yes. Goodnight.”
And off you go, walking into your apartment building and not daring to glance back, afraid of what you’ll see if you do.
.
.
.
“Oh, there you two are.”
You look to the side. Mrs. Collins is speed-walking in the way older ladies too, all hip swaying and slow. She flags down Nanami who’s ahead and brushing the floor up.
“Before the end of your shift, before closing, please come by my office — it’s time for me to make my decision,” she says.
A glance is shared between you and him.
A whole week had passed since he walked you home. It also marks the end of the three weeks the Library Director had given you both to decide between you who goes and who doesn’t, and now it is time for her to decide for herself.
The two of you didn’t mess around this week. Something about the looming end had him limp and you bone-dry. That or another reason you can’t really think much about.
You’d texted Nanami once or twice. He never replied. You’d also tried to strike up a conversation with him, either during lunch breaks or on the way out, but he was always busy and had to go first. He didn’t come up to the sixth floor once to read. At least, he didn’t when you were there.
His sudden distance was odd. And frankly, annoying. And also not something you could casually mention to him. It felt very much like being right back at the start.
Mrs. Collins smiles warmly, squeezing both of your arms. She adds, “Take it easy today. Don’t worry about slacking off or being behind. I want you two to enjoy your last couples here as two of my finest assistant librarians. Take a gander over at the restricted section if you haven’t already. I’ll see you both later.”
Without your replies, she strolls off, chasing down someone who’s holding a drink by the shelves with her stern face.
“This is it, huh?”
You jolt. You didn’t expect him to talk to you. “...It would seem so.”
“We should do something symbolic to commemorate our last shift together, don’t you think? We wouldn’t be Classical Lit students if we weren’t clichés, after all,” he suggests.
You beam. “We still haven’t read Satyricon. Should we go back up to the restricted section and read it?”
Adjusting his glasses, he nods. “Great idea. You go ahead, I’ll follow soon; I’m going to the bathroom first.
With a smile, you say, “Okiedokie. Don’t take too long.”
Weirdly enough, now that the day has arrived, you don’t feel very stressed. You were before you walked in through the doors. Now, you’re feeling pretty good. Maybe because he was actually talking to you, and you can stop feeling like you’d done something wrong.
The air shifts the moment you pass through the narrow iron gate of the restricted section — cooler, heavier, touched with the dry, almost sweet scent of aging paper and leather that has long since outlived its makers.
This is what you love about libraries: the smell of lives lived, of stories told thousands of times.
None of your friends understood why you would sniff every new book you bought, but to you it’s like crack. Better even. Not that you’ve had a taste of crack. Can you taste crack or is it strictly for sniffing?
A sense of nostalgia hits you.
You’re going to miss this place if you’re not chosen.
A lifetime before, it seems, you would have been devastated by the concept of losing, especially to Nanami. Now, however, you don’t seem to have a strong preference for winning. All you can think about is that it’s a shame that the library’s experiencing budget cuts and that means you both can’t be here together from now on.
Acutely aware of everything, you see this part of the library in a new light.
An appreciative one.
An amazed gratitude.
You don’t rush.
There’s something deliberate in the way your fingers trail along the spines as you pass, grazing titles you’ve only ever whispered about in lectures, in half-joking, half-reverent tones. The Satyricon waits somewhere ahead, scandalous and sullied by you. You don’t greedily run to read it to make up for what you had failed to do the first time. Because this, more than anything, feels like the last moment before something closes. Before you are chosen, or not. Before you become singular instead of we.
A desk sits tucked beneath one of the windows.
The rest of the room is curated, meticulous, every volume catalogued and caged behind careful order; Mrs. Collins and the other keepers care for every book here like they’re their children.
But the desk looks…interrupted. A chair drawn out just slightly. A book laid open, its spine pressed flat. The sight of it pulls you forward before you quite realise you’ve moved.
By the time you reach it, something uneasy has already begun to settle low in your stomach.
The book is older than most here — vellum pages, the ink faintly uneven with age, margins annotated in a careful, archaic hand. And…
A tear.
Not a gentle loosening of the binding, not the quiet decay of time. A page has been ripped clean out. Jagged edges remain, fibres splayed like a wound, the absence stark and unmistakable. For a moment, all you can do is stare at it, your mind refusing to reconcile the violence of it with the sanctity of the room.
“No,” you murmur, barely audible, as though the book might hear you. “What the hell? Who would do this?”
Your fingers hover, hesitant, before lowering to the edge of the tear. You don’t touch it, not really. Just enough to confirm it’s real, that this isn’t some trick of the light or your imagination.
The damage feels…fresh.
“Oh, my dear! I know I suggested you come up here, but I didn’t realise you would do it so soon. I am pleased to see you seizing the opportunity.”
The voice slices cleanly through the stillness.
Your head snaps up. Mrs. Collins stands a few steps in front of you, one gloved hand pressed lightly to her chest, the other still curled as though she’s just pushed the gate open in haste. She’s smiling at you.
“Isn’t it just so wonderful up here?”
Her gaze drops.
So does her smile.
The shift is immediate. The next words she was about to utter to you are cut off mid-thought, replaced by a silence that seems to expand, pressing outward until it fills every corner of the room.
You follow her eyes, though you already know what she sees.
The open book. The torn page. Your hand, still hovering far too close.
“Oh,” she says softly. It isn’t loud. It isn’t accusatory, not in any overt way. But something in it lands heavier than if she had raised her voice.
“No.” The word comes quickly, instinctively, as you straighten, pulling your hand back as though burned. “That’s not— I found it like this. I just came in, and it was already—”
“My dear,” she interrupts, stepping forward now, her attention wholly claimed by the book. The warmth she’d worn earlier has thinned into something panicked, something intended to be subdued but failing. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
Her gloved fingers hover over the pages with a care you hadn’t quite managed, reverent even in their urgency.
“I wouldn’t….Mrs. Collins, I didn’t do this,” you say, hating the way your voice sounds: too fast, too eager to prove you know, that you understand the gravity of it.
A small hum escapes her, noncommittal. Thoughtful.
She doesn’t look at you.
Instead, she leans closer to the book, inspecting the torn edge with a focus so intense it feels like you’ve already been dismissed from the equation. As though the only thing that matters — the only thing — is the damage itself, not how it came to be. “This is irreplaceable,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Absolutely irreplaceable…”
“I know,” you insist, softer now, stepping closer despite the instinct telling you to retreat. “That’s why I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t touch it like that. I came in and it was open already, I thought someone must have done this. Because I wouldn’t. You must know that.”
“Must I?” she wonders. “Because I seem to recall you reporting a previous incident to do with a ripped book.”
The pause that follows is small.
But it stretches.
Goddamn it, it stretches until you feel it’s about to snap against your skin and leave a permanent mark. And of course it stretches; you have no defence for yourself. That previous incident is damning. As is the fact that less than ten people have access to the restricted section, and you are one of those ten, and the only one found at the scene of the crime with a record that could be tied to vandalism.
At last, she straightens. Her gaze lifts, settling on you fully this time, and there it is.
The change.
There’s no clear accusation to fight, no direct disbelief to dismantle. Only that subtle shift in the way she holds herself, the careful neutrality that feels, somehow, like distance. Like a decision made and buried in the grass, six feet under.
Footsteps approach behind you.
Measured. Familiar.
Nanami.
Relief sparks. Brief, bright, almost desperate. You turn before he’s even fully in the room, already reaching for the steadiness of him, the unspoken understanding that has carried you through long shifts and longer nights, through whispered conversations between stacks and the quiet, heated moments stolen where no one could see.
He takes in the scene quickly. The desk. The book. You.
And he doesn’t look surprised.
Mrs. Collins turns to him at once, as though grateful for a second witness, a second anchor. “Mr. Nanami,” she says, her tone composed once more, though the tension beneath it remains. “Were you in here earlier? Did you happen to leave the gate unsecured? Because your colleague here is suggesting someone left the gate unlocked, allowing a vandal to desecrate a priceless manuscript, and all other members of our library are accounted for, but you.”
You flinch with her wording; she’s suggesting you’ve thrown him under the bus. But Nanami would see through that. He’d know you wouldn’t.
It would be so easy.
You don’t even realise you’ve stepped closer to him until your shoulder nearly brushes his arm. There’s an expectation there. Built on everything that has passed between you. On the way he looks at you when no one else is watching. All he has to do is look at you. Just once. To see you.
“I’ve only just arrived,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.
And that’s it.
No hesitation. No glance in your direction. No acknowledgment of the space you occupy, the accusation you’re standing in. The words fall cleanly into the room and settle there, offering nothing for you to hold onto.
Something in your chest tightens, sharp and immediate.
Of course he’s telling the truth. Of course he is. That’s who he is — precise, measured, unwilling to bend facts for comfort. You’ve admired that about him. Relied on it. But this isn’t about facts, and you both know it.
Mrs. Collins nods slowly, absorbing his answer, her attention already drifting back to the book, to the problem that can be quantified and contained. “I see.”
It’s absurd, really. Nothing has been said outright. No verdict delivered. And yet the conclusion settles heavy in your bones all the same.
If Mrs. Collins had wanted to keep you, she doesn’t now. All of you know it. Yet no one offers you an opportunity to defend yourself, to put your case forward. They’ve both stepped ahead together, leaving you behind.
You look at him again, waiting stupidly, for something more. A correction. A clarification. Even just a quiet, “She wouldn’t do that.”
He doesn’t offer it.
When you look into his eyes, pleading, searching, all you can see is the flicker of doubt. You know without asking that he’s thinking back to when you had casually ripped a page from some random book some time ago too. He’s not staring at you accusingly, but the very fact that he’s not sure you didn’t do this is enough.
The distance between you yawns open, sudden and immense.
And when Mrs. Collins shakes her head and off-handedly says to Nanami, “You were right — she’s just not cut out for this job. Too emotional. Too unstable. Just doesn’t have what it takes,” that distance becomes a gaping chasm.
You stumble back, like you’d been struck.
Neither of them are on your side.
They never were.
“I understand,” you say at last, though no one has asked you to. “Perhaps it’s best that I see myself out early today.”
Your voice sounds steady. You’re grateful for that, at least. For the small mercy of not fracturing in front of them both. Because you will not cry in front of Nanami fucking Kento.
Mrs. Collins offers a polite, distracted nod, already reaching for solutions that don’t involve you.
Nanami says nothing.
And in the quiet that follows, you turn away and never look back.
