Summary : Bucky tries to ragebait you into kissing him, but it works out a little too well.
Pairing : New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Steamy but not outright smut. Hints of jealous!bucky. Ava and John describes reader as good kisser (whatever that means to you), Bucky ragebaits. Sub-ish!Bucky. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 4.2k
Note : Trying italics for my titles, and I kinda like it! Enjoy!
The debrief room at the watchtower still smelled like expensive perfume and champagne, leftovers from the masquerade gala you and John Walker had infiltrated tonight, no doubt. You had just gone undercover, and things had gone… fine.
You hadn’t even taken off the last pieces of your outfit yet. The mask sat on the table in front of you, slightly crooked, like everything about tonight had been. Your champagne dress was hiked up to your thighs, heels discarded somewhere in the hallway.Yelena was sprawled sideways in her chair, boots hooked over the metal armrest. Alexei was mid-snack, loudly crunching dry cereal to fuel his metabolism. Ava was next to John, and Bob sat upright, attentive but clearly confused about half of what had just happened.
And in the corner, quiet as ever, Bucky watched.
“Alright,” John started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mission was mostly clean. Minor hiccup in—”
You snorted.
John shot you a glance, shaking his head. “Anyway. Point is… we hit a snag in the east wing.”
You laughed under your breath.
He pointed at you immediately. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Oh, I do,” you said sweetly.
“You had three guards coming straight at you.”
“And yet,” you gestured vaguely, “we are here. Alive. With the intel.”
“That’s because we had to improvise,” he shot back.
Yelena’s head lifted slightly, suspicious. “‘Improvise?’”
John didn’t even hesitate. He leaned back, completely unbothered. “We kissed.”
“Eugh.” Yelena physically recoiled, pulling her legs in like the concept alone might touch her.
You let out a short laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It is always that bad,” she insisted, shaking her head at you like you’d personally betrayed her. “Kissing a teammate? I hate everything about this.”
“I leave you two alone for one mission,” Ava said, “and you turn it into a romcom.”
“Nothing about that was romantic,” John insisted, and that fact was true to the both of you.
“Every mission is romantic if you are brave enough,” Alexei declared.
“It’s not,” You kicked his chair lightly. “But whatever. They bought it, didn’t they?”
“Yeah,” John admitted, waving a hand.
“Wait.” Bob blinked. “So the guards just… left you alone?”
John shrugged. “People see two idiots making out in a hallway, they mind their business.”
Yelena gagged. “I would not mind my business. I would report you immediately.”
You grinned. “You’d be the worst undercover operative for this mission.”
“I would be the best,” she snapped. “Because I would simply not kiss anyone.”
John snorted, then leaned back further in his chair, glancing around like he was about to make things worse.
“Anyway,” he added casually, “not a bad trade-off.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
He ignored you. “She’s not a bad kisser.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “It was a cover, Walker.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grinning now. “Still counts. You’re good. It was very… convincing.”
“Wow. Glowing reviews,” you rolled your eyes, sinking even further into the chair.
“I mean,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “if I didn’t know it was fake, I’d think it wasn’t fake.”
Ava took a deep breath, like it was a burden to admit. “No, he’s right.”
You turned your head toward her slowly. Oh no.
“It's anything, that’s an understatement.” She met your eyes, completely calm. “She’s a great kisser.”
The room paused again.
You closed your eyes briefly. “Ava—”
Bob leaned forward so fast his chair squeaked. “You’ve kissed her too?”
Ava shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah. A couple of months ago.”
“It was also for a mission,” you added, unhelpfully.
“Of course it was,” Alexei said. “Of course everyone is just kissing everyone for espionage purposes. Very professional capitalist behaviour.”
Bob looked between all of you, clearly trying to recalibrate his understanding of teamwork. “How many undercover kisses are happening that I don’t know about?”
You just shrugged, trying to look unbothered despite the way the room had zeroed in on you. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
From the corner, where he’d been quiet the entire time, Bucky finally spoke. “I don’t buy it.”
The room stopped talking just long enough for everyone to turn toward him.
You lowered your hands from your face, eyes narrowing. “Oh, you don’t buy it?”
Bucky shrugged, pushing himself off the wall. “I’m just saying,” he continued, stepping closer to the table, “it’s a kiss. How good can it be?”
John let out a short laugh. “Oh no, man. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” Bucky asked, brows lifting slightly.
“Set yourself up like that.”
“I’m not setting anything up,” Bucky said, but there was the faintest edge to it now. “I’m just being realistic. People exaggerate stuff like that all the time.”
Ava shook her head. “I didn’t think it’d be that good either.”
You shot her a look. She didn’t even flinch.
“…but you just gotta try it,” she finished, completely deadpan.
Alexei made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “Oh my stars.”
Bob’s eyes widened like this had officially become too much information. “Okay—wow… this is—wow.”
John pointed at Ava like she’d just proven his case. “Thank you.” Then he looked back at Bucky. “Trust me. She’s a good kisser.”
You wanted to crawl out of your own skin.
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head slightly, though his teeth tightened just a bit.
“Yeah, sure,” Bucky went on, eyes flicking to you for half a second before looking away again, “Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline. The High-stress of undercover, the close proximity. People read into things that aren’t there.”
You stared at him. “No one is reading into anything.”
“So,” he said quickly. “How do you know it’s actually good and not just… situational?”
John leaned forward, grinning like this was the best thing he’d heard all day. “You questioning my judgment, Barnes?”
“Constantly,” Bucky shot back without missing a beat.
John leaned forward, looking like this was the most interesting debrief he’d ever attended. “I’ve been on similar missions before. That wasn’t just adrenaline.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly. “You’re an expert now?”
“I’ve got data,” John shot back.
“You’ve got one data point.”
“Two,” Ava corrected calmly.
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “Those were two data sets collected under very similar circumstances—”
“And your review would be based on zero,” Ava shot back.
“You sound jealous, Bucky,” Yelena said bluntly.
“I’m not jealous.”
“You do.”
You made a noise somewhere between a strangled groan and a warning. “This is great!” you snapped sarcastically. “Love this conversation for me.”
John had the decency to at least look a little sheepish. Ava just watched you.
“Look, I just got back from spying on a government official,” you sighed. “I’d really rather not sit here while my teammates debate whether or not I’m worth kissing.”
There was a flicker of emotion on Bucky’s eyes— sympathy, maybe, but you didn’t stick around long enough to read it.
You turned toward the door. “I’m gonna go shower.”
Your hand paused on the handle just long enough for one last, dry addition. “Try not to start a rating system while I’m gone.”
And then you walked away, flipping the room off on your way out.
—
You knew it was going to be one of those days the second you opened your eyes the morning after.
Not because anything was wrong. It was quite the opposite. Everything was… normal.
Sunlight slipped through the blinds of your room, the faint hum of the tower already alive outside your door. There was no chaos, no emergencies, no lingering tension from last night.
Which, frankly, felt suspicious.
You brushed it off.
You showered. You got dressed. You tried to ignore the vague memory of being publicly evaluated like a five-star Yelp listing.
You definitely didn’t think about it. Definitely didn’t think about him.
You stepped into the common room and immediately saw the schedule board.
Cleaning rotations were scribbled across one side. Names were crossed out, arrows added, Alexei’s handwriting aggressively large for no reason. But your eyes slid right past that, locking onto today’s sparring column.
You scanned once.
There it was.
Ava — rest day
Yelena / Bob
Alexei / John
You / Bucky
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you muttered.
You turned on your heel. Considering, briefly, going back to bed. Considered faking an injury. Considered faking your own death.
Instead, you took a deep breath and headed for the gym.
—
The doors slid open with a soft hiss.
He was already there.
Of course he was.
Bucky stood in the center of the mat, sleeves pushed up, metal arm catching the overhead light in. He was rolling his shoulders, loosening up, but he looked like he’d been there a while.
His eyes flicked up the second you walked in. “You’re late.”
You didn’t even break stride, dropping your bag by the wall like nothing had just shifted in the atmosphere. “I’m on time.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. “You’re three minutes late.”
“Wow,” you said flatly, starting to wrap your hands. “Didn’t know you were so invested in punctuality.”
“I’m not,” he replied easily. “I just don’t like waiting.”
You huffed a small laugh. “You’ve lived, what, a hundred years? Pretty sure waiting is your whole thing.”
“Wow,” he said, adjusting the strap on his flesh hand. “You’re hostile today.”
You tightened the wrap around your knuckles, not looking at him. “I’m never hostile.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Then what do you call storming out of the room yesterday?”
You paused for half a second then kept wrapping. “That was me choosing not to commit a felony.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Seemed more like you were running away.”
You finally looked up at him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said sweetly. “Did you want me to stay while you all debated my mouth?”
The corner of his lips twitched.
That was the moment he moved quickly.
You barely had time to react before he closed the distance, aiming a clean strike you just managed to deflect.
“Oh, we’re starting already?” you shot back, pivoting away.
“You talk too much.”
“You’re just trying to shut me up.”
“Is it working?”
You blocked again, stepping into him this time, forcing him to shift his weight. “Not even a little.”
He adjusted quickly countering your movement with a more controlled reaction. You felt the brush of his hand against your wrist, the near-miss of him catching you off-balance.
You twisted free, stepping back. You met his eyes. “You almost had me.”
“I did have you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I will.”
Oh? What did that mean?
Fuck! Focus.
This time, you lunged first, and he met you halfway.
The next few minutes blurred into movement. You knew he was holding back, just enough to keep it controlled, but not enough to make it easy. And you matched him, pushing, testing, refusing to give him anything for free.
At one point, he caught your arm properly this time, and twisted, pulling you forward.
Your back hit the mat.
Before you could fully recover, he was braced over you, one hand pinning your wrist, the other planted beside your head.
You were breathing heavier now, being closer to him than either of you had any business being.
You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna help me up, or…?”
He didn’t move immediately. His eyes dropped, even just for a second, to your mouth. Then snapped back to your eyes. “…You gonna tap out, or…?” he echoed.
Your lips curved up slowly. “Not a chance.”
You shifted suddenly, using the position against him. You hooked your leg, twisting your weight just enough to break his balance.
It worked.
You rolled, flipping the position, and suddenly he was the one on the mat.
You leaned over him, breathing a little uneven, one hand braced near his shoulder.
He looked like he was about to say something stupid, eyes darting around your face frantically, but you wouldn’t let that happen. Instead, you got up and offered him a hand. Not that he needed it.
He took it anyway.
“Again?” you asked.
He stood, rolling his shoulders once more. “Yeah,” he said. “Again.”
—
You called it after the sixth round.
Not because either of you needed to stop, but because neither of you was really focusing on sparring anymore.
You dropped down onto the edge of the mat, grabbing your water bottle and taking a long drink, chest still rising and falling faster than it should. Across from you, Bucky did the same, dragging a hand through his hair, shoulders damp with sweat.
You were definitely not staring at his tank top clinging on to his skin. Definitely not.
For a minute, it was quiet.
Surprisingly, you were the one to break the silence.
You glanced at him sideways. “You’re not so bad, Barnes.”
He didn’t look over right away. He took another sip, then lowered the bottle slightly. “Wow.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he said, finally turning his head toward you. “I’m just surprised you can admit it.”
“I didn’t say you were good.”
“Mm. Sure.”
You nudged his boot lightly with your foot. “Don’t push it.”
There was that almost-smile again.
Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he opened his stupid mouth before his brain could filter through the words again.
“So,” he said casually, screwing the cap back onto his bottle, “does that translate to your other… skills?”
You froze for half a second. “Oh my god.”
“What?” he asked, too innocent.
“You are still on this?”
“I’m just curious.”
“About what happened yesterday?” you shot back.
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s come up.”
“Yeah, because you keep bringing it up.”
“I made one comment,” he said, clicking his human knuckles with his flesh ones.
“And then kept going,” you pointed out.
“So did everyone else.”
“Yeah, but everyone else dropped it eventually,” you said. “You didn’t.”
“I told you,” he insisted, I’m just curious.”
You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “About my kissing ability.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds weird,” he shook his head, inching towards you.
“It is weird.”
Now, you both were closer than you’d been a second ago. Neither of you were stepping back.
You dragged a hand through your hair. “No. I’m not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This—” you gestured between you both, frustrated now. “Whatever this is.”
His eyes dropped briefly to your hand, then back up again. “Feels like a normal conversation.”
“It feels like you trying to pick a fight over something that doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe it matters a little.”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “To who?”
He didn’t answer that, which was answer enough.
You rolled your eyes. You were so close to leaving, but his metal hand took your wrist as if to say, stay.
You did, even as he pulled his touch away abruptly.
“I’m trying to figure out if it’s skill,” he said, casual as anything, “or if Walker and Ava just have low standards.”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh my—“
“What?” He shrugged, looking unbearably smug, though you could tell it was a facade for something more vulnerable underneath. “I’m bringing up a valid point.”
“You are not,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re being annoying.”
“And you’re avoiding it.”
You shook your head, leaning to the wall like you needed the support just to reset. “You know what? Believe whatever you want.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Great.”
“But I’d rather you prove it.”
You froze. Slowly, you turned your head toward him again. “…I’m sorry?”
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it got more intent.
“Prove it,” he repeated.
Your eyebrows shot up. “You think you’re funny.”
“I think I’m being thorough.”
You stepped closer again. Close enough that the space between you felt… intentional.
“Why are you so obsessed with me?” you said flatly.
That did it.
For the first time since this started, he hesitated. It was small, but you caught it. And suddenly the tension wasn’t just teasing anymore.
He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking down for half a second before returning to yours. “I’m not—”
“You are,” you cut in immediately. “You’ve been needling me about a stupid kiss for, what, twelve hours now?”
“It’s not stupid.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Was that… jealousy?
Your head tilted slightly. “No?”
His jaw ticked.
He should’ve dropped it. He didn’t.
“You keep saying it didn’t mean anything,” he said, taking a step closer. “That it was just part of the mission.”
“It was.”
“Then why are you so defensive about it?”
“I’m not defensive—”
“You kind of are.”
You huffed, dragging a hand through your hair. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Still dodging.”
“I am not dodging anything,” you shot back, stepping forward to meet him. “You’re the one acting like this is some kind of—of—test.”
“Maybe it is.”
“There is no test!” You exclaimed.
“Then it should be easy.”
Your teeth clenched. “You’re insufferable.”
“So you’ve said.”
“And you’re wrong.”
“Then prove it.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “Fuck, you just keep repeating that like it’s going to magically make sense.”
“It does make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does if you stop overthinking it.”
“I am not overthinking it—”
“Then do something about it,” he said, unbearably cocky.
You stared at him, chest rising a little faster now, frustration simmering under your skin.
“Why do you care so much?” you demanded again, quieter this time.
He didn’t answer. He just looked at you with those unbearable gently sky-blue eyes.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “You’ve been pushing this—”
“And you’ve been avoiding it.”
“I’m not avoiding—”
“You are,” he insisted.
“I’m not—”
“Then stop talking.”
That was the final straw.
Your patience snapped, but you were not angry, not really you were just done with the back-and-forth.
“Fine,” you said.
And before you could second-guess it, you grabbed the front of his tank top and kissed him.
It was decisive, meant to shut him up more than anything else. Meant to prove the point he so desperately needed to be disproved.
For half a second, he didn’t move. You’d actually caught him off guard.
And then, he kissed you back.
His metal hand came up, hovered for the briefest second like he was deciding whether he should, before settling at your waist, pulling you in just enough to erase whatever space had been left between you.
That wasn’t part of the plan.
This wasn’t a hallway in a gala, wasn’t adrenaline, wasn’t a cover. And it definitely wasn’t nothing.
Your grip tightened slightly in his shirt without meaning to, but even then, you were making the conscious decision to run your tongue against his lips, opening your mouth just enough to feel him sigh into you.
You let it build, just enough to make a point, just enough to feel the shift when it stopped being a challenge and started being… something he enjoyed.
You gently his lower lip, and he couldn’t help but moan.
You tilted your head just a fraction, deepening it, not messy or careless, just confident. Like you knew exactly what you were doing.
His other hand came up to cradle your have as if he almost thought about pulling you closer, and that hesitation, that split second where he didn’t have control anymore—
That was the moment you were aiming for.
You broke the kiss slowly pulling back just enough to breathe, but not far enough to fully step away.
Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “…There.”
Like that settled it. Like that proved your point. But your hand was still fisted in his shirt. And he hadn’t let go of your waist.
“I…” Bucky started, and for a man who had faced down wars, gods, and ghosts, he looked completely, utterly undone. “I—I…”
You didn’t move away. You didn’t even give him space to recover.
“I, I,” you echoed, mocking him as you tilted your head, though there was a clear undertone of fondness in your teasing. “You what, huh?”
His eyes flicked between yours like he was trying to find solid ground to stand on, and failing.
“I need you to do that again,” he said finally, quieter now, like the words were being pulled out of him against his will. “For… a better understanding of the data.”
A smile spread across your face, equal parts amused and dangerous. “You are so fucking obsessed with me.”
His mouth opened probably to argue, to deflect, to pretend, but you didn’t give him the chance.
You kissed him again, just as he asked.
Bucky stilled.
For a split second, he didn’t react at all. Like his brain had short-circuited, like he didn’t trust himself to move and ruin it.
Then you pressed in just a little more and he exhaled against your mouth.
It wasn’t rushed: that was the difference. You gave him time to feel the warmth, the pressure, the way you moved your mouth in that slow, controlled pace.
His hand tightened at your waist, fingers flexing like he needed to check you were real.
You parted your lips slightly, just enough to shift the kiss heavier.
He leaned into you, deeper now, following your rhythm but adding just a bit more pressure, like he couldn’t help chasing it. His thumb shifted slightly against your neck, a subtle touch that made the whole thing feel more intentional.
There was no control left in the way he kissed you now. His breathing had gone uneven, soft, hiccuping exhales slipping between each movement.
You were all all he was paying attention to.
When your lips finally slowed, the kiss didn’t break right away. It faded, gradually, like neither of you were in a rush to end it.
Your mouths brushed once, twice, until there was just space again.
Barely.
His forehead hovered close to yours, his hand still at your neck, his grip at your waist not loosening in the slightest.
His eyes didn’t open immediately.
When they did, they dropped to your lips first, then back to your eyes.
“Yeah,” he breathed, the word catching on the way out like he hadn’t quite recovered. “Yeah… I’m—” he shook his head once, an almost disbelieving laugh slipping through. “I’m definitely more… convinced.”
You tilted your head, watching him closely, lips still curved with satisfaction. “Good.”
His eyes dropped to your form again, like he wasn’t even pretending not to look anymore.
“But,” he added, voice lower now, roughened at the edges, “I’m not convinced that mouth of yours is only good for kissing.”
You blinked at him once.
You can’t help the mischievous smile pulled at your lips. You weren’t stupid. You were pulled flush against him— you could feel the tightness in his trousers. You knew he was excited.
“Oh my god,” you said, almost too calm. “Are you asking for a blowjob, Barnes?”
He choked.
Not metaphorically. He actually choked, coughing once as he dragged a hand down his face, composure cracking in real time.
“I… what—no-I mean…” he let out a deep breath, clearly flustered now, words tripping over each other. “Yes, but… not just that— I didn’t say- well, I did but that’s not—”
You folded your arms, leaning back just enough to take him in, enjoying the way he unraveled.
“Wow,” you murmured. “Look at you.”
His teeth tightened, like he was trying to pull himself back together, but the flush creeping up his neck gave him away.
“All that confidence,” you added, “just gone.”
He huffed under his breath, forcing himself upright again, like he was rebuilding the version of himself he’d had five minutes ago.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, voice still a little off, a little less steady than he wanted it to be, “there’s… a broader range of data that could be evaluated.”
You leaned forward again, close enough that his breath hitched before you even touched him.
“Mm,” you hummed, reaching out, fingers grazing lightly along the front of his shirt again, enough to make his shoulders tense. “Very thorough of you.”
Your voice dropped as he gulped.
“Ask nicely, Barnes,” you said, your lips just a fraction too close to his, “and I’ll think about it.”
He swallowed.
His hand shifted at your waist, not pulling this time, but holding. Like he was waiting, like he couldn’t figure out what to do or what to say, for once in goddamn life.
“…Ask nicely,” you repeated, offering guidance.
For a second, you wondered if he would even speak at all. Until…
“Please,” he rasped out.
There was no sarcasm, no edge to his words. He just wanted you.
Your eyes softened just a fraction, warmer slipping in under the teasing.
“You’re so gone,” you chuckled triumphantly, affectionately rubbing small circles on his cheeks with your thumb.
“Yeah,” he admitted, without hesitation this time. “Yeah, I am.”
You kissed him again. Not to prove anything, but just because you wanted to.
i need help looking for a fic but… its in wattpad. its a gojo x reader and theyre both paralegals i thinkkk and gojo lowk hates reader’s guts and so he makes a bet w yuji the reader finds out and she gets angry and gojo gets w a girl but doesnt actually wanna do anything with rhe girl and he only wants reader to see her w the girl….. PLS I NEED THIS SO BAD I READ THIS IN LIKE 2024 IM CRINE (sorry for the bad punctuation)
wc: 17k || art creds: @/winterrbluess @/su2kuna || 18+
frat!sukuna x shy!nerd!reader
A/N lowk this fic is much more toned down compared to what i usually post but fuck it we ball it's cute
summary ! sukuna doesn't give a shit about chemistry, that is until the big red 8% on his last test threatens to get him kicked out of his frat. desperate, he turns to the only person who can save him: you, the adorable, shy girl who aces every quiz. you agree to help, but only if he helps you get the attention of your hallway crush, his best friend, toji. what starts as a deal between you slowly turns into a spiral of love and jealousy. (18+, fluff, slight toji x reader (?), no angst for once omg go me)
the big red number stares back at him from the top of the paper like a brand burned into his pride. 8%.
sukuna exhales through his nose, the sound rough, annoyed. the paper crumples in his hand before he tosses it onto the desk. he leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking under his weight as his jaw works.
normally, he wouldn’t give a damn about a grade. it’s not like chemistry was ever something he cared about. but this time, it’s different. one more fail and he’s out. the frat has rules, grades too low and you’re done. and he knows exactly what’ll happen if that happens.
tojis smug laugh. satoru’s endless teasing. the guys calling him “brain-dead” for weeks. no more parties. no more sorority hoes. no more lazy afternoons drinking on the porch with his friends.
he runs a hand down his face, dragging his fingers over the faint scar under his eye and the sharp tatted lines on his cut face. he can’t let that happen.
at the front of the room, their professor is rambling about averages and assessment weightings, something about the next major project. sukuna tunes back in when he hears the words “sixty percent” and “partner work.” that catches his attention.
the next gruelling assessment is a two-month long research investigation worth sixty percent of their final grade.
he was on the verge of strangling himself to death or jumping out of the top story window when he realised.
that’s it.
that’s his way out. he just needs a smart partner who can carry his hopeless ass.
sukuna’s eyes sweep across the room, scanning for anyone who looks like they know what the hell they’re doing. most of the people he usually talks to in class are as useless as he is, too busy flirting or sleeping through lectures.
but then his gaze catches on someone sitting right up the front.
you.
the quiet girl with the tidy notes and the neat handwriting, the one who always answers when the professor asks a question no one else dares to.
you’re sitting there now, head slightly tilted as you jot something down, your pen gliding across the page with that easy confidence of someone who actually understands this shit.
you’ve always sat alone, tucked near the window. you never talk during lectures unless you have to, and even then your voice is small, hesitant. you wear oversized sweaters, keep your hair pinned up, and avoid eye contact with anyone who looks remotely like they belong to his world.
still, he’s noticed you before. everyone has. it’s hard not to. you’re the kind of girl that seems untouchable, not because you’re trying to be, but because you’re so far removed from everything he knows. soft, focused, real sweet.
and right now, you look like salvation.
he pushes up from his seat, ignoring the curious glances from a few classmates as he moves down the aisle. his tall frame blocks the light for a second when he stops beside your desk. you glance up, startled, your pen pausing mid-sentence.
"yo, my names sukuna. and you?"
"uh, hi? it's y/n." he smirks at your shy response, but continues.
“you’re like, a chem genius, right?” his tone is low, rough with disinterest, though his eyes linger on you a little too long.
you blink up at him, hesitant. “oh, um… i guess? why?”
“i need a partner, like, real bad,” he says, dropping the failed exam onto your desk with a dull slap. the red ink almost glows. “i'm gonna be honest, i completely fucked myself with this last exam. i can’t afford to fail again.”
you stare at the paper, then at him. up close, he’s intimidating. messy pink hair, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, tattoos trailing up his arms, his face, and peeking out from under his shirt collar.
he looks nothing like someone who’d ever ask for help, especially from you, and the fact that he’s doing it now makes your mind reel.
“i- look, don't take this the wrong way, but... theres a lot of people in this class,” you manage softly. “why pick me?”
he shrugs, leaning one hand on the desk beside your notes. “because you actually know what you’re doing. and i’m not looking to get stuck with some idiot who’ll drag me down, i'm already so fucking cooked."
you hesitate, glancing away. you’ve never really talked to him before. actually, you’ve barely even noticed him beyond the times you’ve seen him walking across campus with toji. that’s usually when your stomach does that stupid fluttering thing. watching toji laugh, his arm slung lazily around sukuna’s shoulders, both of them looking like they own the place.
it’s strange seeing one of them standing here now, asking you for help.
you fidget with your pen. “that's fine, sure. but… if we’re partners, wed have to split the workload.”
"yeah,” he says. “i can pull my weight, don't stress it, sweetheart. mostly just need someone to keep me from bombing it.”
it’s almost funny. he’s trying to sound casual, but something about the way he’s watching you feels uncharacteristically careful. like he’s actually waiting for your answer rather than being the overbearing dick he usually is.
maybe it’s because you’re cute. or maybe it’s because he knows you hold his fate in your small, nervous hands.
you chew your lip for a moment, then nod. “yeah, okay. i’ll help you out.”
his mouth tilts in a grin that’s half smug, half genuine relief. “good. 'preciate it, babe.”
you look down instantly, pretending to organize your papers so he doesn’t see the way your face warms. you weren't used to such casual name calling.
he drags a chair over from the next row and drops into it beside you, leaning back like he’s been sitting there all semester.
the professor’s voice fades into the background again as you stare straight ahead, trying to focus on anything but the fact that sukuna ryomen, the most notorious guy in beta tau, is now your project partner.
a few minutes pass in silence. the lecture drags on, your notes filling another page. but your mind’s racing the whole time. sukuna, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.
he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. and he definitely hadn’t expected to find himself curious about you. you’re so… different. not the kind of girl who shows up to parties. not someone who flirts back when he smirks at her. just quiet and sweet, head buried in your work, the type that shouldn’t even be in his orbit.
and yet here you are.
when the professor dismisses the class, people start packing up. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to him.
“hey… sukuna?”
he hums, eyes flicking toward you lazily. “yeah?”
you look nervous, the words almost tripping over themselves before they leave your mouth. cute. “i’ll help you pass. but… can you help me out with something too?”
his brow arches. “hmm. depends what it is.”
you take a quiet breath. “it’s about your friend. uh.. toji.”
that gets his attention. his posture stiffens a little. “what about him?”
you look down at your notebook, like it’s safer than looking at him. “i just… i think he’s really attractive. and he looks nice. i know it’s kind of stupid but i was wondering if maybe... you could help me get him to notice me.”
for a second, sukuna just stares at you.
out of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t it.
you, the shy little thing sitting up front, blushing and tripping over her own words, want toji fushiguro. one of the biggest assholes on campus. his best friend, sure, but a guy who barely remembers girls’ names after he sleeps with them.
he leans back slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’re serious?”
you nod, eyes still fixed on your notebook.
he studies you for a long moment. you’re fidgeting again, twisting your pen between your fingers, your voice so soft he almost misses it. “you don’t have to if it’s weird, i just thought… you two are close, so maybe…”
sukuna exhales through his nose. part of him wants to tell you it’s a bad idea. that toji doesn’t deserve someone like you. that you’d get hurt trying to chase a guy like that.
but he doesn’t.
instead, he tilts his head and says, “yeah, fine. i’ll help you out.”
your head snaps up, eyes wide. “huh? really?”
“yeah. but only because you’re saving my ass with this project,” he says, smirking a little. “guess we’ll call it even.”
you smile, small, bright, genuine, and something tightens in his chest.
you're so cute.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
he grins again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “don’t mention it, honey.”
and as you pack up your notes, he watches you go, already trying to ignore the strange feeling crawling up the back of his neck.
he tells himself it’s just a deal. a trade. nothing more.
but as you disappear out the door, he can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten himself into more trouble than he realises.
~
music blasts through the frat, heavy bass shaking the walls, bodies moving in rhythm across the living room floor. someone’s yelling over the noise, someone else is laughing too loud.
the air smells like bad beer, smoke, and sweat, the classic friday night cocktail that means beta tau is alive and wild again.
sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in hand, watching a game of beer pong play out in front of him. the noise is deafening, but it’s a familiar kind of chaos. toji’s across the table, grin sharp as he sinks another ping-pong ball into the last cup.
“hell yeah,” toji shouts, hands raised. “that’s another win for me, baby!”
someone hands him another drink, and he downs it in one go, slamming the cup down as the room cheers. toji fushiguro lives for this kind of night, beer, bets, and easy company. sukuna’s used to it, the routine almost comforting.
he joins the next round, barely losing after a stupid bounce, then lets himself collapse onto the sagging couch beside toji. the music’s pounding through the walls, but the corner they’re in feels quieter, almost like the noise fades around them.
toji stretches out, arm slung over the back of the couch, shirt sticking to his skin. “you’re slipping, man,” he says, smirking at sukuna. “used to be able to hold your own in beer pong.”
“fuck up,” sukuna mutters, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “that last shot was rigged.”
“rigged?” toji laughs, deep and unrestrained. “you’re just rusty.”
sukuna grunts, tossing his empty cup onto the coffee table. his head’s buzzing, not from the alcohol, just from thoughts, mostly the image of you, the way you looked earlier in class, keeps floating up uninvited. you sitting at the front of the room, your careful handwriting, the little way you’d fidget with your pen when you were nervous.
he doesn’t even realize he’s been quiet until toji elbows him. “yo, what’s got you zoning out?”
sukuna runs his tongue over his teeth, deciding. screw it. “you ever heard of someone named y/n?”
toji raises a brow, blinking like he didn’t catch that over the noise. “who?”
“y/n,” sukuna repeats.
toji shakes his head, lips quirking. “nah. that some new chick you’re banging?”
sukuna sputters, choking on air. “what? no. i’m not-” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. great. smooth start.
toji’s smirk widens. “come on, man. don’t get shy on me. you’re stuttering like some freshman.”
“shut up,” sukuna mutters, glaring at him. “it’s not like that.”
“then what’s it like?”
he hesitates, watching the light flicker off the beer bottles on the table. there’s no way to explain it without sounding weird. he’s not even sure why he’s bringing you up at all, except that he made a promise, and now he’s gotta start somewhere.
“she’s just… in my chem class,” he finally says. “smart as hell. the kind that actually knows what she’s doing, y’know?”
toji snorts. “so, a nerd.”
“yeah,” sukuna says, ignoring the way toji says it like it’s an insult. “but, like… cute. shy, quiet, nice, i guess.”
toji’s grin widens. “bro. you’re seriously telling me about a crush right now? what the hell happened to you?”
“it’s not a crush,” sukuna says quickly, though his voice comes out sharper than he means. “she’s just..” he stops, running a hand through his hair. “she’s helping me with chem, okay? and i told her i’d help her with something too.”
“what, she want free alcs?” toji laughs.
“no.” sukuna exhales through his nose. “she wants you.”
that earns him a pause. toji tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide if he misheard. “me?”
“yeah.”
“as in… she wants to, what, date me?”
“basically.”
toji’s silent for a moment, then he breaks into a bark of laughter so loud it turns a few heads. “you’re kidding, right? some shy nerdy girl wants me?” he grins, tapping his chest. “guess she’s got good taste.”
sukuna grits his teeth. “don’t be an ass about it.”
“what? i’m not being an ass,” toji says, still smirking. “just saying, that’s not really my type, man. i like girls who can actually keep up, y’know?”
“yeah, i know,” sukuna mutters. “that’s kinda the problem.”
“problem?”
sukuna leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “look, she’s… she’s sweet. like, actually sweet. the kind of girl that probably still says ‘sorry’ even when someone bumps into her first. you’d break her in half.”
toji shrugs, unbothered. “then maybe she shouldn’t be into me.”
“she doesn’t even know you,” sukuna says, frustration creeping into his tone. “she just saw you around. thinks you’re… i don’t know. hot and nice.”
“ha,” toji barks out a laugh, finishing his drink. “then she’s definitely got the wrong idea.”
sukuna sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. this was going nowhere.
he tries again, his tone careful. “i just figured maybe you could give her a chance. she’s not like the other girls you mess with. she’s…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “different. the kind you’d actually like if you gave her five minutes.”
toji side-eyes him, clearly amused. “you trying to sell me a girlfriend or something? what’s in it for you?”
sukuna’s jaw tightens. “nothing. i told her i’d help her out, that’s all.”
toji grins, eyes glinting. “you sure about that? you sound kinda like you wanna keep her for yourself.”
sukuna’s silent for a beat, his pulse ticking faster than it should. “i don’t.”
“right. and i’m the pope.” toji laughs, leaning back. “are you high? tellin’ me about how cute and shy she is… just fuck her and move on, bro. no need for all this emotional shit.”
sukuna drags a hand down his face, groaning. “i wish i was fucking high. jesus, you’re impossible.”
the music gets louder again, another chant rising from the kitchen as someone calls for shots. toji stands, stretching, grinning down at him. “come on, man. stop thinking so hard. let’s go get wasted.”
sukuna waves him off. “nah, i’m good. go ahead.”
toji shrugs and disappears into the crowd. sukuna sinks further into the couch, head tipping back, letting the noise drown out the frustration burning in his chest.
this was going to be a nightmare.
.
the next morning, the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall feel like punishment. the air smells like stale coffee and paper, and the chatter around the room grates on his nerves. sukuna slouches into his seat, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion clinging to him.
you’re already there, of course. neat stack of papers beside your laptop, pen in hand, posture perfect. you glance up as he approaches, offering a small smile.
“morning,” you say softly.
“hey,” he mutters, sliding into the seat next to you.
the teacher doesn’t waste time, telling everyone to start working on their projects. pairs scatter across the room, some staying behind, others leaving for the library. you glance at sukuna, uncertain.
“should we…?”
“yeah, library,” he says before you can finish. “less noise.”
you nod quickly, tucking your notes under your arm as you follow him out.
the walk’s quiet. you keep close but not too close, fingers gripping the strap of your bag. sukuna glances at you once or twice as you walk, the sunlight catching the edge of your hair. there’s something weirdly calming about you, like your presence forces the chaos in his head to settle for a bit.
when you reach the campus library, you pick a small table near the back, away from the groups of whispering students. the morning light filters through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. it’s quiet enough that every turn of a page feels loud.
you sit across from him, pulling your laptop from your bag. “um, before we start, maybe we should exchange contact info?”
he nods, pulling out his phone. “yeah. what's ya' number?”
you rattle it off, and he types it in. his phone pings a second later when you text him, and he adds your contact with a lazy swipe. then you both exchange social media.
you open your instagram to show him, but he’s already found it. your account’s small. cozy, soft colors, pictures of coffee cups, notes, and the occasional selfie that looks like you were trying not to take one.
then you look at his. thousands of followers, stories from parties, shirtless gym photos, snapshots of him and toji grinning like idiots with red cups in hand.
you blink, then smile politely. “ours are… really different.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. just a little.”
he doesn’t tell you that he finds it kind of adorable, how small and peaceful your corner of the internet looks compared to his chaos.
you both settle in to start discussing the project, papers spread between you. you talk about ideas, your voice growing steadier as you get into the topic. you explain concepts easily, your hands moving as you describe how you could structure the research, how to divide the work.
he listens. or tries to. mostly, he’s just watching the way you light up when you talk about something you love.
after a while, you pause, glancing at him with a small, hopeful look. “did you… talk to toji?”
he freezes for a fraction of a second, mind flashing back to last night. the laughter, the teasing, the absolute disaster of that conversation.
“yeah,” he says after a moment, forcing a smile. “i did.”
your eyes widen, curious. “what’d he say?”
he hesitates. you’re looking at him so earnestly, waiting for an answer, and he can’t bring himself to tell you that toji laughed it off, that he’d said something crude about just sleeping with you and moving on.
so he lies.
“he seemed interested,” sukuna says smoothly. “asked who you were. said you sounded cute.”
you go still for a moment, then your cheeks flush, and you duck your head. “really?”
“yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “told him you were smart, nice. he said that’s rare.”
your shy smile makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.
“that’s… really nice of you, sukuna,” you say softly. “thanks.”
he shrugs, forcing a grin. “told you i’d help.”
but as you turn back to your notes, still smiling faintly to yourself, he can’t look away. he doesn’t know what’s worse, the way lying to you actually hurts his heart, or the way part of him’s starting to wish that toji never finds out who you are.
because the thought of you smiling like that at anyone else makes his stomach twist.
~
the frat house is quieter than usual when sukuna pushes the door open.
no bass pounding through the walls, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no beer pong table clattering in the kitchen. just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant muffled sound of someone’s tv from another room.
it’s strange. unsettling, almost. he’s gotten used to the constant noise, the never ending roar of people that filled the house from dusk till dawn.
he kicks off his shoes at the door, shoulders rolling back as he heads for the stairs. his head still feels heavy from the long day, the faint scent of your shampoo stuck in his memory.
it’s weird? he’s been around a thousand girls, maybe more. girls who practically threw themselves at him, who laughed too loud at his jokes and leaned in too close.
but somehow, you, sitting across from him with that shy smile and your soft voice explaining inter molecular relationship, manage to stick in his head longer than any of them ever have.
his room’s dark when he steps inside, save for the light bleeding in from the street through the blinds. he tosses his keys onto the desk and falls back onto his bed, exhaling. the ceiling stares back blankly.
he doesn’t even mean to grab his phone, but his hand moves before he can think. he unlocks it, thumb hovering over instagram.
just checking something, he tells himself.
his fingers type your username into the search bar without hesitation.
your profile opens instantly.
the same cozy layout he remembered. a few new story highlights. your bio, something simple, maybe a quote or a flower emoji. his thumb scrolls down slowly, eyes following the grid of neatly arranged photos. you, a few landscapes, coffee cups, snippets of sunlight through your window, a cat that might not even be yours.
he stops when he sees a picture from about a month ago.
you’re holding a tiny puppy in your arms, your face caught mid laugh, like someone had said something funny right before snapping the picture. the puppy’s paw rests against your chest, nose tucked near your chin. in your other hand, you’re holding a paper cup of coffee, a little swirl of foam peeking through the lid.
he stares at it for longer than he should.
it’s just a photo, nothing special, but something about it hits him hard . the little details, the way your fingers hold gently under the puppy’s paw, the sunlight catching on the curve of your cheek, the way your smile looks completely unposed.
he catches himself wondering stupid things.
was that your dog? probably not. maybe a friend’s. or some random one you met at a cafe.
was the coffee yours? it looks like something you’d order, something simple. maybe vanilla, maybe something with caramel.
where was that taken? some small corner cafe? a weekend morning somewhere quiet?
he doesn’t know. and that bothers him more than it should.
his thumb hovers over the photo for a second before he double taps it. the little red heart fills in on the corner of the screen.
great. now you’re going to see that he liked a post from a month ago. real smooth.
he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him, covering his face with his hands.
“what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters.
he’s never been that guy. the one who scrolls through a girl’s profile like he’s studying for an exam. the one who cares enough to wonder what her favorite coffee order is, or if she likes dogs or cats more. he doesn’t ask those questions. he doesn’t want to ask those questions.
but he can’t stop himself.
he scrolls again, back up to your most recent post, another candid shot, you’re wearing one of those oversized sweaters you always seem to wear to class, sleeves pulled over your wrists.
you look peaceful. and sweet. and so painfully far from the world he lives in.
his throat tightens unexpectedly, he looks deeper, really looks at you.
you’re really fucking pretty.
he’d always known that. he’d noticed, sure, he’s not blind. the first day you’d agreed to work with him, he’d thought you were cute. adorable, even. but now, staring at your pictures, seeing the small glimpses of your life beyond those chemistry notes and shy smiles, he realizes it’s more than that.
you’re beautiful.
and that realization sits heavy in his chest, thick and uncomfortable.
because he knows exactly where this is supposed to go.
he still owes you. he still promised you something.
toji.
the thought of his friend’s name makes him exhale hard through his nose.
he can already picture it. if he brings you up again, toji will laugh the same way he always does. say something crude. maybe shrug and agree to meet you, just for the hell of it. and maybe you’d smile that soft, nervous smile at him, and maybe you’d fall for him harder than you already have.
and that image, that thought? makes sukuna’s jaw clench.
he shakes his head, forcing the phone screen off.
“get a grip,” he mutters, rolling onto his side.
but it’s no use. even as he closes his eyes, the image of you laughing with that puppy burns into the back of his mind.
~
two weeks pass withf lectures and late-night text exchanges about project deadlines.
you’ve met up three times since that first day at the library. each time, sukuna’s noticed small things. how you seem to relax around him more, how you’ve started teasing him lightly when he messes up an equation, how your laugh sounds quiet but genuine when he actually manages to make you smile.
and now, on the fourth meeting, he finds himself heading to the library again, trying to ignore the way his stomach feels weirdly tight.
you’re already there when he walks in.
same table. same corner near the back.
but this time, something’s different.
you’re standing by your seat, waving slightly when you see him. and in your hands, you’re holding two cups of coffee.
“hey,” you say, your voice bright and clear in a way that makes him pause.
he blinks, momentarily thrown off by how cheerful you sound. “hey,” he replies, trying to sound as casual as usual.
you hold out one of the cups toward him. “i, um, got this for you. black coffee, right?”
for a second, he just stares.
it’s stupid. it’s a coffee cup. but his mind stutters anyway.
“yeah,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. “yeah, that’s right.”
“i wasn’t sure how you take it,” you admit with a small laugh. “you seem like the kind of person who drinks it straight. no sugar, no milk.”
he huffs out a small laugh, taking the cup from you. “you got that right.”
“lucky guess.”
you sit down, cheeks faintly pink. he watches you for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat and dropping into the chair across from you.
“thanks,” he says finally, lifting the cup slightly. “for the coffee.”
you smile, soft and genuine. “you’ve been helping me a lot with this, so i thought it was the least i could do.”
he wants to tell you that you’ve got it backwards, that you’re the one keeping him afloat, not the other way around, but he bites his tongue.
instead, he takes a sip, the bitter taste grounding him.
“you didn’t have to, y'know.”
“i wanted to,” you say, eyes flicking down to your notes.
and for a brief second, he feels his pulse skip.
you wanted to.
he tries to shake the feeling, pulling out his own notes. “alright, so. what’s the plan for today?”
you talk about the experiment data, what needs to be written up, the references you still have to gather. he listens, but part of him’s distracted.
it’s the way you’re talking now, louder, lighter. you’re not tripping over your words anymore. you’re not afraid to meet his eyes. the shy girl who could barely look at him two weeks ago is now smiling at him between sentences.
and fuck if that doesn’t make something twist in his chest.
as the minutes pass, the project talk starts to blur into something else. he’s the one who changes the subject first.
“so,” he says, leaning back slightly. “what’s with you and coffee? every time i see you, you’ve got one.”
you look up from your laptop, blinking. “i just like it, i guess. i go to this little place near campus almost every morning before class.”
“the one with the green sign?”
“yeah, that one.”
“figured.”
you laugh quietly. “you go there too?”
“sometimes,” he says. “after workouts. they’ve got good espresso.”
you tilt your head. “you work out every morning?”
“almost,” he says, smirking faintly. “gotta keep my sexy frat guy aura in tact.”
“oh, right,” you tease, eyes glinting a little. “wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
he blinks, caught off guard. “fans?”
“your instagram,” you say, trying not to laugh. “you’ve got, like, a thousand girls following you. i saw.”
he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “don’t remind me.”
“why?”
“because half of them don’t even go to this school,” he says, grinning a little. “they just… show up.”
you laugh, the sound soft but real, and he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
after that, the conversation drifts. you talk about random things. your classes, your favorite kind of music, the dog from your photo (“that’s my friend’s puppy,” you explain. “he’s named mochi.”).
sukuna finds himself asking questions, more than he’s ever asked anyone before. not just because he wants to fill the silence, but because he genuinely wants to know.
you tell him about your hobbies, your part tme job at the campus bookstore, how you’re saving up for a trip after graduation.
he listens. really listens.
and for every small thing you share, he feels himself drawn in deeper.
when the session finally ends, the clock showing that two hours have slipped by without either of you noticing, you start packing up your things.
“same time next week?” you ask, glancing up.
“yeah,” he says. “same spot.”
you smile again, that soft, shy one that makes his chest ache.
and as you wave goodbye and walk out of the library, sukuna stays seated for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from him.
he should be thinking about the project. about grades. about keeping his promise to you.
but all he can think about is how the smell of coffee still lingers faintly on his fingers and how, somehow, that’s become his favorite part of the day.
~
the frat house always feels heavy on monday mornings. air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, empty red cups scattered on tables like small grave markers from the weekend before. sukuna drags himself through the hallway, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower.
toji’s already waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. he looks up when sukuna walks in, flashing that familiar cocky grin.
“yo, you down to hit the gym?”
sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. “for sure.”
mondays are brutal, but skipping a session isn’t an option. not when you’ve got someone like toji keeping score. they finish off their drinks, grab their bags, and head out.
the campus is still quiet. early morning sun stretches across the pavement, birds chirping somewhere above. their sneakers hit the concrete in sync.
“bro, did you see the game last night?” toji asks, tossing a smirk his way.
“yeah,” sukuna mutters. “you owe me twenty.”
toji groans. “bullshit. that last call was garbage.”
“still counts.”
they go back and forth for a while typical talk. girls, workouts, who pulled who at the last party. toji’s loud, animated, the kind of guy who fills silence with his own voice. sukuna listens, laughs when he should, but half his mind’s somewhere else.
they’re cutting across the main quad when he spots you.
you’re walking toward one of the lecture halls, tote bag slung over your shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes his breath hitch.
you’re wearing something simple. a cute shirt and nice jeans, your hands wrapped around a coffee cup, but somehow it makes you stand out more than anyone else on the path.
you don’t see him, too focused on your phone, but his chest tightens anyway.
for a second, it’s like the rest of the campus fades away.
then he remembers who’s walking beside him.
toji’s still talking about some girl he hooked up with over the weekend, words fading into the background as sukuna’s jaw tightens. he forces his eyes away, tells himself to stop being weird. this is stupid. you’re just his lab partner.
except he’s not supposed to be thinking about how good you look in the morning light. he’s supposed to be thinking about the deal.
the one with toji.
his throat feels dry as he forces himself to speak.
“hey,” he says suddenly. “you remember that girl i was talking about the other night?”
toji glances over, raising a brow. “the chem one?”
“yeah. that’s her.”
he nods toward you before he can second-guess it.
toji slows immediately, his attention shifting in your direction. you’re still walking across the path, the sunlight brushing over your face as you look up for a moment, squinting.
sukuna watches as toji literally stops in his tracks.
“no way,” toji says, eyes widening. “that’s her?”
“yeah,” sukuna mutters.
“holy shit.” toji’s grin spreads, sharp and impressed. “you didn’t tell me she was that cute.”
sukuna doesn’t respond. he just keeps walking, pretending to be unfazed, but every word toji says feels like it’s digging deeper under his skin.
“seriously, bro,” toji continues, still staring after you even as you disappear into the building. “you made her sound like some dorky little nerd. i was picturing ugly glasses, messy bun, the whole thing. but she’s, damn. she’s adorable.”
sukuna’s stomach twists. he forces a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “yeah, she’s not bad.”
“not bad?” toji laughs, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me, man?”
“nah,” sukuna says quickly. “just didn’t think you’d be into that type.”
“what type?”
“the smart, quiet type,” he says, voice flat. “thought you liked girls who could ‘keep up,’ remember?”
toji scoffs. “yeah, well, she’s too cute to pass up. shit, you should let me tag along next time you’re studying with her. see what she’s like up close.”
sukuna forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “yeah, sure. whatever.”
inside, he’s cringing so hard he feels sick.
they head into the gym, the sound of clanging weights filling the space. he tries to focus on the burn in his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing but his thoughts won’t shut up. toji’s words keep echoing. she’s adorable. she’s gorgeous. you holding out on me?
this was what he was supposed to do. this was the plan. introduce you to toji, let things fall into place, make good on his end of the deal.
so why does it feel so wrong?
~
the next study session comes faster than he expects.
the day’s overcast, the library quiet except for the soft hush of the air conditioning. you’re already there when he walks in, sitting in your usual spot by the window, books neatly stacked, pen tapping absently against your notebook.
you look up when you hear his voice.
“hey,” he says, slipping through the aisles toward you.
your face brightens instantly, that small, warm smile tugging at your lips.
“hi,” you say, already starting to greet him.
then your voice falters.
because right behind him, towering and broad-shouldered, is toji.
your words die halfway out of your throat, eyes going wide. he’s impossible to ignore, dark hair, sharp grin, that easy confidence that radiates from him like static.
sukuna can see the exact moment you freeze. your fingers grip your pen a little too tightly, your posture going stiff.
“this is toji,” sukuna says, trying to sound casual. “he wanted to tag along today.”
“hey,” toji says smoothly, pulling up a chair without asking. “nice to meet you, y/n.”
you nod, cheeks pink. “h-hi.”
it’s awkward from the start. painfully so.
sukuna tries to start things off, opening his notebook and asking about the data you collected last week, but toji’s already jumping in with his own questions, none of them relevant.
“so,” toji leans forward, elbows on the table. “you’re really good at this chem stuff, huh? always been a little nerd?”
you laugh nervously, eyes flicking between the two of them. “i… guess so?”
“yeah, i could never,” he says, shaking his head. “i barely passed last year. too many parties, you know how it is.”
you nod politely, but the look on your face says it all, you have no idea what to say.
sukuna grits his teeth.
toji keeps going, oblivious. he talks about the last frat party, about the time he benched two hundred in front of half the football team, about some girl who texted him last night. you just sit there, smiling faintly, giving small nods and quiet hums of agreement.
it’s brutal.
every word toji says feels like a slow car crash sukuna can’t stop. he knows he should’ve expected this. this was always how toji was but now that it’s happening in front of you, he can’t stand it.
you’re sitting there, trying so hard to be polite, cheeks flushed, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve. and for the first time, sukuna hates how loud the other guy is. hates how he’s filling the space that’s always felt quiet and easy with you.
after what feels like forever, toji’s phone buzzes. he glances down, reads the message, and stands up.
“gotta head out,” he says, smirking. “good luck with your project, sweetheart. maybe i’ll swing by next time, yeah?”
before you can respond, he gives you a wink.
you freeze again, murmuring something that barely sounds like a goodbye.
he leaves, whistling under his breath, completely unaware of how painfully awkward that was.
the second he’s out of sight, sukuna exhales hard and runs a hand through his hair.
“fuck,” he mutters. “sorry about that.”
your eyes widen a little. “oh, um, it’s fine.”
“no, seriously,” he says, glancing at you. “i should’ve told you i was bringing him.”
you hesitate, then smile, shy but real. “it’s okay. i was just… nervous, i guess.”
he tilts his head. “why?”
you look down at your notes. “he’s just… kind of intense. i didn’t expect that.”
“yeah,” he says quietly. “he’s like that.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward, though. it’s calm. steady.
you’re visibly more relaxed now, shoulders no longer so tight, your voice softer when you start talking again. sukuna listens, his chest loosening with every word.
you don’t mention toji again.
and he doesn’t either.
for the rest of the session, it’s just the two of you again. back to the easy rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed until it was gone. you explain a reaction mechanism, he teases you about your handwriting, you roll your eyes and laugh.
when it’s time to leave, you pack up your things slowly, almost like you don’t want the moment to end.
“see you next week?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “next week.”
you give a small wave, and as you walk out, sukuna watches you disappear between the shelves, that same quiet warmth settling in his chest.
he should feel relieved, he did what he was supposed to. he introduced you to toji. he followed through.
but instead, he just feels like he’s made a mistake.
because the whole walk back to the frat, the only thing running through his head isn’t how toji couldn’t shut up or how awkward the whole thing was.
it’s how your voice had softened when you told him it was fine. how your eyes met his, even for a second, and he felt that stupid little spark again.
he doesn’t know what to call it. doesn’t want to.
but deep down, he knows one thing for sure.
the next time you two meet, he’s showing up alone, keeping you to himself.
~
music pounds through sukuna's chest, pulsing out of the open doors of the sorority like a heartbeat on overdrive. laughter spills down the steps, mixed with the sharp scent of alcohol and perfume and that sticky-sweet haze that always clings to these kinds of parties.
banners hang crooked above the door, fairy lights tangled like spiderwebs. the sorority girls really went all out.
it’s a mixer. one of those invite only things, where every girl in greek row tries to get noticed by the “right” house. and sukuna’s frat, their house, was always the right one. full of grade A hotties like sukuna and toji and successful athletes like gojo and geto.
he spots toji near the entrance, already in his element. white t-shirt, chain glinting at his throat, grin carved sharp enough to cut through the noise. every few seconds, someone calls his name. girls from different sororities, guys from the rugby team, even one of the organizers waving him over.
toji was built for this. sukuna knew it. hell, everyone did.
“about time, man,” toji says when sukuna steps up beside him. “thought you’d bailed.”
“nah,” sukuna mutters. “just took my time.”
“yeah, well, tonight’s supposed to be wild. let’s make the most of it.”
they shoulder their way through the crowd, music pounding overhead, the smell of beer and sweat and too much perfume thick in the air. sticking together like usual.
a few girls call out sukuna’s name as they pass, and he just flashes that lazy grin he’s perfected, the one that says he’s not interested, but he might be later.
it’s all automatic now. the smirk, the eye contact, the way his shoulders roll when he laughs. it’s all muscle memory.
but tonight, something feels off.
maybe it’s the way every laugh sounds fake. maybe it’s the way the lights flash too bright, painting everyone in the same plastic color.
maybe it’s because all he can think about is you.
they end up in the kitchen, where the music’s still loud but not deafening. beer pong’s already set up on the long dining table, cups half-filled, ping-pong balls scattered across the sticky surface.
toji grabs a ball and grins. “let’s go. loser does a shot.”
sukuna smirks, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re on.”
they start playing, drawing a small crowd of girls who cheer and giggle at every throw. toji’s competitive as always, talking shit between shots, while sukuna plays quiet and steady. the rhythm feels familiar, the weight of the ball, the sound of it hitting the cup, the way everyone leans in to watch.
after two rounds, they’re tied. toji wins one, sukuna the other. the girls watching don’t seem to care who’s winning they’re too focused on the way the two of them look, the easy confidence that comes with knowing the room revolves around them.
and then they descend.
a blonde slides up beside toji, pressing herself against his arm. another girl, brunette this time, drapes herself over sukuna, laughter dripping from her lips like honey.
“you guys are, like, scary good at this,” she says, voice high and flirty.
“practice,” sukuna says automatically. his smirk looks real enough. it always does.
her nails trace the edge of his sleeve, and she leans closer. “bet you’re real good at other things too.”
normally, this is the part where he’d lean in, let the moment pull him under. he knows how this goes, shots, dancing, slipping upstairs when the music gets too loud. normally he'd do anything for a quick fuck.
but tonight, it doesn’t land.
he looks down at her, at the perfect makeup and glitter around her eyes, and all he can think is how different she is from you.
how you’d never lean on someone like this. how you’d never grab at someone you just met. how when you talked, you actually meant what you said.
his jaw tightens.
toji’s already got two girls around him, laughing loudly, drink in one hand, the other at someone’s waist. he looks like he’s having the time of his life. and for the first time, sukuna feels nothing but exhaustion watching it.
the brunette keeps talking something about the psych department, something about a pool party next weekend but her words fade into static.
god, he can’t stop thinking about you.
he pictures your small smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way your voice lifts just slightly when you talk about something you love. the way your eyes meet his only for a second before darting away again.
then he thinks about how you’d react if you saw this.
if you saw toji right now, grinning, drunk, hands everywhere.
you’d look crushed. maybe not outwardly, but he knows you’d feel it. he can see that tiny flicker of hurt in his head, your lips pressing together, pretending not to care.
and for some reason, that thought hits him like a punch.
you’d be heartbroken over a guy like toji. and he hates that. hates it enough that his fake smirk starts to slip.
because toji’s the one you wanted. and toji’s right there, laughing with some random girl like you never even existed.
it makes his stomach twist.
the brunette leans in closer, her perfume cloying and too strong. she presses her lips against his neck, and something cold floods through him instead of the usual heat.
he stiffens.
she pulls back, confused, maybe even offended, but he just steps away, shaking his head.
“you good?” she asks, pouting a little.
“yeah,” he mutters. “just need a smoke.”
he grabs a beer from the counter and makes his way outside.
the air’s cooler out here, cleaner. it hits his lungs in a way that almost feels like relief. he digs into his pocket, finds his pack, and lights up. the first drag burns his throat, grounding him a little. he thinks back to the time you'd seen a flash of the packet in his pocket, the look of concern plastering your cute face.
"you smoke cigarettes? y'know that pretty bad for you, sukuna..."
he sighs and takes another drag, he knew you were right, hell, he even cut down after that little statement.
inside, the party’s still raging. someone shouts, laughter echoing off the walls. he hears toji’s voice above the rest, loud and easy and so damn sure of himself.
sukuna exhales a long stream of smoke and stares out at the street.
why’s he even thinking about you like this?
you're just a girl. just a project partner. you needed his help, he needed yours. that’s all it was supposed to be.
but then he remembers how you'd smiled when he showed up on time for once, how you’d brought him that stupid cup of coffee just because you thought he’d like it. how careful you’d been, shy but trying.
and now he’s here, surrounded by everything he used to want, feeling nothing but restless.
he thinks about the library tomorrow morning.
you’d be there early. you always are. waiting at the same table, your notebook open, your pen tapping as you concentrate. you’d look up when he walks in, offer that small, quiet smile like you’re genuinely happy to see him.
the thought of showing up hungover makes his stomach knot.
he can’t let you see him like that. not reeking of beer, not bleary eyed and dead from a night he didn’t even enjoy.
he flicks the ash off his cigarette, curses under his breath.
“what the fuck am i doing?”
he looks back toward the house. the windows are glowing with golden light, silhouettes moving inside. laughter spills out again, shrill and wild.
that used to feel like home.
now it just feels loud.
he takes another drag, the ember lighting up in the dark.
this isn’t him. at least, it’s not the version of him you’ve seen. the one who actually listens, who tries, who stays sober enough to remember what you said about catalysts and reactions. the one you’ve somehow turned him into without even knowing.
he huffs out a quiet laugh, bitter and low.
you’d probably never believe it if someone told you sukuna ryomen left a mixer early because of a girl.
but here he is.
he stubs out the cigarette, tosses the butt into the gutter, and pulls his jacket tighter around him.
he steps back inside just long enough to find toji at the beer pong table, a girl perched on his lap now, and rolls his eyes.
“yo,” toji calls over. “where the hell’d you go?”
“m' heading out,” sukuna says. “got shit to do tomorrow.”
toji raises a brow. “it’s friday, man.”
“yeah. i know.”
“whatever,” toji laughs. “your loss.”
sukuna just shrugs, already turning toward the door.
the music fades behind him as he walks out again. the night air hits him, cool against his skin. campus is mostly empty now, streetlights flickering.
he lights another cigarette as he walks, the smoke curling up into the cold.
his mind won’t stop racing.
he thinks about you again, about how small you look sitting behind your laptop, about the way you focus so hard you don’t notice him staring sometimes. about how quiet the world feels when it’s just the two of you in that corner of the library.
you’d laugh if you saw him now. the guy everyone calls a monster, walking home early from a party just because he wants to look sober in front of some shy chemistry nerd.
but it’s not just that anymore.
he doesn’t want to look sober. he wants to look good for you.
he wants you to think he’s better than this. better than what everyone thinks he's like.
he blows out smoke and watches it fade into the dark.
when he gets back to the frat, the house is nearly empty—most of the guys are still at the mixer. it’s quiet for once. he climbs the stairs, every step heavy, and stops at his door.
he stares at the handle for a second before going in.
the room smells like cologne and laundry detergent. his desk’s still a mess, papers and dumbbells scattered everywhere. he drops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
he should sleep. he should forget tonight.
but all he can see is you.
your smile. your voice. your eyes when they meet his and flick away just a second too fast.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he ashes the cigarette in the tray, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes.
the thought of you lingers like smoke in his lungs. intoxicating, slow, impossible to shake.
and for the first time in a long time, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like just another day. it feels like something he’s waiting for.
~
the sun crawls through the blinds too early for a saturday.
pale light drags itself across the room, landing on the mess of clothes and empty bottles scattered over the frat floor. everyone’s still passed out.
bodies everywhere. some sprawled across couches, others snoring in corners, heads tipped back with half-empty beer cans slipping from their hands.
but not sukuna.
he’s awake.
he’s the only one who doesn’t feel like he got hit by a truck. no pounding head, no sour stomach. just the faint trace of smoke on his tongue and the quiet buzz in his chest that’s been there since last night.
he sits up, rakes a hand through his hair, and exhales. the air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. he looks around at the disaster that was his frat house, sticky floors, someone’s shoe on the counter, a guy in nothing but boxers drooling into the carpet, and shakes his head.
he’s not sticking around for the aftermath.
there’s something about this morning, something clean, light, strange. he grabs his hoodie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and checks his phone. too early for most people. not too early for you.
he smiles a little at that.
when he walks into the hallway, a few guys groan from the couch.
“yo,” one of them croaks. “where the hell are you going? it’s like… eight?”
“got plans,” sukuna says, slipping on his sneakers.
“plans?” another mumbles, half-asleep. “with who?”
“no one,” sukuna says quickly. “don’t worry about it.”
he’s already halfway out the door before they can start asking more questions. the last thing he needs is toj or anyone, really catching wind of this and deciding to tag along like last time.
the air outside hits him cold and fresh. campus is quiet, only the occasional sound of birds or a bike rolling past. everything’s washed in soft gold light, the kind that makes the world look cleaner than it really is.
he starts walking.
there’s a bounce in his step that he tries to ignore. it feels stupid to feel this way. giddy. like he’s got something worth looking forward to. he tells himself it’s just because he didn’t drink last night. he’s clear-headed. alert. that’s all.
but he knows it’s a lie.
the café comes into view just down the block. it’s the one you always go to, the one with the green sign. he remembers the first time he saw you there, hunched over your laptop with a coffee that had already gone cold, scribbling in your notebook like the world might end if you looked up.
the memory makes his chest feel weird.
he pushes open the door, the little bell chiming. the barista greets him with a sleepy smile. he glances over the glass case, scanning the pastries. croissants, muffins, a few danishes. then he spots the one he remembers you ordering once, faky and soft, sugar dusted over the top.
“one of those,” he says, pointing.
the barista wraps it up neatly in paper. sukuna hands over the cash, then hesitates when she asks if he wants a drink.
he almost says yes. almost orders a sweet coffee for you.
but then he remembers.
you’ll already have one right now, you always do.
“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “js' the pastry.”
he walks out with the small paper bag in hand, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
he feels ridiculous. it’s a fucking pastry. but somehow it feels like more than that. like he’s carrying a confession.
when the library comes into view, he spots you right away.
you’re there, in your usual spot. that back table near the window, the one you’ve claimed without ever really saying so. your coffee’s beside your laptop, steam curling up faintly. you’re biting your lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as you read through something.
and god, you’re cute.
it slaps him all over again.
the way your hair falls forward, the soft sweater you’re wearing, the tiny crease between your brows. you’re not trying to be anything. you’re just there, focused, quiet, real.
he stands there for a second, just watching.
then he remembers himself and walks over.
“g'morning,” he says.
you look up, startled, then your whole face softens when you see him. “oh, hi! you’re early.”
“yeah,” he says, dropping his bag into the chair across from you. “didn't wanna sleep in today.”
you laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “fair.”
he pulls the paper bag from his hoodie pocket and slides it across the table.
he holds it out to you. “for you. figured you might want breakfast.”
you blink, startled. “wait, really?”
“yeah. it’s from that cafe you like.”
your mouth falls open slightly, and your cheeks go pink in that way he’s starting to adore. “you... remembered that?”
“guess so.”
you take the bag from him carefully, like it’s something fragile. when you peek inside and see what it is, your expression softens even more.
“oh my god,” you whisper, smiling so hard your eyes crinkle at the corners. “this is my favorite one.”
he watches, almost helpless, as you keep talking, thanking him over and over. your voice stumbles with embarrassment, your fingers fidget with the bag, and the more flustered you get, the more something warm spreads through his chest.
“you didn’t have to! really, that’s so sweet of you.”
“it’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “just figured you might be hungry.” he softens.
you look down, still smiling. “thank you.”
and it hits him, how long it’s been since a girl said that to him and meant it.
you break the silence first, switching to the assignment, pulling up your notes and explaining something about the next section. he nods along, but he’s not really listening. he’s watching the way you push your hair behind your ear, the way your brows furrow when you focus.
he forces himself to pay attention. still, the moment feels easy.
you talk for a while about the project, comparing notes, trading small jokes. he feels himself relax into the rhythm of it, like it’s become a routine.
and then, without warning, you bring up toji.
you clear your throat first, eyes flicking down to your notes. “so, um... toji.”
he stills, one brow lifting, you were finally gonna talk about him since that awful run in last time. “hmm?”
“he’s… very…” you trail off, searching for the word. “loud.”
he snorts. “that’s one way to put it.”
“and, um, big. like, physically. and personality-wise. very… confident.”
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. sorry about that. he’s… a lot. again, i didn’t mean to unleash him on you like that.” he was apologising again, so out of character for him but he couldn't help it. not with you.
“no, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “he’s just… different than i expected.”
“different how?”
you hesitate, chewing your lip. “i guess i thought he’d be more like you.”
the words hang between you for a second. his pulse stutters.
“like me, huh?” he says, teasing, leaning back in his chair, spread wide as he looks you up and down. “what’s that supposed to mean, hm?”
you go red instantly, trying to drag your eyes away from his man spread legs. “i just meant- you’re, um, thoughtful. more focused. not overbearing, you're nice...”
he grins. "nice, huh?"
you hide your mouth behind your hand and look off to the side. "nicer than toji, yeah."
he laughs, "that's not a very high bar to clear."
you giggled in response, letting him continue.
“so you like my type better?”
“that’s not what i said,” you mumble, covering your face with your hand again.
“didn’t have to.”
you peek at him through your fingers, and he has to bite back a laugh. your cheeks are so pink it hurts to look at you.
“you’re bullying me,” you say, your voice small.
“maybe.”
you shake your head, still smiling, and reach for your coffee. he watches the way you hold it, the delicate tilt of your wrist, the little sigh you make after a sip.
then, quieter, he asks, “so… you still interested in him? toji, i mean.”
you freeze.
“i.. uh.” your voice falters. “i guess so? i... i don’t know.”
“you don’t sound sure.”
“he’s just, not what i thought he’d be. i thought he’d be a little calmer.”
“he’s not really the type to surprise you in a good way,” sukuna says.
you smile faintly, eyes on your cup. “yeah. maybe not.”
the way you say it, soft, thoughtful, uncertain, it makes his chest ache.
you’re too sweet for this. too genuine. you deserve someone who actually listens, who doesn’t treat you like background noise. and for some reason, he hates that the person you’re hung up on is his best friend.
he sighs, rubbing his jaw.
you look up, curious. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “just tired.”
you nod, and the two of you fall back into quiet work. it’s peaceful again, the only sounds the soft click of your keyboard and the scratching of his pen. time blurs.
when you finally close your laptop, stretching your arms, he realizes two hours have passed.
“we got a lot done,” you say, smiling.
“yeah,” he says, though he can’t remember a thing you just studied.
you start packing your things, tucking the empty pastry bag into your bag. before you can leave, you hesitate. then, shyly, you step closer and wrap one arm around him in a little side hug.
“thank you,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “for breakfast. and for helping me.”
for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
you smell like coffee and sugar and something faintly floral. your hand rests briefly against his side, and he swears every nerve in his body lights up.
then you pull away, smiling up at him, oblivious to the chaos you’ve just caused.
“see you tomorrow?”
“yeah!” he says quickly, way too excited. “d-definitely.”
you wave and head out, the door swinging shut behind you.
he stands there for a full minute, still staring at the spot you’d been standing, until he realises his hands are clenched and his pulse is hammering.
he grabs his bag, mutters something under his breath, and heads outside.
the moment he’s in the open air again, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
the breeze does nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.
he walks fast, head down, eyes on the pavement.
every step feels heavy with restraint.
because all he can think about is how soft you felt, how small your hand was against him, how much he wanted to pull you in, bury his face in your neck, keep you there for hours.
he curses under his breath, tugging his hoodie lower, hoping it hides the problem growing in his jeans.
“get it together,” he mutters.
he tries to think about anything else the assignment, the game tomorrow, the half finished paper on his desk but his mind keeps circling back to you. your laugh. your blush. your hug.
by the time he reaches the frat, his heartbeat’s finally starting to slow, but the feeling stays. that dizzy mix of guilt and want.
he steps inside quietly, the house still a mess of hangovers, and slips upstairs to his room.
the first thing he does is sit on his bed, elbows on his knees, and let out a long, shaky exhale.
he’s in trouble.
he knows it.
because he can’t stop smiling.
~
the gym in the frat house isn’t much. it’s a dim room tucked behind the kitchen, with cracked mirrors and rusted weights, the air always heavy with the stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant.
the guys call it a “home gym,” but it’s really just a collection of mismatched dumbbells, an old bench press, and a speaker that always buzzes when the bass hits too hard. its nothing like the fancy campus one him and toji visit, still, it works for sukuna.
he’s halfway through a set, sweat sliding down the back of his neck, when his thoughts start slipping away from the burn in his muscles and land right where they always seem to go lately.
he tries to ignore it, focusing on the motion, the rhythm, the push and pull of the bar in his hands.
but the harder he tries not to think about you, the more vivid you become. your voice, soft but steady, your shy little smiles whenever he cracks a joke, the way you always tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to blush.
it’s infuriating, how easily you creep into his head.
he exhales sharply, finishing the set with a grunt, letting the bar clang down harder than he means to. it rattles against the frame, echoing in the small room.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and grabbing the towel draped over his shoulders.
he wipes his face, breathing hard, his reflection in the mirror smudged with fingerprints and dust. he looks exhausted, not just from the workout but from everything sitting in his head.
you and toji.
you and that stupid, innocent crush you’d confessed to him like it was nothing.
he leans forward, elbows on his knees, towel hanging loosely around his neck. he can’t keep fucking around pretending like this is going to work anymore.
he can’t sit through another study session with you knowing that toji knows you're into him.
toji doesn’t even remember half the girls he flirts with, so why should he get to occupy that sweet spot in your brain.
that thought alone makes his blood boil.
you’re too good for that. too damn good.
he picks up the dumbbell again, trying to lift through the frustration, but his mind keeps racing. toji’s face flashes in his mind—the obnoxiousness, his interest in you only after finding out what you looked like.
the memory makes his jaw clench.
toji doesn’t deserve to know you exist, let alone be someone you lose sleep over.
his grip tightens around the handle. he lifts again, but it feels pointless now, his muscles burning for a different reason entirely.
finally, he slams the weight down and stands up, chest heaving.
he’s done.
done thinking he can stomach this, done keeping that deal, done lying to himself.
without even thinking about it, he walks out of the gym, towel still slung over his shoulder. his feet move on instinct, carrying him through the hall, up the grand stairs, straight to toji’s room.
the door’s half-shut, light spilling from the gap, and he doesn’t bother knocking. he pushes it open, the wood hitting the wall with a dull thud.
toji’s sprawled across his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. there’s a protein shake on the desk, a game controller tangled in the sheets. he looks up lazily when sukuna appears.
“yo,” he says, grinning. “you look pissed. what, satoru stealing your shirts n' shit again?”
sukuna doesn’t answer. he stands there for half a second, jaw tight, and then the words just fall out before he can stop them.
“y/n has a boyfriend,” he blurts. “so you can forget the whole crush on you thing.”
toji blinks, confused. “uhm?”
“what,” sukuna says, crossing his arms. “shes got a guy.”
toji sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “who’s y/n again?”
the silence that follows is deafening.
sukuna stares at him, the vein in his temple twitching.
“are you actually deadass right now?”
toji shrugs. “bro, i talk to a lot of girls, you gotta be more specific.”
that’s it.
sukuna drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds halfway between a growl and a groan. he doesn’t even bother explaining. it’s not worth it.
“don't worry, man,” he snaps, spinning on his heel.
he slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
by the time he gets back to his room, his chest is tight, the frustration boiling over into something heavier. he paces once, twice, then finally drops onto his bed, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“who’s y/n again?”
the words echo in his mind like a bad joke.
he can’t believe it. he can’t believe he ever thought this was a good idea, trying to set you up with that idiot.
it’s not even about the deal anymore. it’s about you.
because now he knows what it feels like to be around you, to hear you laugh, to see the way your eyes light up when he remembers the smallest things. he knows what it feels like to walk beside you through campus at night, the air cool and soft, your voice quiet but steady.
he likes you.
really, really likes you.
and it’s not just because you’re pretty, though god, you are. it’s because you’re kind. because you make him feel human again, in a way that nothing else ever does. because you talk to him like he’s worth something more than the reputation that follows him.
he doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s there now, and it’s not going away.
.
the weeks that follow move in a blur. the two of you keep meeting for study sessions, but they’ve shifted. so subtly that neither of you seems to notice.
you’re more relaxed now. you smile more, laugh easier. you’ve started showing up with little things for him too. chocolates, protein bars, a can of cold brew. every time, he teases you about it, but inside, he’s having a spaz out.
and every time he brings you something in return, you light up like he’s handed you the world.
you’ve started talking about more than the project. now, it’s everything. random things. favorite youtuber, weird scandals, childhood fuck ups, "yeah, i used to be one of those devious lick kids in middle school, me and gojo stole an entire sink".
sometimes, you talk so much you forget the assignment altogether, and he never stops you.
he lives for these moments.
sometimes, when you’re sitting side by side at the library, your knees brush under the table. it’s barely a touch, accidental every time, but it makes his pulse stutter.
you’ve started giving him hugs too, real ones. not just quick, polite ones, actual, full-bodied hugs that make him want to forget how to breathe. all he wants to do is bundle you up and take you back home, lock you away where no one could possibly taint that beautiful smile.
he pretends to be chill and nonchalant, but inside, he’s crashing out so hard.
one afternoon, it’s raining outside, and you show up in a damp tank top, hair slightly damp. he nearly forgets how to speak. you hand him a hot chocolate and giggle when he stares at it like he’s never seen one before.
“it’s not that weird,” you say, smiling. “i thought you might want something warm and sweet for this type of weather.”
he looks at you for a long moment trying not to stare at your see through chest, then takes the cup. “thanks,” he murmurs, and it sounds like something heavier than gratitude.
you shrug, shy but pleased, then sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
when the session ends that day, he walks you home like he always does. it’s become a quiet habit between you. no one suggested it, but neither of you questions it either. you live just off campus, in a small apartment with ivy creeping up the walls, and every time you reach your door, you both hesitate.
he wants to ask if he can come inside, just once.
you always look like you might invite him, too.
but neither of you ever says it.
instead, you smile, soft and warm, and tell him goodnight. he always watches until you disappear inside, until the light flicks on and frank ocean starts softly pouring from the window.
and every time, he walks back to the frat with that same ache in his chest, the one that’s half longing and half fear.
he knows he’s in wayyy too deep.
but he can't stop.
you’ve started coming out of your shell in little bursts. you tease him now, gently. you call him out when he’s being lazy, roll your eyes when he tries to act too chill. and he eats it the fuck up. every second of it.
you’re different with him now. freer. you trust him.
and that makes everything both better and worse.
because every time you look at him with that open, honest expression, he has to remind himself of the lie he built this on, th e deal, the fake promise to get you closer to toji.
it barely comes up anymore. sometimes you mention toji in passing, usually as a joke, and you both laugh it off. it’s like neither of you really care about it anymore.
and maybe that’s the truth. maybe it stopped mattering the moment you started looking at him like that.
one evening, when the sun’s setting, you’re sitting across from him at the library, talking about nothing in particular. you’re smiling, head tilted, your voice soft. and he catches himself staring, not hearing a single word.
you stop mid way through your sentence, blinking. “what?”
he shakes his head quickly. “nothing.”
“you’re staring,” you say, cheeks pink.
“you’re imagining things, honey."
you laugh, hiding your face in your hands.
he smiles too, but there’s something behind it something he doesn’t let you see.
because in that moment, it hits him all over again, stronger than before.
he’s seriously can't do this shit any longer.
he doesn’t want to help you get to toji anymore.
he doesn’t want to stand by while you talk about someone else, even in passing.
he wants you. all of you.
the quiet smiles, the shy blushes, the little quirks he’s learned by heart.
he wants to be the one who gets to see every part of you, every version of that soft, sweet girl who’s been slowly unraveling in front of him.
and he knows, deep down, that if he ever let himself say it out loud, he’d never be able to take it back.
so he keeps it buried, just for now, as he walks you home again that night. the streetlights stretch long shadows across the pavement, and your arm brushes his once, twice, and each time, he swears of he doesn't concentrate he'll trip over his jordans.
when you reach your door, you turn to him with that same bright smile, the one that always knocks the air from his lungs.
“thanks again,” you say softly.
he nods. “anytime.”
you linger for a second, like you want to say something more, then wave goodnight and disappear inside.
he stands there for a long moment, staring at the door, listening to the faint hum of music from your apartment.
then, finally, he exhales, a small, helpless laugh slipping out.
he’s ruined. completely.
and for once in his life, he doesn’t even mind.
~
the classroom is thick with the sound of quiet chatter, chairs scraping against tile, pens clicking as people jot down reminders before leaving. the fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting everything in a washed-out glow that makes it feel like time’s been stretched too thin. the chemistry teacher’s voice cuts through it all, cheerful but distant.
“alright, everyone, just a quick reminder that your paired assignment is due at the end of this week. make sure you’ve got everything finalized. i’ll be checking submissions on friday.”
the words hang in the air like a quiet ending bell.
you look up from your notes at the same time sukuna does, and for a moment, your eyes meet across the shared lab table. he’s already watching you, elbows resting on the counter, twirling his pen between his fingers.
he gives you this crooked half-smile, something between fond and nervous, and you return it, though yours falters just a little at the edges.
it hits both of you at once. this thing between you, this rhythm you’ve fallen into, the study sessions, the walks home, the quiet coffees before class? it’s been built around this assignment. and when the assignment ends, what happens then?
he taps his pen against his notebook, looking away first. “guess we’re almost done, huh?”
you try to sound light. “yeah… crazy how fast it went.”
but it doesn’t feel fast. it feels full. it feels like a lifetime compressed into a few short weeks, every minute threaded with something unspoken.
he hums in agreement, glancing at you again. “we should probably go over everything one more time. make sure it’s perfect.”
you nod, pretending to check the notes in front of you. “mhm, library after class?”
“yeah,” he says. “one last session.”
one last. the words make your stomach twist.
.
sukuna drops his bag on the chair across from you, stretching his arms as he sits down. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, and he smells faintly of the sexy cologne he always wears, something clean and manly that clings to his skin.
you open your laptop, trying to focus on the document in front of you. it’s almost done, just small edits, formatting, double-checking citations, but the words keep blurring. you can feel his presence across the table, solid and steady, and it’s impossible to think about chemistry when he’s right there.
he’s quieter than usual too. his knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm, and every now and then you catch him glancing up, like he’s about to say something but decides against it.
the silence stretches between you, thick and loaded. you can’t stand it anymore.
“so…” you start, voice softer than you mean it to be.
he looks up instantly, like he’s been waiting for you to speak. “yeah?”
you open your mouth, close it again, glance at your hands. “never mind. it’s nothing.”
he frowns slightly. “come on. what is it?”
you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “seriously, it’s nothing. just focus.”
he watches you for a second longer, then sighs and leans back, crossing his arms. “fine. but you’re acting weird.”
you let out a soft laugh that sounds too nervous. “i could say the same about you.”
that gets a real smile out of him, crooked and teasing, but it fades quickly.
you both go quiet again, typing half heartedly, neither of you really working. the tension builds, unspoken and unbearable.
you can feel the words sitting on your tongue, begging to be let out. you want to tell him everything. how the crush on toji fizzled out weeks ago, how stupid it feels now, how you can’t stop thinking about him instead. how every time he looks at you, your whole chest feels like it’s about to give out.
you glance up. he’s staring at his screen, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. and somehow, you can tell he’s holding something back too.
finally, you both move at the same time.
“i have to tell you something,” you say, right as he says, “there’s something i should tell you.”
you both stop, eyes locking.
you laugh softly. “you first.”
he shakes his head. “nuh uh, you first.”
“no way,” you say, smiling now despite the nerves. “you looked like you were about to explode. go ahead.”
“ladies first,” he shoots back, that teasing lilt returning to his voice, though his eyes are still serious.
you roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering. “fine,” you breathe.
he leans forward, forearms on the table, watching you carefully.
you swallow, your fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. “okay. so, um… this is kind of embarrassing, but.."
you stop, take a breath, try again. “it's about toji.”
his expression flickers for a second, something unreadable crossing his face. “yeah,” he says slowly. “what about him?”
you toy with a pen to keep your hands busy. “i don’t really… feel that way anymore. about him.”
his brow lifts just slightly, his voice careful. “ts' that so?”
you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i mean, it was kind of silly, wasn’t it? i barely knew him. i think i just liked the idea of him. and then when you brought him to that one session, i realised he’s… kinda clapped, nothing like what i imagined.”
he lets out a small sound, something close to a laugh, but it’s quiet, almost nervous. “yeah, that sounds like him.”
you smile faintly, tracing a finger along the edge of your notebook. “the truth is, i think i was just projecting. when we started hanging out, i didn’t know you that well, and i guess i thought maybe toji was like you. you know? confident, funny, easy to talk to.” you pause, your gaze flicking up to his. “but he’s not you. not even remotely close.”
his breath catches slightly, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak.
“i don’t know,” you go on, voice softer now, almost trembling. “i kept thinking i wanted someone like toji, but… the whole time, i was really just wishing he’d be more like you, sukuna.”
you meet his eyes fully now, and the world seems to narrow around you both. “and then i realised maybe i don’t want someone like you. maybe i just, you know, want you.”
the silence that follows feels endless.
he’s staring at you, completely still. you can see the realization hit him. the tension in his shoulders easing, his expression softening in disbelief and relief all at once.
you bite your lip, instantly flustered. “that sounded so stupid, didn’t it?”
he shakes his head quickly. “no. no, not at all.”
he leans back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. it’s the biggest breath of relief you’ve ever seen someone take. he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, a sound that’s half disbelieving, half overwhelmed.
“holy shit,” he murmurs, still smiling. “you have no idea how good it is to hear that.”
you blink. “uhm, what?”
he laughs again, softer this time, his hand still pressed to the back of his neck. “that’s what i was gonna tell you. i’ve been losing my fucking mind these past few weeks because i’ve been trying so hard not to say it.”
you stare at him, your heart pounding. “say what?”
he meets your gaze again, eyes warm and honest. “that i like you. like, really like you. i’ve had this massive crush on you for a while now, and it’s been killing me trying to act normal.”
you can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, part disbelief, part giddy joy. “you’re deadass?”
he nods. “one hundred percent.”
“but… the deal,” you say quietly. “you were supposed to help me with toji.”
“yeah, about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “i kinda… just didn’t.”
you tilt your head. “uhhm, what?”
he laughs again, nervously this time. “i told him you had a boyfriend.”
your eyes widen. “you did?"
he winces. “yeah. i told him that weeks ago. i just... i couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t keep pretending i was helping you get with him when all i wanted was to keep you all to myself.”
you blink once, twice, then cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “you told him i had a boyfriend?”
“yep.” he grins now, a little cocky, a little embarrassed. “guess that’s me sabotaging the deal.”
you drop your hand, still smiling. “that’s so stupid.”
“i know.”
“but…” you pause, your smile turning softer. “it’s kind of sweet.”
he leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “you’re not mad?”
“mad?” you repeat, shaking your head. “no. that’s… exactly what i wanted, actually.”
he blinks. “really?”
you nod, heart in your throat. “yeah. i didn’t want you helping me with toji. not anymore. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
he stares at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “so what now?”
you smile. “i don’t know. maybe we just… stop pretending.”
he exhales, leaning back with a grin that could light up the whole room. “i can do that.”
for a moment, neither of you says anything. you just sit there, the quiet hum of the library around you, the sun slipping lower through the windows, painting his skin in gold.
finally, he breaks the silence, voice low. “for the record, i was terrified you were about to tell me you had a new man for real.”
you laugh softly. “no chance.”
“good,” he says, and the way he looks at you soft, sure, a little possessive, makes your pulse race.
you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both leaning across the table, closer than you’ve ever been. the distance between you shrinks until you can feel his breath on your lips, his hand brushing lightly against yours.
neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.
the moment stretches, slow and sweet, full of everything you’ve both been holding back.
~
the second you get back to your apartment, your face ignites with the kind of fire only a really nice fireplace could match, the ones in those fancy houses you see on the block.
the guy you'd been crushing on for a total of four weeks now had just told you he felt the same. and ever more, he'd been so obsessed he'd told your ex-crush you'd had a boyfriend in hopes of bagging you himself.
for a girl not used to being in the spotlight, having such a loud, well known frat guy like ryomen sukuna become vulnerable, just for you? it was like the world came crashing and burning down at your feet. he made your stomach swim with love and passion, a feeling you'd only ever gotten from receiving higher grades than everyone else, a feeling so much better than finding a new delicious pastry you couldn't help but order again.
ryomen sukuna was it. he was the kinda guy you'd been dreaming of ever since you'd started college. he was the perfect man, and he was as into you as you were him.
you settled into your living room with an adorably large smile painted on your lips, the sensation of fulfilment taking over your ever thought as you dreamt of what was to happen next.
~
the week after the submission crawls by. you think about both sukuna and the possible grade you'll both get every day. every time you pass the lab, every time you open your laptop, every time you catch sight of sukuna across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his friends.
you can tell he’s thinking about it too. the way he catches your eye during class and offers a small, crooked smile says everything. neither of you can really stop wondering what the final mark will be, as well as what life has in store for the both of you.
friday finally rolls around, the classroom feels weird. students trickle in with tired faces and restless energy, everyone buzzing quietly with the same anticipation. the teacher walks in, holding a stack of papers in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
she sets everything down at the front desk, claps her hands together, and gives a small, approving smile.
“alright, everyone,” she says, her tone almost teasing. “i’ve marked your projects. you’ll get the official grades through the online portal, but since i know you’re all impatient,” her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on you and sukuna, “i’ll let you know this much: some of you really impressed me.”
a ripple of chatter runs through the class. sukuna shoots you a look from across the room, eyebrows raised. you smile nervously and shrug.
after class, the two of you linger by the doorway, waiting for the crowd to clear out. you’re clutching your phone, refreshing the student portal again and again even though the grades still aren’t visible. sukuna leans close, peering at your screen.
“nothing yet?” he asks.
“no,” you sigh. “probably another hour.”
he tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “want to check it together later? at that little cafe with the green sign?”
you blink. “awe, my favourite. sure!”
“of course,” he says, smirking lightly. “how good am i remembering your favourite things n' shit.”
you laugh, cheeks warming. “what a man. how about we meet there at five?”
“five it is.” he gives a small wave as he heads down the hall. “see you then, partner.”
the cafe smells like roasted coffee beans and sugar, the air humming with quiet conversation and the clinking of ceramic cups. it’s early evening, and the place is wrapped in that warm, lazy glow that makes everything feel softer. the green sign outside flickers faintly through the window, the letters worn from years of weather and sunlight.
you spot him immediately sitting near the counter, wearing a black hoodie and tapping his thumb against his phone screen. his hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his eyes. he looks up the moment the door chimes, and that grin spreads across his face like it’s second nature.
“hey,” he says as you approach.
“hey,” you echo, sliding into the seat across from him.
he gestures toward the counter. “i already ordered for us. black coffee for me, that thing you like for you, and...” he grins, “...a pastry, because apparently you can’t sit in this place without one.”
you laugh softly, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters. “you know me too well, we needa' hang out less.”
“noo,” he teases, leaning back. “i'm just an observer.”
the drinks come quickly, steam curling from the cups. you take yours with both hands, staring at the little swirl of foam, trying to calm your nerves. sukuna pulls out his phone again, refreshes the student portal, and freezes.
his eyes widen. “holy shit,” he mutters.
you look up sharply. “what?”
he turns the screen toward you. there it is, your names side by side, and next to them, the number that makes your breath catch.
98%.
you stare at it for a second, then look at him, and the two of you just burst out laughing.
“oh my-” you say, grinning from ear to ear. “ninety-eight?”
he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “holy shit- holy shit! can’t believe it,” he says, half-laughing, half-sighing in disbelief. “i actually passed. i can stay in the frat. holy shit.”
you laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “i told you you’d do fine!”
he stands up suddenly, still laughing, and before you can react he pulls you into his arms. it’s a full, tight hug, so warm, so big. his chest rumbles with laughter, and you can feel how much this means to him, how much the stress and pressure have finally melted away.
“thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost breathless. “thank you so much for helping me. i would’ve completely fucking tanked without you.”
you laugh against his shoulder, feeling your own face heat up. “you’re welcome,” you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. “you did so good, really.”
when he finally lets go, you can still feel the warmth lingering where he’d held you. he looks just as flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he sits back down.
“sorry,” he says, half-smiling. “got a little carried away.”
“it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “it was… nice.”
his grin widens at that.
you both take a moment to calm down, sipping your drinks in the cozy corner. the sound of the coffee machine hums faintly in the background, and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, dappled across the table. it feels like the whole world’s slowed down just for the two of you.
“so,” he says eventually, voice softer now, “ninety-eight percent. that's so peak."
“yeah, we did that,” you reply, smiling. “you’ll probably get a compliment from the teacher next class.”
“you too,” he says. “you carried me, you're actually so clutch.”
“you helped too,” you insist. “you actually tried, sukuna. that’s what mattered.”
he chuckles, shaking his head. “yeah, but even if i hadn’t passed…” he pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i don’t think i’d be too upset.”
you tilt your head, smiling faintly. “no?”
“nah.” he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “because i got to spend all that time with you. and honestly? that made it worth it.”
your chest tightens, a flutter rising under your ribs. you look down quickly, pretending to focus on your coffee. “you’re just saying that.”
“i’m not,” he says firmly. “you made studying actually fun. no one’s ever done that shit before.”
you look up again, and his expression is so genuine, so open, that you forget how to breathe for a second.
“well,” you say softly, “i liked spending time with you too.”
your cups sit forgotten on the table, the croissant half-eaten, and all you can hear is the chatter of other uni kids and the soft clatter of dishes.
you stare into his eyes, and there’s a question there, unspoken but clear.
he smiles, almost shyly, a rare thing for him. “so… what now?”
you shrug lightly, but your smile mirrors his. “i don’t know. i guess we don’t have to stop hanging out just because the project’s done.”
his grin grows wider, and you can see the faintest pink dusting his ears. “good,” he says. “because i was kinda hoping you’d say that.”
he hesitates for a moment, then sits up a little straighter, as if gathering courage.
“actually,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his cup, “there’s something i wanted to ask.”
you tilt your head. “hmm? and what’s that?”
he exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “i know this is probably cheesy as hell, but… i’d really like to take you out. like, properly. dinner, movie, whatever you want. an actual date.”
the words sink in, soft and certain. you blink, surprised but instantly smiling, your cheeks growing hot.
“you mean… like, a date date?” you ask, teasing just a little.
he laughs under his breath. “yeah. a date date.”
you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “i’d love that.”
his expression softens into something that almost makes your heart ache. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
for a moment, you just sit there, both grinning like idiots. it feels unreal, like something out of a quiet, sunlit dream.
he leans back in his chair, relief washing over him in waves. “good,” he says. “i was worried you’d say no.”
you shake your head, still smiling. “never.”
the light outside shifts slowly, spilling gold through the window, painting his skin in soft warmth. he looks at you like he’s memorising the moment, the coffee, the laughter, the way you keep tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
and as he sits across from you, grinning like he can’t quite believe his luck, you know that whatever comes next, it’s going to be something worth waiting for.
~
months slide by, slow but lovely. what once was a study partnership built on awkward exchanges and quiet glances has become something sooo much more. somewhere between library stops, coffee stops, and tight hugs, it shifted. you shifted. sukuna shifted. the line between school and romance blurred until it disappeared completely.
now, you’re his. officially his. and he’s yours.
the first time sukuna brings you to the frat house as his girlfriend, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. the place is loud, music spilling from bluetooth speakers, guys shouting from the kitchen about who’s out of beer, the smell of cheap cologne and pizza hanging in the air.
you pause in the doorway, clutching sukuna’s hand like it’s an anchor. he glances down at you with that little smirk that never fails to make your heart stutter.
“don’t stress it baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “they’ll love you.”
and they do.
weather or not that's because he threatened to beat them unconscious if they made you feel uncomfortable before you came over is irrelevant.
satoru’s the first to notice you, perched on the couch with a controller in hand. he looks up mid game, grins wide, and immediately calls out, “holy shit, sukuna actually brought a girl here voluntarily?”
“shut up,” sukuna grumbles, tightening his grip on your hand. “this one’s permanent.”
that earns a chorus of oohs and whistles from the guys nearby. your face burns, but when you glance up at sukuna, he’s smiling,not his usual cocky grin, but something softer. proud.
“hey,” you mumble under your breath, “it smells so bad in here, ryo.”
he chuckles quietly. “you’ll get used to it.”
before you can even respond, toji appears from the kitchen, a beer in hand and a knowing grin on his face. “well, if it isn’t the little chem genius.”
you blink. “you… remember me?”
“of course,” toji laughs, setting his drink down and stretching out a hand. “heard you saved this idiot’s academic career.”
“hey,” sukuna cuts in, rolling his eyes. “i wasn’t that bad.”
“you had an eight percent, bro.”
the whole room bursts into laughter. sukuna just grumbles and flips toji off while you try not to giggle too loudly. it’s strange, seeing them all like this. so loud, so chaotic, so different from the quiet rhythm you’re used to, but somehow, it feels okay. you feel okay.
by the end of the night, you’re sitting between sukuna’s legs on the couch, his arms draped loosely around your waist, your back against his chest. someone puts on an old movie in the background, and the chatter slowly fades into easy quiet. for the first time, the frat doesn’t feel intimidating. it feels warm. welcoming.
satoru catches your eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before mouthing, she’s a keeper. sukuna just smirks.
later that night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the house has fallen quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards, sukuna presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“told you they’d love you,” he whispers.
“yeah, you were right,” you murmur, smiling softly. “they’re so nice.”
“you’re even nicer,” he says, his voice barely audible. “that’s why they love ya'.”
and you can hear the truth in his tone. you know he means it.
after that, everything starts to fall into blissful routine. you help him study, drilling formulas and reactions into his head late into the night. he’s surprisingly good at it now, his grades climbing steadily, proof that maybe he was capable all along, he just needed someone to push him in the right direction.
and in return, he helps you come out of your shell.
he brings you to tiny cafes you’ve never been to before, teaches you how to play pool (terribly, but he doesn’t care), and pulls you into spontaneous late-night walks through campus when the air is cool and the stars are bright.
sometimes, you end up sitting on the hood of his car, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers tangled with his as he talks about everything and nothing.
he tells you things he’s never told anyone else—about his parents, about the pressure to be someone bigger, stronger, louder. about how he never really cared about anything before he met you.
“you made me start giving a shit,” he says one night, his voice low as he traces lazy circles against your palm. “about school, about the future. about being a better guy.”
you glance up at him, smiling faintly. “you're the bestest guy, kuna.”
he looks at you for a long time, his chest squeezing with the urge to squish you until you pop. then, with a soft exhale, he leans down and kisses you. gentle, slow, like the world could end and he’d still be happy just holding you against his muscular chest.
word gets around campus fast. whispers follow you sometimes. half disbelief, half awe. people don’t really understand how you ended up with him. the shy, quiet girl who sits at the front of every lecture, always polite, always prepared… dating one of the loudest, most notorious frat boys on campus.
but the thing is, neither of you care.
you’ve seen the way people look at you two when you walk hand in hand across campus, his tall frame towering beside yours. you’ve heard the murmurs, 'how long do you think it’ll last, she’s too good for him, he’ll get bored'. but then he catches your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and all of it melts away.
"don't listen to those clowns."
because you know him now. the real him.
the boy who wakes up early to get your favorite pastry from the cafe before class. the one who drapes his hoodie over your shoulders when it’s too crisp. the one who never forgets to text you goodnight, even when he’s exhausted.
the one who stopped showing up to most frat partys because, as he put it, “none of it’s fun without you anyway.”
you see it in the way he’s changed. not because you asked him to, but because he wants to.
he doesn’t flirt with girls anymore. he doesn’t even seem to notice when they do. his focus is all on you. your laughter, your voice, your little quirks that no one else ever bothered to notice.
and it’s not just the big things that show it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the road closest to the cars. the way he remembers all your orders without ever asking. the way he’ll pull you closer when you’re out together, even if it’s just to rest his big hand on your hip.
he doesn’t talk about feelings much, not directly. but in every gesture, every glance, it’s there.
you’re his world now, and everyone can see it.
his room at the frat house has changed, too. gone are the stacks of solo cups and random gym gear scattered across the floor. in their place are little pieces of you. a throw blanket you brought one day, a mug you left on his desk, your notebook tucked on the shelf next to his textbooks.
he keeps a photo of the two of you pinned on his bulletin board. it’s a candid, one of those moments you didn’t even know he was taking. a shot of you sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, laughing with a half-eaten cookie in your hand. he swears it’s his favorite picture in the world.
“you look so fucking cute, and happy,” he tells you when you catch him staring at it one night.
“i am happy,” you reply softly.
“better be,” he says. “that’s all i ever want for you, y/n.”
some nights, he stays over at your apartment instead of the frat. he always claims it’s because it’s quieter, easier to focus on studying. but you both know it’s just because he sleeps better when you’re beside him.
you cook together sometimes, though “cook” might be a really shitty out of touch excuse for the disaster you two create. he burns half the things he touches, laughs through every fuck up, and still insists on taste-testing everything like he’s on master chef. you can’t stay mad when he grins at you with flour on his cheek, his dimples showing as he holds up a misshapen cookie.
“hey, we’re improvin',” he says.
“barely,” you reply, giggling.
he just leans down, presses a quick kiss to your nose, and murmurs, “yeah, but you’re still here, so i must be doing somethin' right.”
there are still parties, of course, he’s still in the frat, and sometimes showing up is expected. but it’s much different. when he does go, he stays by your side the whole night, a protective hand on your back or wrapped around your waist.
he barely drinks anymore, claiming he doesn’t need to. when people flirt or make comments, he just laughs them off and pulls you a little closer.
and when it gets late, when the music’s too loud and the air too heavy with alcohol and perfume, he’ll lean down and whisper, “wanna get out of here?”
you always nod. and the two of you slip away, walking through quiet streets until you reach your place, where everything feels calm again.
people still whisper, still wonder how it works. how a shy, soft-spoken girl could tame someone like ryomen sukuna. but you know the truth.
you didn’t tame him, you just saw him. really saw him. beneath the tattoos, the reputation, the arrogance. you saw the boy who just needed someone to care, and he saw the girl who needed someone to make her feel brave.
and together, you found something that feels a lot like forever.
months pass, the seasons shifting from late autumn to the first chill of winter. the air turns crisp, the sky pale and bright. the two of you walk through campus hand in hand, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.
“remember when we first started that project?” you ask one day, laughing softly. “you barely knew what a periodic table was.”
“hey,” he says, pretending to be offended. “i knew what it was. i just didn’t give a shit.”
“hmm, and now you’re pulling straight a’s.”
he grins. “guess i had a real good tutor. she's real sexy, too..”
you bump his shoulder lightly. “awe i bet she'd be real flattered to hear that.”
he stops walking for a moment, looking down at you with that same warm, unguarded look that still makes your stomach flip.
“you know something?” he says quietly.
“hmm?”
“i still think that fuckass project was the best thing that's ever happened to lil' ol' me.”
you smile, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket. “yeah?”
“hell yeah,” he murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. “because it led me to you.”
the world fades for a moment, the cold, the noise, the people around you, and it’s just him. just you.
when he kisses you, it’s slow, steady, full of all the fuzzy romantic fire that’s been culminating between you since the day he walked up to your desk with a failed test and a hidden nervous smile.
you remember that moment so clearly now, and you can’t help but think how far you’ve both come. from shy glances and awkward silences to this. a love that feels like home.
and as his hand tightens around yours, you realize something simple, something certain.
you’ve both found exactly where you’re meant to be, with each other.
omg…. ITS BEEN SUCH A LONG TIME SINCE IVE READ A JJK FIC AND THIS IS MY FIRST READ EVER THIS YEAR AND GLAD TO SAY THIS EATSSSSSS. fluff in this fic is so refreshing to read this is just what i needed. u js started my jjk fic hyperfixation. this takes the cake fr
Summary- Starting college was meant to be the most exciting time in your life, you never expected to fall in love with your brothers best friend, and you definitely didn't expect that love to all be a bet.
Word Count: 8.1k
TW: college!bucky, steves sister!reader, ANGST, fluff, betrayal, mentions of gore in a film, SMUT, PinV sex, unprotected sex, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, blood during(?) sex
A/N: I worked my ASS off this weekend because I wanted to get this finished and y'all deserved smut for this AU finally
Part 1 here Part 2 here
Since starting college you hadn't spent much time with Steve. Your parents idea of you going to college was Steve basically becoming your parent, god knows they'd spent hours upon hours lecturing him on looking after you, protecting you. In an ideal world for them, your parents would be looming over your every move while you're here, chasing off anyone they'd deem a bad influence or distraction from your studies. I wonder what they'd think of Bucky. He'd unwantedly became the biggest distraction for you recently, even when you think of hanging out with Steve, you secretly plan for it to become an excuse to see his frat brother. The lack of time spent with Steve didn't particularly bother you, you'd gotten used to a brother-less existence at home when he'd left and I mean, who comes to college to hang out with their big brother? Admittedly, you do miss him a little bit, so far away from home he's the only reminder of your life before here. A comforting familial presence despite him living to rile you up usually.
After he spotted you drenched from downpour in the coffee shop and extended the invitation to hang out at the frat house, you'd been texting back and forth trying to find time in both your schedules to fit in a fun little sibling activity. You'd came to an agreement on just a simple movie night over at his, indulging in the terribly filmed horror movies, so bad they're hilarious that you'd both enjoyed growing up together. You'd confirmed with Steve 2 days ago for this Friday, you excitedly texting a list of snacks over for him to have ready and a list of terrible low budget horror movies on your watchlist.
When you arrive later that night at the front door to the fraternity its a stark contrast to the first time you found yourself walking the paving up to the grand building, gone are the bright violet lights and the deafening music blaring out the windows. No silhouettes of students throwing their arms around dancing under hazy glow and beer bottles being flung at high velocity from all directions. Instead there is quiet. Your own dormitory often makes you forget the beauty of the rest of the campus, the old brick structures such as the frat house adorned with ivy and ivory columns that ascend all the way up past each floor of deep red brick. You land three pounding knocks in quick succession on the detailed wooden French door standing back to await your brother swinging open the door, no doubt with his signature smile broad across his face and open arms to attempt to trap you into one of those awkward sibling hugs you detest so much. When the door creaks open though, its not the smile you expect to see staring back at you. He stands there in a pitch black tshirt, one size too small in such a perfect way, his muscles bulging from the sleeves. The golden light from the hallway illuminating every desirable feature in an warm glow, defining every vein running down his strong arms. That same light reflects his bright blue eyes grow even brighter when he realises who's at his door.
"oh hi Bucky, I'm here for Steve" you smile that involuntary smile that's became a habit of yours when you happen to be eye to eye with Bucky as of late. His handsome face contorts from happiness from seeing you to a look of confusion, a thick eyebrow raising up on his forehead. "Steve?" he asks in a puzzled tone. The same confusion plastered on Bucky's face is now mirrored by your own "yeah? is he in there? we're having a movie night here" you reply. Bucky's confusion now turns to a chuckle "doll Steve's not here, did he not tell you he's on a trip all weekend with the rest of the boys?". Just like Steve to forget about plans with you. "WHAT! no he didn't tell me, he literally said to come over today!" you speak, visibly annoyed and scrambling for your phone to give Steve a piece of your mind for forgetting your plans. "well since you're here you might as well come in" Bucky invites you, holding the wide door open for you as you step in to the entrance.
"Steve why the HELL did you tell me to come over if you're not here!" you shout down the phone, knuckles going white from gripping the device to your ear with far too much force. "shit I thought that was next week" Steve grumbled absent-mindedly through the speaker that's practically inside your ear now. How careless could Steve be? You're mid cussing him out down the phone about how awful he's made you feel by forgetting your agreed upon time together when you notice the way Bucky's looking at you. Arms folded across his broad chest in that tight shirt you'd ogled him in at the door showing off his solid pecs and leaning against the wall just watching you with this endearing smirk on his face- like he was enjoying watching you all demanding and shouting.
And he was enjoying it- the fire in you was one of the first things that really made him notice you in the way that he did. He couldn't help but be transfixed by the twitch of your lip when you're annoyed, and the way you spoke up for yourself unapologetically was almost sexy in a strange way. Your shouting became silence as your mind wandered elsewhere, the lustful gaze looming over you as his tongue drawled over his lower lip suddenly making it impossible to think. "Uh Steve- I uh- I'll talk to you later. Uh- bye" you stutter out in a haste hanging up the phone and stuffing it back in to your back pocket, unable to keep your composure on the phone to your brother while his best friend is devouring with looks alone. "problem, doll?" Bucky grinned smugly, although the tension remained completely unspoken, it was becoming obvious the effect he had on you, even if you remained defiant in your refusal to admit the crush you'd began to harbour for him. "not at all, I'll be leaving now" you speak through gritted teeth, trying to push down the blush that's insisting on rising up from the heat he's causing in your heart to your cheeks. You turn back to the door, hand gripping on the handle ready to turn when you feel the warmth of Bucky's own hand on top of yours.
"why don't you stay?" he asked. You looked up at him, chin tilting upwards due to the way he towered above you "I'd be more than happy to watch movies with you" "really?" you ask, your voice coming out barely above a whisper, your nervousness on full display from how close he was to you. Bucky said nothing, just nodded and stretched out his hand towards you, beckoning you to take it. You place your hand on his, his huge palm making yours tiny by comparison, the warmth of him encasing your hand as he lead you to the couch. "Now you sit right here" he grinned watching you lower yourself on to the seat and passing you the remote "now you pick the movie and I'll be right back" and with that he turned to jog out of the room leaving you giddily anticipating his return. Suddenly, Steve not being around didn't seem so bad at all. A few weeks ago Bucky would have been the very last person you'd want to spend your Friday night with, but now he's one of the few people you actually enjoy being around despite everything.
Bucky jogged back into the living room, happiness beaming out of him with soft blankets over one arm and a big bowl of popcorn in the other. "You ready?" he grinned passing you a blanket. "Absolutely" you respond, draping the blanket over your legs and grabbing a handful of salty snack to crunch on as Bucky took seat next to you with just enough distance to be considered strictly friendly. You quickly discover Bucky is the worst person to attempt to watch a movie together with his constant running commentary throughout Scream. The film had only been playing for 10 minutes and already you'd heard more from Bucky's mouth than the rest of the characters. "WHY wouldn't she just call the police!" he yelled at the screen, criticising the pretty young blonde girl who's currently being brutally slaughtered in front of you. "God what an idiot!" he continues. Usually people talking over movies would bother you, annoy you endlessly, but somehow you're enjoying it. His comments making you hold your stomach from laughing too hard every time he gets over involved placing himself in the same situation of every character and insisting that he'd 'knock ghostface out with one punch'.
You'd not realised how as the movie played on you'd seemed to have ended up drawing closer to one another, you now being able to feel his shoulder brush against your own. Despite your mind warning you against it, you lean in to the newfound closeness testing the waters by dropping your head close to leaning upon his broad shoulder. To your surprise, he doesn't react. Doesn't even look at you or acknowledge the moment. He just adjusts himself higher, letting his shoulder meet your tilted head and you instantly sink into the feeling, your heart beating faster as you find comfort resting on him.
You don't remember when you drifted off, it must have been sometime way before the movie had ended, your eyes blinking open adjusting from the darkness of sleep to the bright sunshine peeking through the curtains. Instantly, you're alarmed when you notice you're no longer lay upon the couch, blanket wrapped around your legs and head lazily resting on Bucky's shoulder. Instead you find yourself in a room familiar from the time you ended up lost in the halls the first time you'd been in this house. Bucky's room. There you are, cosily tucked in to his single bed lying on your side under a surprisingly comfortable duvet, your body sinking into the soft mattress. How did I get here? Why am I in Bucky's bed you wonder, having no memories from falling asleep. Your eyes wander to the floor and are met by the sight on Bucky on his back, mouth open snoring gently as he sleeps on the floor with a folded up hoodie as a makeshift pillow and the same blanket from the couch draped over him. He looked so peaceful sleeping, should you wake him up? Surely this is creepy watching him sleep? You couldn't help but watch though, his handsome face plastered with a content expression as he dreamed and to your happy surprise he sleeps shirtless, his perfect chest peeking over the blanket and his muscular arms crossed over it.
He looked so good you just wanted to touch him, any part of him, your mind desperate for another taste of contact with his soft skin. You drape your hand over the edge of the mattress reaching down to stroke your thumb across his hand. His skin is so warm. The light sounds of him snoring fade out, your touch stirring him back to reality. His long black eyelashes flutter open, staring up into your own eyes. But he doesn't react- he just holds your hand. And you both stay in that moment. Lazy eyes engulfing each others person in the shimmering streaks of morning sun, staying locked in place as you stroke over each others hands. An unspoken but mutually recognised desire to relish this moment for whatever it may be. Minutes pass before he smiles at you and begins stretching out, releasing your hand just to reach both arms above his head, groaning as he moved "Good morning" he yawns. "Good morning Buck" you smile. "Sorry about moving you up here, didn't wanna wake you or leave you on the couch alone" he mutters as he sits up on the floor, blanket dropping to reveal more of him. You physically have to stop yourself drooling looking over his stomach, averting your eyes before you're on the receiving end of torment for staring at him like a piece of meat. "you didn't have to give me your bed, I can't imagine the floor is very comfy" you say gazing over his makeshift bed for the night. "Don't be silly, couldn't have left you on the floor" he smiled. "we both could have fit on the bed" you state absent-mindedly, not even thinking of the implications of the two of you sharing a bed.
Bucky looks up and down his small single bed, shaking his head as he thinks. "both of us wouldn't fit on my bed" he chuckles. "I bet we could" you giggle innocently. The word bet sending pangs on guilt straight to Bucky's chest, his smile dragged from his face upon hearing it. A painful reminder to him that all the moments shared between you, each time he feels himself letting you get close, would have never happened without the drive to pursue you all because of his bet with Scott. His horrible, dehumanising idea that rendered you nothing more than a sexual conquest. If he knew he'd end up starting to actually feel something for you, he never would have said it. But like all words, once said, there was no way to unspeak them. Quickly he pushes his guilt to the back of his mind, forcing his smile to reappear. What you don't know couldn't hurt you, right? "Come on" you beckon, still grinning innocently as you pat the bed where you want him to lay "I'll prove it to you". Reluctantly he brings himself over to the bed laying where you wanted while you shuffle near the bottom while he positions himself. Once he's lay on his back you begin to shuffle back up on the bed, no room for you to match the way he's lay. "see, I told you we both don't fit" he laughed. You'd already began lying on your side next to him "we'll fit like this" you say, unexpectedly manoeuvring his arm to rest around you, placing your head on his bare chest.
It was quiet. Both of you lay together, your head rested on his chest finding peace in the sounds of his laboured breathing and counting each beat of his heart you could hear. Your arm came to rest across his naked stomach, the snail trail leading down from his bellybutton tickling the skin on your arm as you dragged it slowly over until it was wrapped around him. Bucky's breath hitched at the sensation briefly before relaxing into the feeling of warmth. Safety. "This is-" he whispered, stuttering his words "uh- this is nice" "yeah, it is" you breathe a whisper back. Succumbing to the safety you felt there wrapped in his big arms, the touch of his skin relaxing every nerve in your body as his hand traced along your spine in slow, caring strokes. You close your eyes, just listening to his heartbeat, savouring the moment of being encased by him. It just felt right. Like this is where you belong. Whatever doubts you had about how you felt for him before were gone, you knew in this moment that the way you feel right now could never be mistaken for anything but. You had feelings for him, feelings that were growing stronger with every single thought of him. You wanted him, all of him, every annoying, irritating, beautiful part of him that got under your skin in a way nobody else ever has.
You open your eyes, head not leaving his chest but angling up towards him, he's already looking down to you like he'd been watching you lay there on him. Your eyes meet and your heart starts to race and you can hear his own begin to beat harder "buck…" you breathe, unable to finish what you started to say as his big hand comes up to cup along your jaw, holding you so sweetly like you were something so precious. His glossy eyes flicker down to your lips once and then he's pulling you towards his own. Lips meeting like they'd been yearning for each other for centuries, like they belonged interlocked. He kisses you so slow letting you feel each drag of his mouth across your own, each manoeuvre of his tongue over yours. You accept him devouring you mind, body and soul, the kiss letting him closer than anyone ever has been to you. And it's perfect.
"BACK EARLY!" The crash of the door opening from downstairs and the commotion of boys voices rips you apart from each other. Your perfect moment came crashing down with the familiarity of your brothers voice echoing through the hall, the sound traveling all the way up the stairs, through the hall and straight into your ears. "fuck! its my brother" you panic through gritted teeth, scrambling for your shoes that fortunately Bucky had removed once he'd already got you into his room. You don't think any excuse in the world would have explained why your shoes were downstairs in his frat house so early in the morning and you're wandering out of your brothers best friends room. "shit- I uh… okay its okay" Bucky joined you in panic "right I'll go down and distract them, wait at the top of the stairs then sneak out the door when they're not looking, okay?" you nod in agreement. "oh god Steve's gonna kill us" you whisper. "maybe just me" Bucky mumbles. "yeah… probably just you" you jest, standing by the door waiting to action your plan to escape unnoticed. "I'll text you okay?" Bucky says, placing a kiss on your forehead making your heart flutter "wait- you don't have my number" you laugh. "Quick- gimme your phone" he demands, you hand it over and he speedily adds his phone number "right, you ready?" "uh-uh" you nod, adrenaline already coursing through your veins. Bucky swings the door open rushing downstairs and ushering everyone out of the hallway giving you opportunity to slip out the door unnoticed.
The close call over at the frat house led you and Bucky to sneak around any place but there, avoiding Steve like the plague for fear of being caught. Of course he'd be disappointed in you, but he'd come close to killing Bucky if he knew the way he'd been kissing his baby sister. He'd already made it very clear how he felt about any of his friends even thinking of putting their hands on you. But you didn't care. Since you and Bucky had broken through the barrier of denying the unpalpable chemistry between you, you couldn't keep your hands off each other. Whether he was walking you home after class or taking you out to restaurants outside campus so you wouldn't be recognised or sneaking around the library doing anything but reading, he had his hands all over you and kissing your face off at any given opportunity. The more time you spent with him, the more you fell for him. A man you once thought it would be impossible to even tolerate was now captivating your heart with everything about him. Today he'd asked you to meet him in a small park, far enough from campus so there was no reason to be paranoid about being caught, you could just let yourself be consumed by the moment with him.
You lay in the grass, head in his lap while he ran his rough fingers through your hair, gazing up at the clouds passing through the endless bright blue sky. Towering trees with auburn leaves dancing down to scatter across the ground. The birds chirp in the background singing sweetly on the branches. "y'know how beautiful you look right now" Bucky whispers, leaning down to brush a gentle kiss to the top of your head. You gaze back up at him, a slight blush spreading over your nose and cheeks and your hands coming up to cover your face "stopppp" you giggle as he pulls your hands away, making you look back into his dreamy eyes, a darker blue than the sky above you, "I'm serious baby" baby? that's new he kisses your head again "you're so beautiful". "Hmm I'm starting to think you may have a crush on me Buck" you tease "you think?" he grins back at you. You sit up and face him, smiling ear to ear as he takes your face in his hands like he usually does, so gentle, and kisses you deeply. "I think you already know I've got a big fat crush on you Y/N" he breathes before kissing you deeply again. "I think I could kiss you all day y'know" "good" you say kissing the tip of his nose "because I've got a big fat crush on you too"
Steve: 'party tonight'
Steve: 'ur gonna come'
Steve: 'if u don't I'll cry'
Steve: 'do u want to make ur brother cry'
You stare at the barrage of texts from Steve. You hated the last time you ended up at one of Steve's frat parties, the endless swarm of drunk people sweaty and rowdy pushing past you. And of course the horrible incident with the man too drunk to understand the word 'no'. It's different this time though, at least if you go to the party Bucky will be there. Bucky who keeps you safe, makes you feel all warm inside. You decide you'll appease Steve's wishes to attend on the one condition Bucky will be there too. Opening your phone to your texts again you select Buck<3 in your contacts.
'Steve's asked me to come to the party tonight, r u gonna be there?'
Buck<3: 'of course if I get to see you'
Buck<3: 'plus if things get too much we can always sneak off to my room ;)'
You can't help but blush to yourself. A hundred kisses you've probably shared by this point and he still manages to give you butterflies and get you flustered. Bucky's gonna be there, no matter how wild the party gets or how overwhelmed you might get, you feel at ease knowing he'll be there for you. That decides it for you and you reply to Steve confirming you'll be attending.
The party's in full swing when you enter, familiarity sinking in from last time with sweaty, dancing bodies all pushed together crowding every available space. Back are the purple LED lights snaked across the ceiling that blur vison through clouds of smoke and the bass from the stereo pounds though your chest, a deep ribcage rattling pulse that makes the windows tremble in their frames. The front door hangs open. No one's guarding it- just a stream of people pouring in and out. The air is so thick. Sweat, cheap beer, body spray and a strong ethanol scent from spilled vodka over the already messed up carpet, previous stains gathered from parties past. You're in the kitchen with Steve, his arm around you as he walks in giving you a proper introduction to his friends since that wasn't achieved the last time. It's pure chaos. Counters crowded with empty bottles and littered with crushed red cups and half empty pizza boxes, people occasionally passing through just to grab a slice now long cold. Steve goes around the circle of his friends gathered, pointing to each one and telling you their name, yelling over the music.
"Scott, Y/N. Y/N, Scott" Steve introduces you to the tall brown haired boy, whom you recognise from the first time you were here when you'd interrupted their game of spin the bottle. Memories flash up of Scott inhaling some poor girls face when the bottle landed on her. Scott extends his hand for you to shake, Steve stepping away distracted by beautiful dancing girls. You shake his hand but to your surprise he grips your hand harder than expected. Contorting your knuckles to his lips, kissing your hand delicately and gazing into your shocked eyes lustfully. "Y/N" his curled his lips into a smirk around your hand "I've heard so much about you" he winks. Your eyes dart from him, looking over his shoulder and meeting eyes with the one person you truly desired seeing here. But not like this.
Bucky's eyes are dark, darker than you've ever seen them before. His usual grin upon seeing you replaced with a stern frown instead, his eyebrows furrowing as his face displayed nothing but rage and jealously. If looks could kill Scott would be dead ten times over by now, Bucky's vision burning holes through him. "h-have y-you" you stutter out, still focused on Bucky despite being engaged in conversation with another man. "Oh yeah" Scott smirked, leaning in to whisper in your ear "heard so much about you from Bucky" Your eyes grow wide, mouth agape when you step back breaking eye contact with Bucky to glare holes through Scott with your own vision. "w-what?" you stutter. He's given no time to reply, Bucky seeing the expression on your face drop let him know that whatever Scott was saying, he didn't want you to hear it. He begs in his mind that you're still non-the-wiser to his little bet with him. "I need to talk to you" Bucky demands "now." Guiding with an arm around your shoulders away from Scott, his laughter fading out in the background as he lead you further away. Rushing you up the stairs and into his bedroom, using the surplus of party attendees to hide behind.
"What did he say to you" Bucky asks sternly, the seclusion of his room now allowing you to speak freely. "he-he said he's heard a lot about me" you sigh "from you" you come closer to Bucky, resting your hand on his arm "what did he mean by that Buck?" you question innocently. Now this would be a good time to be honest with you. Finally let the truth leave his lips, surely after everything, all your feelings for each other you'll forgive him? Once the truth is out maybe he can finally stop feeling guilt every time you're looking up at him with those big, glossy, innocent eyes. But he doesn't come clean. Like his mouth is formulating the lie before his brain can keep up with the words exhaled. "I don't know. I've not told anyone about us. Maybe he's just trying to make conversation with you because he wants you" he snarls out the last part. You, of course, believe Bucky instantly, why wouldn't you? He's given you no reason to distrust him. "wants me?" you raise your eyebrow "it sounds like you're jealous" you tease. Bucky's face drops when you continue, your mind for some reason almost forcing you to push his buttons for a reaction "would it really be that bad for you to see me with someone else? It's not like I'm your girlfriend" Something in him snaps. Jealousy plastered all across his face, he grips your shoulders with enough force to convey his passion, but not enough to hurt.
"I would rather be crushed by a hundred cars" he starts, his voice low and meaningful, looking at you with glossy eyes almost teary "I would rather be set on fire or go blind… than have anyone else hold you the way I do" You're unable to reply, him cutting off any words that could form on your lips by pressing his own against them, kissing you deeply with a passion he never has before. "The thought of losing you feels like someone's stealing the air I breathe. Watching someone else flirt with you felt like a knife twisting in my gut, you're mine. I want you to be mine. If you'll have me" tears well up in your eyes, happiness pouring out of every pore in your skin, words coming from his mouth that you'd only imagined in your dreams. "of course I'm yours Bucky, I have been for a while" you cry, kissing him again, tears running down your face flavouring your lips salty. "There's so much I like about you, you've trapped my heart Y/N, every thought I have involves you" he breathes. You gaze into his eyes beginning to gloss over much like your own, the air thick with feeling, every part of you lit on fire burning with desire for him. The boy you thought you hated, confessing how deeply he cared for you. "I like you too Bucky" you whisper against his lips, foreheads pressed together as you lose yourself in the ocean of his eyes "more than I ever thought possible" You attach your lips back to his, but its different this time. What started as a slow, deep kiss full of sweetness suddenly turned into something so much more- something darker, more desperate.
Bucky turns the kiss feral, taking you deeper than before, arm around your waist pulling you further into him until you felt like you were melting "I like the way your eyes light up when I'm in the room" he pants between kisses "the way you try to hide when I make that cute little face blush" "I especially like the way you put me in my place" his lips begin moving down your neck kissing and licking the soft skin, pulling a soft moan from your mouth as you're pushed up against the door. "I like how sexy you look in this little dress tonight" he groans, fingers finding the hem of your dress, toying with it as you revel in the sensation of his fingers brushing high up on your thighs. Nobody's ever touched you like this before. His mouth kisses its way back up your neck, sucking lightly on their ascent, until his lips are back on yours in a kiss heavy with passion. "Jump" he mutters against you, snaking his arms around to your ass signalling he wanted to lift you. You comply with no qualms, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hoisted you up into his arms, making out with you all the way to the bed which he placed you gently down upon.
He kneels before you, legs spaced on either side of him, his pupils blown out by lust and the look on his face letting you know he was about to worship every inch of you that you'd allow him to. Your mouth hangs open with moans slipping out louder than you'd have liked as Bucky began removing your shoes, kissing every inch of your calf as he did and never breaking eye contact. The sight alone was enough to have you dripping as he began leaving wet, purposeful kisses up higher and higher til he had to scrunch your dress up to access more skin, sucking and biting lightly across your inner thighs. "so perfect" "so beautiful" "all mine" he groans against your sensitive skin in between his lips being attached to it. His hands work up to hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties, sitting back on his heels as he slowly pulled them down watching the way your folds glistened for him. All for him. He gave you one last cocky smirk before wasting no time diving into your drenched pussy like he needed it. His mouth alternating sucking slow over your clit and diving his tongue as deep as he could into your desperate hole. The sounds he forced out of your lungs nearly loud enough to make you worry the entire party downstairs could hear your already wrecked moans over the rumbling music. "So fucking sweet" his voice low and primal grumbling against your pussy, the vibrations of his voice dragging another obscene moan from your lips.
Your hands found themselves tangled in his hair now desperately pulling him closer into you, an absolute wreck of the girl you were before. Your eyes glazed over and sweat starting to glisten across your skin as you desperately began chasing your climax. You'd heard how good this was meant to feel but words could never have prepared you for the pleasure coursing through every single cell in your body. Panting and whining as you lift your hips up, hopelessly grinding yourself over his face in rhythm with his masterful tongue, eliciting a dark chuckle from Bucky as you began to beg. "p-please a-ah B-buck-y p-pl-pleas-e" you babble, mind completely lost in nothing but the feeling of his tongue dragging so perfect and wet over your cunt. Your orgasm rips though your whole body the second he presses a thick finger into you, the unfamiliar stretch due to the only other fingers ever inside you being your own much, much smaller ones. You scream out in ecstasy, your walls drenching his finger barely half way in thrusting slowly into your hole. "Jesus christ" he winces "so-so fucking tight, that's it baby cum for me, I got you, just let go" he coaxes you through the most powerful orgasm you've ever experienced, stars floating in your vision subsiding as you come down from your high.
His head reappears from in between your legs, his chiselled jawline and pink lips now shining with your juices as he grips your face with his large hands and desperately pushing his plump lips against yours, tasting yourself on his tongue as it explored your mouth. "f-fuck that was- that was amazing" you pant into him "I've got more to give you than that sweet girl" he purrs darkly, grabbing the back of your neck tilting your head up forcing you to look at him as he hovers above you, pushing a thick finger into you, you gasping loudly as he did causing him to smile wickedly. Sliding knuckle deep using the wetness from your orgasm to his advantage as he slipped in and out of you with ease, vulgar slick sounds making you groan out. "fuckkkkk" he moaned, hand coming to palm his throbbing erection through his jeans. "look at that baby, fuckkk" you gaze down with half lidded eyes to watch his soaked finger push in and out of your dripping hole "I can't believe how wet you are for me, fuckin' soaking my hand baby, just look at that" Tone dripping with want he holds his thick, glistening finger up to you, marvelling at the way your juices dripped down from his finger to his wrist. You meet his eyes with a dark, lustful gaze, taking his shining finger to your lips and sucking every last drop of yourself slowly. His head instantly drops back, Adams apple bobbing in his throat as he moaned out "my fuckin' dirty girl". His words hitting straight to your already throbbing core.
He gets off his knees promptly, ripping his shirt over his head exposing his deliciously ripped body and kicking his jeans and boxers clean off. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him. His cock springs free slapping against his toned stomach, dauntingly long length lay just under his bellybutton, thick red tip throbbing and leaking, precum now smeared across his stomach. Your mouth hangs open, partially in awe of how beautiful his cock is, mostly because you're scared of how that's gonna fit inside your tight virgin hole. Part of your mind wants to warn him to be slow, to be gentle, warn him that you've never done this before. But you can't help but fear he'll be turned off by your inexperience. All thoughts are pushed right out of your cockdrunk mind when he crawls over on top of you, grabbing your dress and tugging upwards. "This. Off. Now" he demands, voice low and dark and desperate.
Your clothing is gone in mere seconds rendering you exposed completely to Bucky's devouring gaze, a sudden wave of insecurity washing over you. He can tell by your face exactly how you're feeling, reading you like a book. He reacts by kissing you hard, whispering between kisses how beautiful and sexy you were. Without breaking the kiss he finds your hand, guiding it towards his thick hard cock, groaning when your small palm wraps around the length. "you feel that baby?" he coos "feel what you do to me? How fuckin' hard you've got my fat cock just from letting me eat that pretty pussy, huh?" he begins kissing down your body, finding your left nipple and taking it into his mouth ripping a lewd groan from your throat, palming your right breast and pinching your nipple lightly between his rough fingers. "f-fuck Bucky- I-I need you" you pant, all care about the burning stretch he'll cause gone. You just need to feel him. All of him.
He hovers over you, muscles twitching as he holds himself above you, lips attached to yours in a desperate kiss. One hand comes down to guide his leaking tip through your folds, breath hitching on the sensation of your dripping pussy coating his thick member. "condom?" he asks. "Implant" you respond, voice all desperate craving him "please Buck- wanna feel you- please" you beg. He kisses you gently on your forehead, looking deeply into your eyes "are you sure doll?" he checks, still rubbing his throbbing dick through your folds watching you groan each time the angry head grazed your sensitive clit. "I'm sure please Bucky I'm begg-" He cut you off with his cock before you could finish your plea, thick head breaching your tight walls pulling a scream from your lungs. The stretch burning despite your pussy being absolutely soaked. "So fuckin' tight, squeezin' me so fuckin' good baby" he moaned, resisting slamming his whole length into you and choosing instead to fuck you slow with less than half his length, pushing in just a little extra inch each time he thrust in.
The pain subsided quicker than expected, his shallow thrusts slowly working your tight virgin hole open until he was able to fill you up completely. He rested his whole length in you, just leaving himself balls deep motionless, pressing his forehead against yours. "Took every last inch of me in this tight pussy baby" he moans, his dirty words making you clench involuntarily around his fat cock. "s-so fu-fucking full B-buck" you whine. "Yeah? feel me in your guts baby?" he smirks darkly, swallowing your moans into his mouth as he begins to move. Slow and rhythmic rolls of his hips allowing you to feel the drag of every ridge and vein on his delicious cock as he rocked into you. "S-so good Bucky, f-feels so g-good" you moan out latching your lips onto his neck to suck a dark purple mark into his skin claiming him as your own, completely lost in the moment. Bucky taking your pleasure further by manoeuvring his hand lower and lower, dragging gentle over your stomach until he was at your clit. Rough, calloused fingers beginning to rub slow circles over the nub, spreading your leaking wetness over it causing you to scream out in pleasure. "F-FUCK!" you groan "p-ple-please d-don't s-stop" you begin babbling pleas, your whole body clenching preparing for another orgasm to rip through you "g-gon-na c-cum" you shakily breathe out as he speeds up his movements. "That's it. My good girl. Give it to me. Show me how good I'm making you feel" his voice gruff against your ear. You cum, hard. Even harder than before. "F-fuck I love you!" you scream as every nerve sets alight and your vision goes white.
Bucky stills completely, his eyes on you as soon as yours open. You expected him to be taken aback by your embarrassing cockdrunk confession. But instead his gaze is soft, his face warm and smiling "you love me?" he whispers "you mean it?" he asks hopefully. You take his sweaty, glistening face in your hands, staring into those pupils dark with lust and love "yes Bucky" you say softly, kissing his nose "I love you" You didn't know it was possible, but his eyes drop to an even darker shade than before "I fucking love you too Y/N" he says all breathless and sweet. "So fuckin much" he growls, hooking your legs over his shoulders and pounding you more purposefully than before. His thick cock now bullying it's way though you as you lay flat on your back, looking up at a completely pussy drunk Bucky, eyebrows furrowed and groaning as he watches each hard thrust make your tits bounce and your face contort in perfect pleasure. "fuck- s-say it again" he growls, rubbing your clit more harshly this time "f-fuck! I- I love you!" you scream out. "God-fuck- I love you t-too! G-gonna cum" he grunts, thrusting hard one last time before his hot thick cum starts painting your walls, cock twitching deliciously as he came back to reality.
"fuck" Bucky grunts, pulling out from your swollen lips and rolling off you "that-that was" he pants "perfect" you finish. He pulls you into his arms, brushing your hair away from your face and cutely kissing your nose as if he hadn't just been pounding you into the mattress. "Did you really mean it?" he kisses you again "you love me?" you kiss him back, appreciating every detail in his face when he smiles at your reply "nothing could stop me loving you Buck" He beams ear to ear, his strong arm wrapped around you pulling you tighter into his chest than you ever knew possible, his heart beat reverberating through your chest. "I love you too" he grins, pecking his lips against yours before standing up to grab a towel out of his drawers. He wipes the towel over himself, cleaning the mess that had dripped all down his cock and thighs when suddenly his eyes are drawn to the pale red stain now coating the cloth. "what the-" he mutters, mind taking a few seconds to comprehend what this could possibly mean. Your eyes go wide as his face snaps to yours, his face contorting to a look of concern. "baby were- were you a… virgin?" Your head instantly drops in shame, hands coming up to cover your face as your knees drew up against your chest wishing for the ground to open and swallow you whole. God he must hate you… you lied to him… he must be so angry.
"Doll?" he pleaded, attempting to remove your hands away "please, I'm sorry I didn't know" he kisses your knees. "Why didn't you tell me?" you can't see his face while you hide in your shell but you can tell from the tone in his voice he's visibly upset. Tears well in your eyes "I th-thought it w-would make you change your m-mind" you shake out, voice almost cracking from tears beginning to fall. "baby… look at me" he whispers softly encouraging you to meet his gaze. "I'm so sorry… I would have made it special…. I wouldn't have went so.. hard… I'm so sorry I took such a special thing from you" he stuttered, visibly upset running his hands over his concerned face. The fact that he took your virginity making his little bet with Scott all the more worse, the guilt transformed from a small bug in his gut to an entire monster eating him alive from the inside. Fuck he should have just been honest with you. You can never find out, especially not now. You stop him in his rant gripping his shoulders and looking him dead in the eye "stop saying that Buck" you say softly "It was special to me because it was with you, it was always gonna be you, I'm yours" you reassure him, pulling him in for another deep kiss. Your reassurance only added to his guilt. He should have felt good in this moment, should be proud you chose him for something so special. But that monster in his stomach is gnawing on him. He can only pray now you never find out, he can't lose you. "You're mine" he breathes against your lips "always"
The aftercare and cuddles were cut short. Your endless appreciation of each other as you ride down from the high of making love for the first time and admitting love for the first time coming to an end both of you resented as you realised you'd been absent from the party, and by default your brother for far too long. You can only hope nobody heard the way Bucky dragged orgasm after orgasm out of your trembling body. You both make your way into the hall, both giddy and smiling ear to ear as you continue towards the stairs…Until Scott stands in your way, a wicked smirk on his face. Bucky's blood runs cold as Scott scans his eyes over the fresh hickey on his neck, your messed up lipstick, traces of it still on Bucky's own skin and the way both of your skin is glistening as if you'd recently been sweating. Before he has the chance to take you anywhere but here, anywhere away from Scott and the things he knows, Scott opens his mouth and everything Bucky has built with you is destroyed in seconds.
"Holy shit Buck, you actually did it" Scott laughs "looks like I owe you 50 bucks after all" Bucky's face turns to stone, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, unable to form any words out of his mouth as his heart races and adrenaline rushes through his spinning head. He can't even look at you when you look between both men, innocently confused as you ask "Buck- what- what's he talking about" Scott begins to laugh, a cold calloused laugh that makes you completely uncomfortable, the vibrations running through your ears making you feel like the butt of somebody's joke. Little did you know you were. "Scott- don't" Bucky pleads, his words sound like they're being forced from his lungs as you notice his eyes glossing over with future tears. "w-what is h-" "He not tell you?" Scott cuts you off "I bet Buck here 50 bucks he couldn't get you into bed"
Its rare to have a moment that completely detaches you from reality. A feeling like you'd been knocked out of your body with such painful force that now you're just a spectator to your own actions. The world trembles before you, a sudden disorientation as your heart drops through your body, the pain in your chest knocking the breath from your lungs. "w-w-w-wha-wha-w" you splutter, looking up to Bucky with tears welling up in your eyes, begging for some form of reaction, anything to let you know that what Scott's saying is nothing but a lie. But that reaction doesn't come, no words of reassurance leave his lips, no comfort found in him at all. Instead his eyes well up "Y/N- I-I'm sorry" Oh god this couldn't be real. Please this can't be real- your virginity, that special moment you'd been beaming about no more than 5 minutes ago, was nothing more than a game to Bucky. Oh god everything was a lie. "Please I-I can explain" he begins, reaching out to place his hand on you. The rage erupts from you, jerking your whole body away from him, all feeling that was there seconds ago ripped from you leaving you with nothing but hate. "don't- don't fucking touch me" you yell, watching his heart rip in two right in front of your eyes as you start walking away down the stairs, head spinning with a million thoughts racing through your mind all at once.
He follows you, begging and pleading to be heard out but it all falls on deaf ears. Your entire world collapsing around you with each step, the pounding in your head no longer from the music of the party but from what feels like your insides being torn apart viciously. Your taste of happiness turned sour with just a few words. You reach the door, jerking it open when you feel him close. "please Y/N I love you" tears stream from his eyes now, running down his cheeks and splashing on to the floor below. "Love me?" you scream "you don't fucking love me, you manipulated me so you could fuck me for a fucking bet I never want to fucking see you ever again" You slam the door behind you, leaving Bucky alone with the consequences of his actions. Consequences that were about to get so much worse. He turns around, tears blurring his vision, a tall blonde man with his face red from rage and fists clenched coming in to focus. "YOU FUCKED MY SISTER"
all my affection (is all i have to lose) — a dear my darling reader bucky barnes special
Bucky’s not an affectionate kinda guy. When he meets a girl who wears her heart out on her sleeve, whose love language is quite literally telling everyone 'I love you', he's confronted with the fact that maybe life isn't so bad with affection after all.
or...
Five times you tell Bucky 'I love you' + the first time he says it back
FEATURING: college!bucky x f!reader
THIS FIC CONTAINS... (implied nerd) college!bucky, ot student!bucky, swearing, miscommunication/misunderstanding, emotionally repressed bucky, doesn’t-know-how-to-accept-emotional-connection bucky, makes-rash-decisions bucky, a new york setting (i have no idea how college works, ts dumb af), (implied to be rich/nepo baby) female!reader, reader has hair, reader being more on the feminine/sweeter side, reader being raised by a single daddy (no explanation for her mother’s absence — up to u!), bucky raised by a single mama (i actually don’t know his family circumstances so i bullshitted it), probably ooh bucky, roommate kate, kate and yelena dating!, mainly written from bucky's perspective, angst, no smut but sexual themes ig, not beta read we die like m*n
WORD COUNT: 17.2k (genuinely what the fuck...)
PROMPT: 5. kissing in the kitchen while something burns on the stove
DEAR... @eterna1reverie kath! it’s been so lovely chatting with you and getting to know you! you’re truly so sweet and kind and understanding, i hope this fic lives up to your standards 🫶🏼 and @salty-tang thank you for setting up a wonderful event, i’m so excited to read what everyone’s come up with!!
Bucky Barnes is not impulsive.
A past version of him may have been, but growing up has made him cooler-headed, career-focused. He does all the right things at the right times, never argues back unless necessary, and he's a greater friend than he used to be, less imprudent now, what with thinking with his head more than his hands.
He's reckless, sure, does some things without thinking beforehand. Hell, he'd call it being spontaneous, even.
Maybe that's why, when he spots a pretty girl standing by a crowded noticeboard, his feet are guiding him there before his mind can even catch up. Say hi to her, a part of him says, while the other shouts, What the fuck are you doing?
He breaks away from his friends, who carry on walking for a couple steps before realising that he's missing.
Bucky can hear Sam calling out, "What the fuck?", as the trio hurries after him.
His gaze is fixated on her though, and he's not sure what he wants to say or do; probably make a fool of himself if he gets close enough, might even do the same if he doesn't.
"Bucky!"
Steve now, who sounds closer than before.
But his momentum is broken when a smiley face appears in front of him.
"Hi!"
Bucky stops abruptly. He blinks once, then twice, then looks at the girl, confused. "… Hello."
"I'm Sasha," she says, thrusting a flyer in his face. "I'm a student supervisor for a new tutoring program that the university is setting up—it's for all faculties and degrees. We're looking for tutors, if that's something you'd be interested in?"
He peers down at it, right as his friends catch up to him.
He knows this flyer, could read what it says off by heart. It's everywhere he goes, at every turn and corner, on every pole and noticeboard.
TUTORS NEEDED, it reads in big bold font. ALL DEGREES, MAJORS/MINORS & FACULTIES WELCOME
Contact SASHA at 123 456 789
Underneath that is another name and number.
He can feel Steve looking over his shoulder, reading alongside him, Sam coming up to flank his other side with a mumbled, "Now, what is this…?"
The flyer's taunting Bucky. Has been for close to a week now. He doesn't believe in signs or messages or any of that bullshit, but when something is appearing this often in his life, then maybe, yeah, he should look into it.
Steve elbows him. "You should do it."
Bucky frowns, as if the thought of it doesn't interest him as much as it actually does. "No, thanks. I'm busy enough as it is. I don't need to add babysitting on top of that."
Sam claps his shoulder, shakes it a little. "It's not babysitting, man."
"Yeah," Steve agrees, "it's experience."
"When have you ever given a shit about experience?" Bucky retorts, focus fixed on the flyer. He's drawn to it, in an odd way, like there's something about it that seems so right.
All three of them turn to look at Natasha. The tie-breaker of the group, she's the one who makes the decisions—and often times, she's the one they turn to in order to choose personal things, like this. She's sipping on a smoothie, not really paying much attention, before pausing, only to shrug."I say do it. Lord knows Bucky needs to do something other than hang out with us all the time."
And because what Natasha says, goes, Bucky sighs.
"I'll take it," he relents, and Sasha beams as he pockets the flyer.
"Wonderful! If you're interested, just give me a call, or, if I don't answer, the number at the bottom."
"Will do."
Then Sam is draping an arm over his shoulder, already talking about something that Bucky has no plans to listen to, as the four of them walk off.
And in a brief lapse of judgement, something compels him to look back.
There's still a large group of students have gathered around the noticeboard. There's a momentary break in the crowd, and that's when he catches a glimpse of you again. You're in a heated—no, passionate—conversation with another student, who's listening intently. It's like you command attention, like there's something about you worth paying attention to. At that exact moment, you turn to the side, gaze sweeping over the courtyard as you do, before landing on him. It's as if you can feel his eyes fixated on you.
You offer him a smile, sweet and genuine, like it's customary for you to be so warm towards a passing stranger. Only for your attention to be taken away just as quickly.
A fuzzy feeling comes to life in his chest, right and warm and daunting all at once.
—
The next Tuesday, Bucky finds himself standing in front of one of the least-used buildings on campus. From memory, it's mainly full of standard-sized classrooms, meant for classes of thirty students. It's the perfect location for a tutoring program like this, small and tight-knit. When he'd spoken to the girl over the phone, she'd said that there wasn't many registrations, but there'd been enough to run the program for the time being.
There are already a few students hovering, chatting lowly. He looks around for someone to help him out. when he spots a girl with a clipboard.
"Excuse me?"
Bucky taps her shoulder. When she turns around, he's greeted with a painfully familiar face that he hasn't been able to get out of his mind for the past week.
You've got that same smile on your face that you gave him last week—he wonders, for a moment, if it's permanently etched on, before deciding that it's sweet enough to be the least of his concerns.
"Hi!" The papers on your clipboard rustle as you flick through them, scanning its contents. "You're… James, right?"
Recognition tugs at him when you speak, like he doesn't quite know whether or not he knows your voice from somewhere.
"Bucky," he corrects. "No one really calls me James."
"Perfect," you mumble, making a note on the sheet before you hold out your hand, and wait for him to take it.
Bucky glances at it, then up at you, then back down, before taking it tentatively. It's a firm handshake, confident and steady in a way he didn't expect from you.
And that's when it hits him. You were the one he'd called to discuss the program. When Sasha hadn't answered. he'd resorted to calling the second number on the flyer. He'd been greeted by a—your—honeyed voice down the line, chirruping greetings and dates and numbers.
He says your name slowly, like he's not too sure he's gotten it right, even though he's sure he could recognise you and your voice anywhere, after your brief two-minute phone call last Wednesday.
"That's me," you confirm with a nod, that welcoming smile never leaving your face.
"It's nice to meet you in person," he says. "Are you tutoring as well?"
"Oh! No, no," you correct. "I'm just a student supervisor, I'll be making sure that everything runs smoothly between tutor/tutee and all that. Any concerns, any help, all of that—straight to me."
"Ah, so like Sasha," he hums.
"Correct! You've met her already?"
"She was the one who ambushed me and my friends with the flyer," he says, and you nod understandingly.
"Oh, she can be like that. Sasha's hardheaded. She won't stop until she gets her way."
There's a pregnant pause between the two of you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you know how to fill it. But it's broken just as quickly when you say, "I saw that you studied under Professor Johnston."
Bucky perks up. Professor Johnston is one of his favourite lecturers, has been since his first year of college.
"I did. Have you ever been to one of his classes?"
"Yes! I took one of his classes on… health science, I think, back in semester one of sophomore year. I didn't need to take it, but I suppose, if I'm going to be a teacher then I should know a lot, right—?"
"You want to be a teacher?" Bucky interrupts.
He didn't know that, would never have pegged you as someone who'd be interested in teaching. Actually, he's not sure what he'd expected you to be studying. At first glance, he would have assumed it to be something like nursing, maybe—the kind of girl who hopes to have a rock on her hand before the end of college, a big fortnightly paycheck, stable and secure. Or something in design perhaps, because you've got that look to you, what with the clothes you wear and the way you carry yourself, that reminds him of an Arts student.
That spark in your eye shines ever the brighter at his question.
"Yes! I'm studying primary school education," you say. "I've always loved working with young children and I love the sentiment behind it as well—being there for such a foundational, fundamental and impressionable part of their lives."
There's a light in your eyes that wasn't there earlier, a spark ignited from the obvious love you have for learning, and Bucky thinks it's quite sweet the way you're talking so passionately.
"That's so interesting, I never would have guessed."
"You assumed otherwise," you say understandingly, and there's a kindness in your voice Bucky doesn't feel deserving of. "That happens a lot more than we realise—most times we don't even notice that we're doing it."
He hums understandingly. And then, as if to break the ice between you, he says, "I'm studying—"
"Occupational therapy." He stops short, giving you a confused—and mildly concerned—look.
Graciously, you explain, "My roommate is dating your friend's sister so I hear a lot more than I need to know."
His expression doesn't change, brows remaining pinched, lips still turned down in a befuddled frown. With a kind smile, you elaborate, "My roommate—Kate—is dating your friend Nat's younger sister, Yelena. She talks about Nat and you guys whenever she stays over at our place. I didn't realise it was you until you introduced yourself as Bucky just now."
Recognition dawns on his features, mouth slowly forming an 'o' shape. He knows Kate, has met her on the rare occasions where everyone gets together for dinner. He would never have assumed he was a topic of conversation in her and Yelena's relationship, but all he does is shrug. "Makes sense."
Makes sense.
You can't help but playfully roll your eyes at his response, muttering "men" under your breath.
"C'mon, let me show you around."
The tour you give him is quite short.
The program is split between seven different empty classrooms, which are to be shared between eighteen tutors and tutee pairs. You show him into each one, but there isn't much to see —you tell him midway that it's just formalities, and he laughs like you've just the funniest joke in the world.
At the end of it, you stand in front of him, clipboard clasped tightly in your hands. "Your tutee will be assigned to you by… Friday, I believe, but if you don't hear from either me or Sasha by the end of the week, you're free to give us a call."
"Perfect," he says gratefully. "I'll see you next week then."
You smile at him, and God, it's all fuzzy in his chest again.
"I look forward to it."
1.
Over the next month, Bucky finds himself enjoying the program more than he expected.
He gets paired up with a freshman, some kid called Harry, who's just started out in OT and, unsurprisingly, already falling behind.
Despite his apparent laziness, he's good company, and Bucky would rather be with a goof who doesn't know much than a bore who doesn't know much.
You're around a lot too.
Not to tutor, but to supervise and support. It's not hovering, though Bucky would argue that your constant yapping sounds a lot like a fly buzzing around in his ear. Pretty and sweet as you may have been when he'd first met you, he didn't realise just how much you talked.
It was hard to deal with at first—there's only so much a person can physically tune out before it becomes nearly impossible—but he's gotten used to you quite well, if he does say so himself.
You may be a talker, but you're not averted to taking things seriously. Most times, you keep yourself, sit down near him and Harry and do your own work. It turns into collaborative projects sometimes, when either of you need help and lean over to ask for it.
That's what he enjoys most about you. Your mind. How you always seem to have an answer when Harry needs one, how you absorb knowledge whenever you're seeking it. You're like a sponge—squeeze you too tight, and everything you know will seep out of you in the form of endless talking.
On the days he stays late, hot days stretching into warm evenings, he ends up beside you most times. Granted, your time together is spent in silence, nothing more than murmurs of "Where're you up to?" or "I'm gonna take a break, you want anything?" and "I'm leaving now, take care." It's polite, in a way that makes him feel like your acquaintanceship is just that—painfully bland, boring and respectful.
He learns a lot about you though, through the conversations you have with him and the ones you have with others. Most of it is observation.
That you thrift most of your clothes because the second-hand scene is far better than fast fashion, and that you got your favourite pair of jeans from a friend who's since moved out of New York.
That your favourite body mist is from some brand called 'Sol de Janeiro' that he recognises only because his sister had it on her wishlist some Christmases ago, but on days where (he assumes) you have plans post-studying, you favour more mature scents, something with sandalwood and coconut. (He took a peek one evening, when he noticed your perfume bottle sat out in the open—just curiousity, he told himself, rather than a piqued interest in what makes you smell so good every time you walk past him.)
You far prefer cooking over baking because sweet treats hurt the back of your teeth and because you think savoury foods are much better than desserts. According to Sasha, another one of the tutors in the program, you cook a mean salmon. When that happened, you'd offered to Bucky, "Hey, I'll make it for you one day!", and he'd nodded in agreement. And though a small part of him knows it might never happen, an offer extended out of politeness rather than interest, it's nice to see that you're willing to do something like that for someone you barely know.
He learns that you moved to New York just to study here, that your father was the one who arranged your accomodation, who still manages your living expenses.
And in return, he sneaks parts of him into conversation. Like icebreakers, that slowly chip at the surface of tension that's stretched between you.
He mentions, offhandedly but intentionally, that he grew up in Brooklyn, has known Steve since their knees were scraped in courtyards, through the bruises on his knuckles that he endured while Steve was skinny as, up until now, getting an education neither of them expected to have.
He tells you—or rather, tells Harry while you're in the room, in the hopes that you'll hear—that he dreams of visting Europe one day. Vienna, Berlin, Bucharest. He's only ever seen it in pictures, but he'd love nothing more than to experience it himself.
He reveals that, although coffee remains the superior beverage, he enjoys matcha on occasion, after his sister had coerced him into trying it a few months back. It's a rare treat, one that no one really knows he likes. It's only when you and Harry are in a heated conversation one day about drinks—you despise coffee, with all your heart—that Bucky quietly admits the matcha thing.
It's whispered, like a damned confession, and all you can do is respond with a snicker. "Oh, so you're one of those guys?"
Bucky's nose wrinkles. "What guys?"
"You know, those performative males? They drink matcha, wear totes, read feminist literature?" Your gaze flicks to the backpack at his feet. Rather than a tote bag, it's an old tattered up black backpack. Jansport. Then you shrug. "You know who Clairo is?"
He shakes his head slowly. "… Should I?"
With a sigh, you beckon him closer. He scoots his chair right beside yours, so close that your knees knock against each other's—he pretends not to notice that you don't move yours, content with leaving it pressed up to his. "Oh, you sweet child—pay attention, because I won't repeat myself."
Quickly, you tell Harry, "Just keep doing what you're doing, we'll be like, three minutes," before whipping out your phone and pulling up Spotify. He's not really paying attention, until you grab your headphones and put them over his head. "Listen."
You sit like that for a few minutes, as the lyrics of a Clairo song play through your headphones. But he's not paying attention to words—can't, if he's being honest with himself—because the feeling of your bare leg against his overtakes his senses, and he's acutely aware of the warmth of it seeping through his trousers. He doesn't know how you're doing it, wearing a short skirt in mid-October. And though you seem to have a pair of sheer tights on underneath, it doesn't help the fact that the hem of it has ridden up, revealing the smooth expanse of your thigh.
He doesn't dare breathe, not until the song is over, already anticipating the brush of your palms against his cheek as you go to take your headphones off him.
"Good?"
"Yeah," he licks his suddenly dry lips, "yeah, really good. I… can see why guys might like it."
"Don't become a performative male though," you warn teasingly, "I would hate for you to become the laughing stock of the internet."
"I would never," he reassures you, scooting back to his side of the table. He glances up, and notices Harry glancing between him and you, eyes squinted like he's seeing something Bucky doesn't. Bucky scowls. "Oi, get back to it."
"Yes, sir," Harry mumbles, slumping back over his laptop and pretending to work.
Satisfied, Bucky leans back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His cup of coffee is cold to the touch when he takes a sip, lack of heat telling of the time that he's spent in this godforsaken library. But when he tilts his head to the side, eyes automatically landing on the side of your head, a strange feeling stirs in his gut, and suddenly his coffee doesn't taste so bitter anymore.
You're humming beneath your breath. A soft tune that sounds something like the song you showed him but he hadn't been paying enough attention to recognise it entirely. The tip of your pen scratches against paper, and you're so gone that you don't seem to notice how intently he's looking at you.
He looks back at Harry—who has that same inspectful expression on his face. Bucky narrows his eyes, as if to say don't you fucking dare, and all the kid does is raise his palms in defeat, before finally going back to his work.
It's a few days later, on his way to his session with Harry, that Bucky finds himself lingering outside of a coffee shop.
Soft Sip, to be exact. He'd heard you talking about it to Sasha a couple weeks ago, had found out that it's one of your favourite cafes to date. No one does an iced tea like they do, you'd told her.
He's not sure if you'll be in today though, hasn't seen any messages in the group chat indicating that you would be. And, in the off-chance that you won't be, he doesn't want to look like a doofus, walking in an extra cup for no reason. Bucky makes his decision quickly—he'll just get your drink. If you're not there, he can have it himself, see what's so good about it.
When he gets to the front of the line, his eyes scan the menu board. "I'll… take a lemon iced tea. Large. Takeaway. Please."
The barista hums, and they go through the standard routine of "name, please?", "will that be cash or card?" ("card"), "tap here when you're ready", "stand over there", "we'll call your name out once it's done".
Bucky stands to the side, foot tapping impatiently. A small part of him wonders—worries—how you'll react to the gesture. With gratefulness, he's sure. In the few weeks he's known you, you've never been one to treat people without kindness. You're the smiliest person in the program. Your face is always stuck in a semi-permanent scrunch, and it baffles him how your cheeks don't hurt from all the smiling.
Truthfully, a small part of him wants to see the real thing directed at him—the kind of smile where it's all your teeth, and your eyes are squinted because the apple of your cheeks are pushing up into them, all content and happy. He likes the idea of it, of having something so honest and true appear because of him.
It quells the nerves within him, and, when his name is called, he grabs your drink and makes the rest of the way to the library.
To his relief, you're already there, sat opposite to Harry. You're engaged in a heated conversation with Harry, hands waving in the way it does when you get passionate about something. He dumps his bag by the nearest table, voice cutting through yours as he announces his presence.
"Hey."
You turn around at the sight of his voice. "Oh, hi! I was just about to step out for a moment, and I didn't want to leave Harry alo—" That's when you notice the familiar cup in his grip. "You went to Soft Sip? Isn't it out of the way for you—?"
"I was meeting a friend close by," he shrugs. "I heard you liked their iced teas? I wasn't sure which one to get you, so I just asked what the most popular is. Lemon, apparently."
Lie. You once mentioned that lemons are your favourite fruit, so he assumed.
"No way! That's my favourite," you gasp.
Bingo.
"Did you get something for yourself though?"
The question, though expected, strikes Bucky between his ribs. He's still not used to that about you, the way you always ask someone if they've taken care of themselves too. So, because he knows you won't be happy if he said he only got you a drink, he lies. "I finished mine before I got in. Their coffee's really good."
You don't pry, that light in your eyes shining ever the brighter as you stand up to take the iced tea from him. "Thank you! Oh my god, you're the sweetest, I love you—"
The words seem to slip from your lips without thought, but it's enough to make Bucky freeze. "Um—"
But you're already gone, disappearing down the hallway with your phone in one hand, drink in the other, to do whatever it is you'd been planning. He stares after you, the suddenness of your words and departure leaving him stuck in place with nothing to say.
"She says that to everyone," Harry deadpans when he notices Bucky's dumbfounded expression. "The other day, I offered to print it something out for her and she said she loves me. It's like, her thing, I guess?"
"Right…" he says, settling into your seat. "So… she just…"
"Loves everyone?" Harry shrugs. "I guess."
Then he turns back to his work, funnily enough deciding to show an interest in it now, of all times.
Loves everyone.
Bucky can't help but smile to himself. It's so you to love everyone, to be so sweet and forgiving with the way you show affection, almost like it's second nature. But it also makes him stomach twist with something
2.
The next few months pass in a blur.
It becomes a sort of tradition between the two of you for you to keep him company after his sessions with Harry. Most times, you study together. Sit in silence as you work in the comfort of knowing that you're as focused as the other is. It's become good motivation for him. On a rarer occasion, you sometimes find yourselves talking. It's mostly aimless conversation, but he values the interaction.
(And he'd never admit it, but Bucky always feels a sort of pride and satisfaction whenver he teaches you something new—loves the way your eyes light up at newfound knowledge and how your lips form that perfect 'o' shape in silent realisation—or on the days he makes you laugh—truly laugh, the kind where it comes from your chest then your belly, until you're both doubled over and holding your stomachs and tears spill from your eyes at how hard you're laughing.)
He finds comfort even in the days where you're doing absolutely nothing, sat side-by-side as you scroll mindlessly on your phones. It's days like those where being lazy feels far more rewarding that studying, slumped over desks as aimless audios blare from your screens.
"A friend of mine is having a party at his tonight for his girlfriend," you tell Bucky one early afternoon, a palm on his shoulder when you brush past him on your way out after a gruelling study session. "I'd love to see you there?"
Bucky pauses.
He's not the party type, not the kind to stay out late, or mingle, or pretend to be social when really, he'd rather be back at his apartment with his friends, curled up and watching FRIENDS. But you're looking at him with hope in your eyes as you emphasise softly, "I'd really love to see you there, Buck."
He visibly relaxes at that. Maybe it's the genuineness behind your voice, and he knows that the offer comes from a place of sentiment rather than obligation.
"I'll… I'll see," he responds, the corner of his lips tugging up in reluctance. Excitement, perhaps, if he was to dig especially deep and unravel the ball of emotions that have been tangled up since… well, as long as he can remember.
"I'll message you the details then," you say, and then you're out the door, leaving him alone and with a weird feeling in his gut that he'd normally mistaken as a stomache ache. But since meeting you, it's like he knows better, can tell the difference between the good nerves and the bad ones.
And right now, he's guessing it's the good kind.
You're welcome to bring your friends if it'll make you feel more comfortable ☺️
I would really love to see you there
It's twice now you've said that. That you would 'really love to see him there'. A person doesn't repeat something like that unless they actually mean it.
The notion makes his stomach turn, with something bothered and unfamiliar. This is new. This is… strange.
In all his years, he doesn't remember a single moment where he felt this wanted somewhere. Where he's felt like his presence is something to be cherished, not just tolerated. So, he decides it then. If you want him to be there, he'll be there.
He responds to your message with a thumbs up before pulling up his group chat with Steve, Nat and Sam: Get ready, we're going to a party tonight
Sam: ???
Nat: Fuck yeah
Steve: There is no 'we' in whatever it is you're doing
Sam: The only 'we' is Bucky and his girlfrienddd
Bucky: Shut up
I don't have a girlfriend
Sam: Sure you don't. So you just go out of your way and do nice things for a random girl, amirite?
Bucky: Yes
Nat: Jesus, you are so fucking whipped Barnes
Bucky: Just get ready
Please don't embarrass me
—
The doorbell of your friend Asher's apartment rings at exactly 6:53PM.
Not too far off from the time you gave Bucky—7PM—but it's also respectable enough to not be considered too early.
"I've got it!" you call out, dusting flour off your fingers as you rush to open the door.
The door swings open and you're greeted by four familiar faces. Nat first, in a little black dress and strappy heels, the ends of her short hair curled in to frame her face, then Sam and Steve, both wearing a polo shirt and trousers. They wave at you when your gaze passes over them, before landing on Bucky. He looks different, in that good, clean way. His hair is brushed back and out of his eyes in the way that it normally is, and he's wearing a button down shirt that matches his eyes, a little tight around the shoulders. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly dry.
"Oh! You're here already!"
Bucky shuffles nervously on his feet, a sheepish grin on his face. "Better early than late, I guess?"
"Of course, of course!"
You step aside to let them in, and they trail in like ants, Bucky at the lead. Nat lingers beside you, waiting for you to close the door, before looping her arm through yours.
"You look gorgeous," she compliments, eyes raking over the top and skirt ensemble you'd gone for today. You'd paired it with a pair of calf-length boots, and there's an appreciative look in her eyes as she pecks your cheek in greeting.
"Says you," you giggle, before turning to the boys. "You'll meet Asher later," you tell them, quickly showing them the basics around the apartment—bathrooms, living room before ending up in the kitchen. "His girlfriend just finished her nursing program so he invited a bunch of people over. Really, it's just an excuse for him to throw a party, so I thought you guys might like to come as well."
You bump your hip against Bucky's, pointedly looking at him when you say, "To socialise and all."
Steve snickers, offering you a fist bump that you happily accept. "If there's anyone who needs to socialise here, it's Bucky."
"Oh, of course," you agree, nodding vehemently. With deft fingers, you return to your task.
"What're you making?"
Bucky peers over your shoulder, close enough that the ends of your hair wisp against his face, but he doesn't seem to mind. Suddenly, you're extremely aware of yourself—are you breathing too loud? Do you smell like flour or cherries or oil from being in the kitchen all evening? You brush your hair out of your face, making a mental note that you should brush it before the other guests arrive.
When you turn your head, all with the intention of looking at him while you talk, you find yourself face-to-face with him, and a blush spread across your cheeks at the proximity. You clear your throat, eyes flicking to everywhere but him, and talk loud enough so everyone can hear you. "They're, uh, cherry jam biscuits. Casey's favourite."
"They look good," Steve compliments, leaning close. His touch doesn't seem to burn as much as Bucky's does. His fingers brush against yours for a split second—but it's light, as if it never happened. Meanwhile, you're still acutely aware of Bucky's arm pressed up to yours from being squished between you and Sam. It's like everything about him sets something within you on fire.
You thank Steve, before turning to Bucky once more. He's got this odd sort of expression on his face, brows pinched like he's studying you.
"Thought you didn't like to bake?"
That makes you stop. You have no idea how he knows that. It's not something you've never explicitly mentioned outright to him, your aversion for baking never having come up in conversation.
All you can do is blink, and, slowly say, "I don't mind it—" Lie. "It's just not my favourite. But this recipe is Casey's favourite, so I did it as a favour for her."
He nods, absorbing your every word, like every bit about you is something worth learning and keeping under lock and key in the back of his mind.
"You shouldn't have to do things you don't want to do just so other people are happy."
"I shouldn't have to do favours for my friends if it means I get to share their happiness?" you correct with a sly grin.
He kisses his teeth. “Not what I said, doll.”
The nickname makes you raise your brow, and you're glad that Asher is the kind of guy who likes a dim ambience because it means that Bucky can't see the blush on your face in the kitchen lighting. But you're quick to play it off as amusement. "'Doll'?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"No, no," you insist, a bashful smile quirking your lips. "It's cute. Old school."
"Ignore him," Nat grins, from where she's sat at the countertop, already nursing a drink, "he's a flirt."
The exact opposite actually.
Sam lets out a whoop of gleeful laughter, and you look between them all, confused.
Bucky just motions his hand, as if to say ignore them, and, as your smile turns bemused, you do, turning back to the cookies while Sam and Nat continue to bicker behind you.
—
It's only once the party actually starts that Bucky realises why he never goes to them in the first place. He doesn't belong in a place like this, where bodies are piled atop of bodies, and everyone is drunk and sweaty and yelling over each other. He wonders how the neighbours haven't rung in a noise complaint, with the way Asher turns up the music, demanding it to be heard over the chatter.
When you'd said "small gathering", this isn't what he'd expected. There's probably around thirty people cramped up in the apartment—he doesn't recognise many faces, except for Kate and Yelena who'd shown up about an hour late, hair mussed and dresses askew.
Steve and Sam are chatting to some guys, all of them peering over a single phone as they talk about something Bucky didn't quite catch while he was there.
And last he saw, Natasha was flirting with some pretty redhead—Willa? Winnie? Wanda? Yes, Wanda.
Meanwhile, you've been dragging him left and right all across the room, introducing him to all your friends. He's responded with polite smiles, menial conversation, how are you's and where are you from's. There's only so much small talk he can endure, but you seem so excited to be showing him around that he can't possibly imagine taking that away from you.
You're a little drunk already, wobbly on your feet where you're surrounded by a group of your friends. They're all attuned to every word you say, even though it's a little slow and slurred. "… And that's when I told him, 'Absolutely the fuck not—' But before I could keep going, I fell over—"
That gets a laugh out of everyone, and between the music and the chatter and the laughter, he can feel the makings of a headache behind his eyes.
He's munching on some of the cherry jam biscuits you'd made—had been sure to wrap a handful in a tissue and stuff that into Nat's purse—when you suddenly reach for him. Your hands wrap around his forearm, knocking him unsteady for a split second before he regains his balance.
"Woah, there," he murmurs, arm going around your waist and holding you upright. "You okay?"
"Bucky here—" you hiccup, pressing a palm to his chest to stable yourself. He's grateful that you're inebriated—it means you can't discern the way his pulse has accelerated beneath your touch. "Bucky here is one of—no, the best guys I've ever met. He's smart, funny, not a complete asshole—"
Everyone laughs—titters, actually, in that rich kid kind of way and he's never felt so out of place. Your touch grounds him, fingers on his chest a steady source of comfort
"—And he's so kind. He gets me iced tea whenever we're studying together, and he laughs at my jokes even though I'm not really funny."
Bucky's chest oozes something sticky, seeping through his skin and settling into the crevice behind his ribs.
"You're plenty funny," he reassures with a murmur.
You preen in his hold. "You think so?"
"Of course I think so."
He hisses lowly when he feels your head poke under his chin, hair tickling his skin as you hug him tightly.
Your friends shoot each other a knowing smile. His skin pricks under their scrutinising gazes, because whatever it is that they're thinking is certainly wrong. Completely wrong. Wrong with a capital 'W'.
"You sure are sweet with her, Bucky," a guy he'd been introduced to as Asher says, his arm around his own girlfriend.
"She's…" Bucky clears his throat, glances down at you to compose himself."Just treating her the same way she treats everyone. Don't ya, doll?"
"Uh-huh," you assent, voice muffled. "I love Bucky so much."
And his heart stops—it's different this way, somehow, because every other time, it comes habitually. Conversation and confession are two different things—for you to tell him you love him the way that you do every day has become a part of his routine, just as studying or sitting beside you has as well. For it to be so publicly, so admittedly, feels differents. Is different, but he'll give the benefit of the doubt—and he can't be uncomfortable for long, not with the way you remain wrapped around him, like a koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree.
Before he can say something though, attempt to pry you off, or change the conversation, Kate appears from out of nowhere, lipstick smudged and hair tousled, to pull you away from Bucky. You whine in protest, reaching out for him.
"Okay, there," she laughs. She ducks under your arm, looping it around her neck. "Let's get you home, alright?"
"No," you complain, "I wanna stay—"
"We've got to get you home," Yelena placates, coming up on your other side to carry you there.
"C'mon, doll," Bucky murmurs, as the crowd around you disperses, probably in pursuit of the next interesting thing at this part. He sighs in relief, because it means there's no audience to watch this. "You've gotta listen to Kate and Yelena."
Your demeanour changes instantly, and you pipe up eagerly at his gentle instruction. "Only 'cos you said so!"
Yelena rolls her eyes, not one for discretion, while an amused smile tugs at her lips. "We'll see you guys around?"
Bucky's quick to respond. "Of course." He turns to you. "Message me when you get home, please?"
"Okay!" you chirp, pulling away from Kate and Yelena to hug him. He can smell the alcohol on your breath, but it's sweetened by the scent of your perfume beneath it, that familiar sandalwood and coconut filling his nose. It settles his nerves easily. "Are you leaving now too?"
He glances around for any glimpse of his friends—they're all still preoccupied, but they look like they're having fun. He'd rather not rain on their parade. He can suffer through another hour or so of mindless partying before the itch to leave gets harder to ignore.
"Don't worry about me, doll," he murmurs, pressing his nose to your hair. "I'll be fine."
"Okay!"
Then you're being whisked away by your roommate and her girlfriend. Bucky tries to keep his eye on you best as he can, but he loses you quickly.
The next half an hour is spent with his foot tapping nervously on the ground, checking then rechecking his messages.
It's only when he gets sent a picture from you—of you, passed out in bed, boots still on and all, the hem of your skirt riding up the length of your thigh to reveal that sliver of skin right beneath—that the tension finally leaves his shoulders, and he can .
3.
It was Kate who, earlier this morning, had asked you to line up for the Ticketmaster.
"Listen," she'd said, sliding a mug of hot chocolate over the counter towards you. You didn't need to be a mindreader to have known she was about to ask you for something—she'd had that sheepish kind of look in her eyes. Kate's always hated asking for help, never does it without reparation. "I have an exam today—"
"Yes…" you answered, taking a slow sip of the drink. It left behind a frothy, creamy mustache on your upper lip and you licked it away as she continued.
"And tickets for my favourite artist are going on presale while I'm in my exam."
"Today," you'd clarified. It was obvious where this was going.
"Today," she echoed, "at twelve."
"Twelve as in… three-hours-from-now twelve?"
She looked half ready to get on her knees, a pleading look in her eyes. "Please? I know that Lena would love to go. If you manage to get the tickets, then I'll take you to that new Michelin-rated restaurant that opened up last month."
You didn't need much more convincing from then.
Though it'd be fairly easy for you to get in your own, the idea of going on someone else's dime entertained you far more.
You'd shaken on it, promised her that you'd do your best, and then she was off.
But, in a panic and unprepared, you'd bought four tickets. As promised, two were for Kate and Yelena, leaving the other two for yourself. It was only a matter of who you wanted to bring with you.
Your first—and only—culprit just so happens to be the one you know, without a doubt, will say yes to you.
You spot Bucky on campus about a week later.
It's rare that you and Bucky are on campus at the same time if it's not for the tutoring program, but Wednesdays are when your classes seem to align the most, so this is the perfect time for you to catch him off-guard and invite him.
"Hey, Buck," you chirp as you scurry up to him, struggling to keep his stride.
He slows down almost immediately when he hears you, allowing you to walk beside him comfortably. "Hey, doll. What's up?"
You preen at the nickname. It's become his go-to for you, but it never fails to make you a little dizzy. "So I was wondering, right—?"
"Oh, that's never good," he says with a grin, hands flying protectively in front of his face when you reach up to swat him.
"I was wondering," you repeat intentionally, "if you'd like to go to a concert with me? This Friday?"
He shrugs, barely hesitating. "Sure, that sounds good. Is it seated?"
"Nope. General admission. That alright with you?"
"'Course it is," Bucky scoffs. "I'm a fit young man, I can stand for a couple hours."
You roll your eyes playfully. "Are you sure about that—?"
"Yes, I'm sure," he insists. He stops walking, and turns to face you so that you can see the pout on his lips. "What, do you think I'm unfit? I work out, thank you."
The pinch of his brow makes your chest tight, like you want to smooth out the offence in them with your thumb. Instead, you reach out to wrap your hand around his bicep, a quip on the tip of your tongue, something like—"Sure doesn't seem like you work out"—but you stop short because you're not sure what you were expecting. His bicep is firm beneath your fingers—solid, almost—more muscle than meat. Cheekily, he subtly flexes his arm so that the muscle contracts in your hold.
You can feel your face flush, burning the tip of yours ears with something you're reluctant to call embarassment, and you hurry to release his arm. "I—"
"Relax, doll," Bucky laughs. "I'm just messin' with you. I know you think of me extremely highly—puttin' me on a pedestal and all."
"Is that a yes or no, otherwise I'm asking Sam and we all know he's fun at concerts—"
"Yes," he rushes to say, the moment you utter his friend's name. He looks mildly offended that you'd ever think to replace him. "Yeah, I'll come, doll. Keep you company and all."
"Pick me up at… five?"
"Done."
—
Five rolls around and you're still not ready.
You hate to keep people waiting, so you shoot Bucky minutes fifteen to, telling him that you'll ready a little late.
He responds with a heart—a heart!—and tells you to take your time.
That, you do, using the extra time to be a more meticulous with your makeup. You're in the middle of dabbing blush onto your cheeks when your phone buzzes with an incoming call.
"Hi, Daddy," you answer with a chirp. "How are you? It's been a while since I've heard from you."
Your dad sighs down the line, time and age evident in the breath alone. "Been busy, angel, you know how it is."
A pebble of ache sticks in your throat, but you swallow it down with practiced ease. Of course, you know how it is. You've known it since you were a little girl, sat beside him on the couch in, what was otherwise, an empty home. For as long as you could recall, it had just been you and your father. You were little when your mother left—barely three, four. Too young to understand why, old enough to remember the pain. It's not something you revisit often. It's not just circumstance anymore, it's your life, and you can only spend so much time of it dwelling on the past. But it's moments like these, when you're reminded of just how overworked your father has been for the last two decades.
"You've gotta take care of yourself," you say softly, a plea disguised as a plea. You know that there's only so much
"I know, angel," he sighs. "I didn't call to be lectured by you. How've you been? Keeping up with your classes?"
"Don't you know it," you reassure.
"I'm going out, Pa," you mention. You press your hips against the edge of your dresser to get a closer look at the mirror as you apply your lip liner. "James is picking me up in like… ten?"
"Ah, a boy?" You can practically hear the suggestion in his voice. He's been pestering you about relationships—and though you normally say you're not currently interested in anyone, a certain blue-eyed boy runs through your mind.
"Yes," you say, just as teasingly, reaching for your gloss next. "I'm not seven anymore, Daddy, I don't believe boys have cooties."
"So… it's like a date?"
Though he can't see you, a smile turns your lips, and you don't know what it is that compels you to sigh out, "Yeah. A date."
"That's nice, angel. Well, I'd best leave you to it?"
"I'll call you next weekend, Daddy. I love you."
Bucky's message lights up your phone right as your father hangs up. Outside.
Checking yourself in the mirror one last time, you decide that you're satisfied with how you look. A giddy grin splits your face as you make your way out before you respond to his message.
coming <3
—
It's as if New York has quietened down—or at least, just this small bubble that the two of you seem to exist in. Together.
Bucky's holding your jacket over one arm, your little purse in his other hand, and maybe he shouldn't have agreed to go to a bar post-concert, but it's a price he's willing to pay if it means getting to see you a little tipsy as you dance through the street ahead of him, your cheeks flushed a pretty pink while the streetlights shine down on you like spotlights. You're singing one of the song's from tonight, strung and slurred and lazy but you seem so happy that he doesn't really seem to care about telling you to quieten down considering the time of night.
You stop short, standing still as you look at him. A foggy grin splits your face as you giggle.
"What?" he frowns, but there's no hurt in it with the way his eyes seem to soften all the more at the sight of you.
"Performative male," you tease, turning back around and continuing on.
"Doll," he groans, picking up his speed to chase after you.
Bucky bands an arm around your waist, holding you close so you can't leave. You squeal into his hold, giddy with laughter. "Gotcha."
"Let go," you flail with a whine, trying to twist out of his grip.
"Nuh-uh." He loosens his hold for just a moment, so he can maneuver you around to face him. He leans down, breath mingling with yours as he murmurs, "You've gotta take that back."
"Over my dead body." For good measure, you poke your tongue out at him playfully, and Bucky has half a mind to reach up and pinch your tongue. Wonders, briefly, if you'd shut up if he were to slide his fingers into your mouth—wonders, even more briefly, how you'd look if he did, cheeks all hollowed as you stare up at him with those big doe eyes of yours—
But the thought is cut short when he notices you shiver, just briefly, and his focus immediately snaps back to you. "Hey, are you cold?"
You can hardly get a word out before he's unfolding your jacket and hanging it over your shoulders. He helps weave your arms through the sleeves.
"There," he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. "Better."
"Thank you," you smile up at him, your nose all flushed from the cold now.
He holds your cheek for what feels like a split second. The gesture is affectionate almost, the way you're looking up at him with a trust and contentment he doesn't feel deserving of.
Then the warmth of his hand is gone and he's sliding an arm around your waist to steady you. "Let's get you home, doll, okay?"
"Okay," you agree.
The soft compliance is enough to make the space behind his ribs ache, but he brushes it off. Getting you home safe is most important.
Feelings later.
When he gets to your apartment, you invite him in—Have a glass of water at least!—but he just shakes his head. "I should get going."
You pout. "Oh. Well. Next time then?"
"Next time," he promises, and he's just about to step away when you wobbly rise up on your tiptoes. Your fingers scrunch up the front of his shirt, gripping it for purchase as you press a kiss to his cheek. But you're still so tipsy that you sway, unsteady on your feet. Your lips brush the corner of his mouth instead, featherlight and gentle.
Bucky freezes. He doesn't dare to breathe, as if afraid he might scare you away should his breaths be too loud. He just lets you linger until you move back on your own accord.
Disappointment floods through him once you do, a soft giggle leaving you. He doesn't think you even realise what you did—perhaps that stings more than the accident of it all.
"Bye, Bucky," you sing, disappearing into your apartment.
It's only once he hears the lock snap into place that he lets himself breathe.
—
The last few days have been quiet.
On any other occasion, Bucky wouldn't be worried. He knows that life gets in the way most times, and you're not close enough for time apart to raise alarm bells in his mind. But he'd heard through the grapevine that you'd gotten sick some time last week, so he'd made it his mission for the day to see how you're doing.
With a container of soup in one hand, he uses the other to knock on your front door. He's never actually been in your apartment, but there's a first time for everything, right?
Bucky's left waiting for approximately twenty seconds for someone to open the door. He doesn't even get a word out before Kate is pointing behind her. "Her room is at the back. Second door from the left."
"Is she okay?"
"She will be," Kate reassures, moving to the side so Bucky can head in. He makes his way to your room without preamble.
"Doll?" he calls out, knocking his knuckles on your door. "It's Bucky. Mind if I come in?"
Kate brushes past him, heading into what he assumes to be her own room. "She's probably asleep. You can go in, if she doesn't wake up straight away then you're welcome to stay until she does."
"Alright," Bucky responds, a grateful smile on his lips.
She gives him a weird look—one he would normally mistake for an inspection, but there's a fondness in her gaze that gives him pause—before disappearing into her room.
He'll take care of your food first, Bucky decides.
The kitchen is fairly big—which makes sense, considering that your parents and Kate's parents are well-off. It's easy to navigate. He finds a pot first, dumping a small portion of soup into it to heat it up before storing the container in the fridge, in case you want more later, and turns the kettle on to prepare tea.
Bucky searches the cupboards for a mug, and when he hits jackpot, finding all the glasses stored in the top cabinet, he looks for one that feels like it might be yours.
It's there he spots it, a cute pink mug that's covered in white hearts. There's a jar of teabags on the counter as well, so he rummages through it, spotting a chamomile tea that he reckons you might like.
He plates the soup, grabbing a spoon for it, as well as your mug of tea, before making his way back to your bedroom.
Books line every shelf on your walls, a few even stacked on the floor by your desk. It's messy in the effortless sort of your way, like it's all intentional. There's a corkboard on the furthest wall, various scraps of paper pinned onto it, like a vertical collage of sorts. There are photobooth strips stuck by your headboard. He doesn't recognise anyone it's with, except maybe for who he thinks are Kate and Yelena, but he's not here to pry.
Your bed sits in the centre of your room, a pristine white rug tucked beneath it. He's sure to keep a steady hand so that he doesn't spill anything onto it. Your sheets are a sunny sort of yellow, patterned with daisies all over. It's sweet and cute and so you he doesn't know what else he was expecting.
The sun streams in through the window, casting a natural light over you. It doesn't change how sickly you look though—there's a pallidity to your skin, dark circles under your eyes that make you seem like you've seen better days, and your hair is visibly greasy, spread out across your pillow. Your mouth is parted open, a glob of drool leaking onto your bedsheets.
Bucky sets the bowl and mug on your desk, before he grabs your chair, sitting down on it beside you.
"Doll," he murmurs gently. He grabs a tissue from the tissue box on your bedside table, and wipes away the drool from the corner of your mouth. "Hey, baby… wanna wake up f'me? I've got soup."
A groggy sounds leave your lips, hoarse and phlegmy all at once, but he doesn't recoil. Instead, he slides a hand under your neck, holding it up for a second as he maneuvers one of your pillows a little higher on your bed. "Wanna move up a little, doll? So you can drink and eat?"
Wearily, you do as he says—or try your best to, at least. Bucky has to help you shuffle up, moving your pillows around to be more comfier against your neck and back. "Better now?"
"Uh-huh," you mumble, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. "Kate let you in?"
"Yup," he says, keeping his voice low, so as not to make your headache worse with volume. "I heated up soup. Made you tea."
You spot the bowl and mug on your study desk, both visibly steaming.
"Thank you."
"No need to thank me, doll," he reassures, reaching for the soup first. "You'd do the same for me." He takes a spoonful, and waits for you to part your mouth before feeding it to you.
"Not a pretty sight, I know," you sigh when you notice his gaze roving over your appearance.
"Don't say that," he frowns. "You're pretty. You just… need a shower."
That gets a laugh out of you, and Bucky can practically feel his bones relax, the tension leaving his muscles at the sound of it. He hasn't heard your laugh since the night of the concert, and it feels like a balm to his weary soul.
"I promise I'll shower as soon as I can feel my body again."
"Good," he approves softly. "You do that."
He continues to spoonfeed you your soup, occasionally swapping it out for sips of the warm chamomile tea. "When were you planning on telling me that you were this sick? I had to find out from Nat, only because Lena hold her about it."
His words are gentle, hardly accusing, but you can't help to shrink back sheepishly. "As soon as I felt good enough to be able to sit up on my own?"
"So that's why you reek like a dumpster," he jabs playfully.
"Meanie—"
"No," he counters with a grin. "I'm just saying it how it is."
You scowl, closing your eyes and resting your head back against the pillow. "Can't believe Kate let a meanie like you into our home," you mutter but there's no heat behind it.
Bucky just rolls his eyes, even though you can't see it, and sets the bowl down.
"You know—" he starts to say, and you hum, letting him know you're listening. "I think Harry has a crush on you."
"Eugh, no. He's just a kid—"
"He stares at you a lot—"
"Why wouldn't he?" You crack a closed eye open, a mischievous glint in your gaze. "I'm a pretty sight… most times."
All the time, he wants to say. He's seen you in every state possible—dolled up on most occasions, bare-faced even more; drunk and tipsy and entirely sober, and you're just as beautiful each time. It comes from within, he's sure of it, because it's the way you smile up at him, the corners of your eyes crinkled like you have not a care in the world. It never fails to strike him between the ribs, at this soft spot that exists for you.
"Hey," he murmurs, finally prying and changing the subject. He points to one of the photo strips by your headboard. "Who's that?"
You turn your head so you can see which one he's pointing at.
"Oh. That's my dad. We took those photos on a trip to Italy."
His brows raise to his hairline. "Yeah? He's a charmer."
The photo strip is a sweet montage of you and your father cramped in a little vintage booth. You look younger in them. Maybe fifteen, sixteen, with a youthful glint in your eyes that makes you look ever the more loveable.
(Bucky tries to imagine what it would be like to have known you then. Were you as bubbly as you are now, with your heart out on your sleeve and your every thought in your expressions? Or were you more reserved, the way you are in the small moments where it's just been the two of you alone?)
There are four photos total—one with the both of you grinning, the second shows your father kissing your cheek, while the third one has you making a funny face at the camera as your dad makes bunny ears above your head. The last one is undoubtedly the sweetest: you're beaming so hard, your cheeks press into your eyes, oblivious to the way your father looks at you. His pride is evident through the photo, speaking volumes of a father's unending love for his daughter.
"Yeah," you agree fondly with a reminiscent sigh.
Bucky has so many questions—about your father, your childhood, who you used to be—but you look content in the quiet, so he decides it's best not to break it.
Silence blankets you, warm and cozy—it's hardly awkward and maybe that's what Bucky likes most about being around you. That you can sit in the quiet for what feels like hours without complaint or discomfort. It's a natural state of mind when you're together. He kisses his teeth, contemplating what he should say to fill the silence, when you start to speak.
"My dad's a lawyer," you say quietly. "He's a partner at a firm back home—I'm… I'm so fucking proud of him. You know, he's… he's a single father, he raised me on his own, put his heart and soul, all his time and effort into making me the woman I am now, all while working full-time and being an absolute powerhouse at his job. He's done it all, Buck. I owe it all to him."
Bucky's quiet for a minute. "My mum raised me on her own too. Me, my older brother, and my two younger sisters. We never had much growing up. Just the five of us in a two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. It wasn't a lot, but she tried her best. Still does. Now I'm the one trying my best to support her. I don't… I don't want her to live the rest of her life the way I started mine."
"I get that," you say quietly. "My dad's dream was for me to study in New York. He never wanted me to start from scratch like did."
He nods in understanding, absorbing your words solemnly.
And he wonders how he got here.
Sitting beside a pretty girl whose story is so opposite to his but the same in every way. Two lost hearts drifting past one another, grieving pasts lost and presents never had. He wonders, if things were different, if you hadn't moved to New York, if he hadn't signed up for the tutoring program—if he hadn't seen you standing by the flyer, some subconscious, gravitational pull urging him closer to it. To you.
"I'm gonna go now," he says abruptly, reaching for your hand. His large fingers practically engulf your smaller ones, but it feels right. Safekeeping. "Let you get some sleep, yeah? Can't have a diva down for too long."
You giggle, his attempt at mirroring your language cuter than it is relatable.
"Hey," you whisper, squeezing his hand back, "I love you. Thank you for taking care of me."
He rubs his thumb across your knuckles. For a moment, he contemplates saying it back—would mean it as platonically as you do—but the words feel unnatural on his tongue. I love you. Three words. So easy to say, but so heavy in the moment. All he does is smile, lifting your hand to his lips and brushing a kiss to the back of it.
"Rest up, doll," he murmurs.
Then he's gone without a word, dishes in hand, closing your bedroom door with a soft click.
Bucky washes the plate and mug, quiet so as not to disturb Kate, before making his way out. He makes sure the door locks behind him, but instead of leaving immediately, he waits for a moment. Rests his back against the door and squeezes his eyes shut, as the thoughts run dirt tracks through his mind. He isn't impulsive, isn't reckless—hasn't been for the last four, five years.
He's learnt to think with his head, not his hands, but goddamn, if his heart isn't screaming to be heard.
4.
Graduation comes by in the blink of an eye.
One moment, it was the library and late nights and empty Monster cans and crammed studying.
The next, calm. The kind he's felt sparsely since that gap between high school and college, truly found in just moments shared between the two of you.
His mother is there. Siblings are, too. They'd cheered the loudest when he walked across the stage, gown billowing behind him and a proud grin on his face. But now, swallowed by the crowd, he can't find the one girl he's looking forward to seeing most.
He hasn't seen you in a few days. He attributes it to the graduation rush—he knows how busy it gets, especially since you've been helping Kate pack. She and Yelena—who'd previously been living with Natasha—are moving in together, both of the younger girls deciding it would be better to live together now that the five of you were graduating.
Bucky checks his phone, opens and closes all his apps like it might make a message from you appear. Messages, WhatsApp, Instagram, Tiktok—anything and everything that you could possibly contact him on, refreshed and restarted in anticipation of a single hi or hello. He feels like a fool—probably looks like one too, the way his eyes are glued to his screen.
His blood begins to curdle, head woozy from the volume of the cheering at the ceremony and being up on his feet all day. A stone of worry settles in the pit of his stomach, hot and heavy and poisoned with doubt.
Bucky's family is long gone, had each kissed him on the cheek with the promise of 'We'll see you later, okay?'. His response had come equidistant, fixated on his phone and the hopes of an impending message from you rather than his family.
Sam and Nat had left soon after, leaving Bucky alone with Steve in the crowded courtyard.
And it was foolish, perhaps, to be so strung up on you when he should have been celebrating with his family.
"She's not coming," Bucky mutters, jaw clenching and unclenching.
Steve lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Give her time."
"She missed the ceremony—"
"And she'll be here before we have to leave," Steve answers pleadingly. Bucky glances at him, lips pursed with uncertainty. "Trust her."
He's not sure if he can though.
"Bucky!"
He whirls around when he hears his name cut through the chatter, and he spots you running towards him. He opens his arms instinctively, just as you crash into him with a giddy laugh.
His arms find purchase at your waist, face pressed in the crook of your neck. He inhales your scent deeply, sandalwood and coconut doing wonders at calming his beating heart.
"Congratulations!" you squeal. The hug turns into that rocking motion, the way that some do, as he holds you tight. "I'm so fucking proud of you, Bucky!"
"Thank you," he murmurs into your neck. Bucky pulls back, just slightly, to meet your eye. They're shining with an elation that he's seldom seen, that he's missed over the last few days, because that's a few days too many without it. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course," you say, "I'm sorry I missed the ceremony, but I wouldn't have missed seeing you in your gown."
You reach up and flick the tassel on his cap, running your fingers over it with what can only be described as aweful adoration.
"I pull it off, don't I?" he grins, and you laugh in response.
"Oh, for sure. Yelena and I were helping Kate pack, and once she was done, they helped me with my boxes too—"
You freeze as soon as you realise what you've said.
Your boxes.
The blood in Bucky's veins run cold, sending an uncomfortable chill down his spine. Beside him, Steve hisses sharply at your confession.
"You're leaving," Bucky says flatly. He doesn't need you to confirm if he's right. Your silence speaks words and right now, it feels like you're hurling insults at his face. That might hurt less.
He purses his lips, the line of his mouth curving down to form a pathetic sort of frown—like if it's sad enough, you'll feel guilty and make it untrue.
You look older somehow, like you've aged two decades in two weeks. Not just busy, he realises now. Packing. Putting your whole life, the past four years, the last ten months, into cardboard boxes and loading them in the back of a truck to send away to God knows where. Now, with the heat of the moment over, your gaze has dimmed significantly.
There's no light in your eyes. Whatever's left is duller than usual.
Steve, immediately sensing the tension—and not the good kind—between you two, squeezes Bucky's shoulder. "I'll message you later, Buck."
And then you're alone.
"I…" you lick the cracked skin of your lips. The truth weighs you down, a burden you never asked to bear. "… Yeah. You know how my dad is. Wants his "precious pearl closer to home". Something like that."
Bucky hates himself for pretending to find that funny. His laugh is wet with the beginning of tears he's not used to crying. When you reach up to cup his cheeks, the salt of them cling to the pads of your fingers.
"Hey…" you murmur. "Don't cry. I'll be a call away. And New York is my home now. I love it here, Buck."
"When were you planning on telling me?" he manages to say.
"After your graduation. Tomorrow, I was thinking," you whisper.
So as not to ruin this for him. To not taint a happy memory.
"You should stay then," he bites back, and it's harsh in its futility.
"I can't," you resist gently.
"You can—"
"No." You cut that thought off before it can fester into a full-blown delusion. "I can't stay. I owe my dad the world. If he wants me home… then I'm going home."
He purses his lips, not wanting to say anything he might regret. Because lashing out, or protesting or even begging for you to stay might not end the way he wants it to.
"I love you, Buck."
The words hover on the tip of his tongue.
He loves you too.
Somewhere, somehow, between study dates and city walks and concerts and sick days and phone calls and photos sent on a random, hourly basis, he's fallen in love with you. He's not sure when it clicked into place for him, when platonic turned into romantic, but he knows, in his heart of hearts that it's happened.
But your version of love is habitual, comfortable. Platonic. Always has been. Real love from you is like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He's never heard of anyone ever being blessed with the honour of having it.
Come to think of it, he's never actually seen you with another guy before. Your time together over the past year has been just that—together. He's not sure he can recall you ever talking about a boy—or a girl, for that matter—can't remember a time where you've gone clubbing and brought someone home in the late hours of the night. Though it doesn't seem like you, it seems weird now that he thinks about it. You've never been one for secrecy or discretion. If you'd been at the cusp of a relationship, he'd know—or at least, Kate would know, who'd tell Yelena, who'd tell Nat, who'd tell him.
But he can't dwell on his realisation for too long, because you're wrapping your arms around him once more, cheek smooshed against his chest.
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
He tightens his hold around you. "It's okay."
You lean back slightly, one hand coming to rest on the side of his face. "Promise you'll call me?"
"Every day."
"And you won't stop being friends with me?"
"Never."
Your lips ghost over his cheek.
And then you're peppering a kiss there, so soft and sudden, Bucky almost doesn't believe it happened.
"Bye, Bucky," you murmur, voice barely audible as you turn away and disappear into the crowd of graduates.
When his fingers brush against the spot you kissed, a faint smudge of red lipstick comes away with it, the only proof it ever happened at all.
5.
The next eleven months are a whirlwind.
Bucky gets a nine-to-five at a clinic not far from the apartment he shares with Steve in Brooklyn. His weekends are occupied with working nights at Tracy's, a well-known club that he'd frequented once or twice before getting a bartending position. It's good pay and he likes (most of) the customers he meets there, each night bringing new personalities to the seats at his bar.
His life is quiet, for the most part.
Where college was filled with partying and late night study sessions and early morning exams, post-graduation is far more peaceful. He's in bed by ten most nights, eleven latest, and wakes up early so he and Steve can go for a run just after dawn. Nat and Sam come over twice a week for dinner and drinks.
Correction: Nat and Sam come overtwice a week for drinks and gossip.
They see each other often, but life runs a tight ship and there's only so much they can talk about in the small windows of free time they get on the daily.
You, on the other hand, are a permanent fixture in his life, despite being miles away.
You'd left without commotion. Just a small surprise party that Kate had thrown for you, with Sam, Steve, Nat, Yelena and Sasha in attendance. (Harry had pestered him about coming for weeks, until he finally put his foot in the sand and said 'no'. But he did take you and Harry out to Soft Sip the day before you left, for old times' sake.)
Now, he calls you almost daily.
You regale him with stories of what you've gotten up to in the primary school you started teaching at back home—you'd gone into the public teaching system, despite your dad's insistence at going private. It'd been your lifelong dream to help young children get the education and support they need, and it warms Bucky's heart to see you fulfill that. It's clear that it's more than a passion; it's your calling, and you've never felt more at home than you have at that school. In return, he tells you all about the happenings of New York; coffee shops that have opened up in the months since you'd left, the friends you'd stopped talking to (whom Bucky still provided the gossip about).
How he's been is most important to you. It's how you start off every phone call. How's your day been? Got a girl in your life yet?
Though you mean well, it irks at him sometimes. It's not that he doesn't want to date.
He does.
He swears he does. It's just hard finding the right girl to go out with when the only girl he can imagine being with is hundreds of miles away.
"You fucker!" Steve shouts from the kitchen. "Wash your damn dishes!"
"Later," Bucky calls back.
He can hear Steve grumble faintly, before the tap starts to run. Bucky makes a mental note to buy him dinner some time over the next couple days.
Sprawled on his stomach across his bed, Bucky turns his attention back to his phone. He feels like a teenage girl, going through your Instagram as if he has nothing better to do with his life. (He doesn't. Not really.)
When he navigates back to the home page, he sees your profile at the top, pink ring around your picture indicating an unviewed story. Instinctively, he clicks on it, and a photo of you fills the screen.
It's a pretty photo—in the back is your home city draped in nightfall, as you lean against a railing. A tight red dress adorns your body, showing off every perfect curve, and your eyes are shut, a carefree grin on your face and you look so content that Bucky smiles at the sight of it alone.
Bucky likes it immediately.
Then he glances at the time it was posted—6s ago.
Oh fuck—
His phone starts to ring with an incoming call, and with the makings of a smile on his face, he accepts it.
"Hey, doll."
"Are you stalking me, James Buchanan?"
Your voice comes down the line, playful and sweet, and Bucky can practically feel his bones relaxing at the sound of it. His shoulders loosen, fingers flexing to remove the tension, and he sinks down onto his bed to get comfortable. Inwardly, he curses himself for telling you his full name—Lord knows how often you've abused that knowledge since.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters back, praying you can't hear the embarassment colouring every word. His skin feels like it's burning up—and sure enough, when he glances at the mirror across the room, his face is flushed a bright tomato red.
"Sure," you laugh. "If I didn't know better, I'd say someone was a little obsessed with me."
"If only you knew, doll." There's an insurmountable truth to it, but he's always been a good liar.
For a long pause, he doesn't get a response. He waits a minute.
"Hey. You there?"
He pulls his phone away from his ear to check if you've hung up—nope. The screen shifts then, to signal an incoming FaceTime call from you. Bucky accepts it without a second thought.
Your grinning face fills the screen, sunlight streaming through a window in the background to cast a lovely light around you.
"Hi!"
You look different, that's the first thing he notices. Bucky can't exactly put his finger on it. There's a natural shine to your skin, a pretty blush tinging the apples of your cheeks, and your eyes sparkle far brighter than he remembers. It all speaks measures of how healthy you've gotten since leaving New York—with more time to take care of yourself, he reckons, surrounded by friends and family and a job you love.
The second thing he notices is your hair. It's longer now, months of new memories tangled within the strands, and highlights streaked through them, gorgeously sunkissed.
The third thing he notices is that you're not alone.
Behind you—from where you're sat on the couch, from what Bucky can tell—a figure moves through your apartment with a sort of clarity that comes with being familiar with it. If he didn't know any better,
Before he can second-guess himself, he blurts out, "So, who's the guy?"
"Why?" you throw back, teasing. "Is someone jealous?"
"That's not what I asked."
"It's no one."
"No one? What is this, the Odyssey?" he scoffs.
"He's just… some guy I'm seeing," you shrug.
Bucky scoffs again. "Some guy who's walking around your apartment shirtless in nothing but boxers?"
He can smell your bullshit all the way from New York.
Truthfully, he hates how easily you've brushed him off. This isn't like you, to be all timid and quiet and shy. He can't recall a single phone call in the last twelve months that's ever been like this, where conversations feel more like interrogations that he has to treat with care lest he say something wrong. You're an easy girl to scare off, he's learnt that in the last two years of your friendship. Say the wrong thing and you'll scamper off, tail between your legs without any sign of returning any time soon. He knows he should tread lightly, shouldn't accuse you without fault, but his blood burns with something close to betrayal and even more like hurt.
Even more truthfully—though he'd rather fall out of a train and lose his left arm than admit it—Bucky hates that another man has taken such space in your life, in your home. This is a part of you he has yet to be invited into, yet to explore. Distance has kept you apart, prevented your friendship to grow beyond a year of college and a tiny phone screen. It has, in essence, encouraged you to allow another man into your life, to fulfill the needs and role Bucky wishes could be him instead.
You hold so much space in your heart for everyone you come across—Bucky had hoped that the small part of your heart that has been reserved for him for the last two years would stay just that—his. But a man can only dream so big, especially when the love you have to give is far more than what he's ever dared to imagine he'd get to keep.
"Bucky…" you murmur defeatedly. This isn't a discussion you're interested in having, he can tell. He's been your safe space for so long, someone you can talk to without fear of confrontation or expectation that his quiet disappointment is far out of your comfort zone.
"I'm just saying," he bites out, "it would've been nice to know that you have someone in your life now."
"I was going to tell you—"
"When?"
"When it felt right, once…" you glance up, tracking something that's offscreen before looking back down at your phone, "once I was sure about him."
"And are you?"
You chew on your bottom lip, deliberately giving yourself a reason to avoid his question.
But your name on his lips, stern and forceful, demands your attention. "Are you sure about him?"
"I… don't know," you admit quietly. "He's nice and all. Treats me right. Pays for dinner. Fucks great—"
Bucky winces at that, ribs tightening uncomfortably as he forbids the image of you in his mind, naked and twisted in the sheets with some faceless guy. It grates at some part of him, the one that's had to be respectful, the perfect gentleman the last two years. Even as he wanted something more, he was forced to stay quiet, because staying quiet is safer. And safer is good, because it means that no matter what happens, it won't be bad.
He's gotten good at this game, though, this back-and-forth between you two. It's easy now, to pretend that the sight of you doesn't make his chest tight, ribs squeezing to protect that soft spot between them. To pretend that every part of him doesn't turn molten when he sees you.
"Does he now?"
It's hard to miss the bitterness that edges his voice.
"Bucky—"
"Forget it," he grits out. "I shouldn't have asked, that was rude. I'm sorry."
"I shouldn't have said that," you plead, and he just shakes his head.
"No, you have every right to say what you want. This is supposed to be a safe space for you, I shouldn't have reacted like that."
Your response doesn't come through immediately. This kind of silence makes him sit up straight, uncertainty coiling in his gut. He's messed up now, he's sure of it. From what he can see, your phone is tilted down to give him a fuzzy view of your shirt rather than something more discernible. Even futher in the background, he can hear you engaged in a muffled conversation.
"What?… A friend… he's from New York… yes, he, what about it—?" Then your phone is moving again and he can finally see your face. But it's pinched in a frown and you say in a rush, "Hey, I'll call you back, 'kay?"
"Okay." His response comes distant, faraway. "Just so you know, doll… you mean the world to me. I just want you to be happy."
You smile, small, sad almost. "I know, Buck." Then as an afterthought, you add with a painstaking familiarity, "I love you."
The call ends before he can even think of a response, before 'I love you too' can take shape on his lips.
He stares at the dark screen for a moment.
What went wrong?
No, that's a stupid question—he knows exactly what wrong and maybe that's why he's half-tempted to open his window and leap off the fire escape.
"Fucking idiot," he mutters, massaging the heel of his palm into his eye. "Fucking ruining everything."
Realistically, he never had a chance, because… well. You're you. And he's just Bucky.
But a small part of him—that teeny, tiny foolish part—had dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, you would take a chance on him. That maybe, though in his nature, you could look him as just a 'friend' and consider him worth loving. That maybe, every platonic 'I love you' could carry a real, honest, heavy weight to it—become more than just habit, more than just kindness, but true and genuine.
In truth, he's just scared. Selfish, in thinking that by keeping you at arm's length, neither of you would get hurt.
And look how that's turned out.
When he finally emerges from his bedroom, he's greeted by Sam and Nat sat on the kitchen island, Steve leaning on the bench opposite them. Shit, he'd forgotten it was Tuesday. But he can't bring himself to care enough to apologise for his absence, mind whirling with the thoughts of you—your repressed face, pinched with hurt, the way your entire demeanour had turned meek at his biting words.
And he knows, achingly, that he can't leave things like this. Can't leave you sad and hurting and offended, not when he was the cause of it all.
"Look who's finally out," Steve rejoices. "We've been waiting for you, man."
"What kept you waiting? Your girlfriend…?" The teasing words die on Natasha's lips when she sees the pinched look on Bucky's face.
"What the fuck happened, brother—?" Sam says.
Bucky ignores him with a pleading look at Steve. "Look, this is a big fucking ask, but I need to borrow money for plane tickets."
Steve puts down his glass and walks over to Bucky, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Buck—"
"What the fuck?" Sam repeats, gaze flicking between Steve and Bucky's intense stare-off. "Is everything—?"
Nat swats his arm, motioning for him to 'shut the fuck up'.
Bucky doesn't look at him as he responds curtly, "No," before asking Steve again, "Please. Just a couple hundred. I need—I need to see her."
His best friend—the boy he broke bones for in their youth, who he'd stand up for time and time again, who's seen him grow up and break down and become the man he is today—doesn't hesitate. "You need this?"
Not just this. He needs you.
"More than anything."
+ 1
Bucky Barnes is not impulsive.
A past version of him may have been, but growing up has made him cooler-headed, career-focused. He does all the right things at the right times, never argues back unless necessary, and he's a greater friend than he used to be, less imprudent now, what with thinking with his head more than his hands.
But as the age old saying goes: love makes you do stupid things.
Maybe that's why he's standing in front of your door at 7:47 on Valentine's Day morning, knocking twice.
He brandishes a bouquet of flowers, and before he can rethink of whether or not it was appropriate to bring them in the first place—especially with how mad you'd been on the phone yesterday—your front door opens.
"Hey." The greeting comes out rough, his voice suddenly gravelly with an unsolicited sort of want. He clears his throat, tries to play it off as a dry mouth. "You, uh… you look real pretty, doll."
That feels like an understatement.
You're so pretty; soft and smily and in a pair of baby pink cotton pyjamas and God, he's never felt like this before. Where there's a weird sort of want that coils in the pit of his stomach, tightening with every passing moment. You've already got makeup on though and he wonders why you're ready so early when it's barely 8AM. The thought doesn't fester, because he's easily distracted by the curve of your lips, painted in red, and the pop of colour on your eyelids that make it stand out all more, and the swipe of colour on your cheekbones that make you look irisdescent in the morning stream of sun.
You look more dream than girl, hair pulled back with a cute little claw clip he bought for you right before graduation.
He remembers, vividly, how your eyes lit up when you saw it—a chocolate brown star-shaped claw clip, sitting on a white ceramic plate at a stall in one of those Sunday morning markets. It was the last one left, and you'd looked up at him with wide eyes. You hadn't wanted to detour—"We're just here to get fruits, and then we're leaving, okay?"—had dragged him along to hold you accountable to spending only what you needed to.
But the way you'd looked, all soft and willing, he didn't know how to say no. Couldn't even comprehend the possibility of telling you no, before he was dragging you to the stall so he could buy it for you himself. Technically, he'd told you, this isn't you spending your money. It's a gift.
To this day, it remains the seven bucks he's ever spent.
You blink up at him, dumbfounded.
Because last you talked to him—which had barely been fifteen hours ago—he was home and comfortable in New York. Your home is the last place you'd ever expect him to be.
"Bucky," you stammer. "What are… what're you doing here?"
Then your gaze lingers on the bouquet of flowers in his hand, lips reluctantly forming that familiar smile and Bucky finds himself letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Still, you open your door wider. Once he passes the threshold of your home, you wrap your arms around his middle in greeting. He drops a kiss to your forehead, inhaling your signature scent and everything feels right for a moment. But then you're pulling away and he misses your warmth instantaneously.
"Living room's just down the hall, you're free to take a seat," you tell him, adding, "Shoe's off, please," when you notice him about to walk down the hallway without pause.
He does so, making sure his shoes are aligned with all of yours that are by the door too, before meandering down the hallway.
Your home is clean to the touch, though he would never have assumed otherwise. There are photo fframes hanging on nearly every wall—some of your friends and family here, a fair few of your friend group from college. The sight makes his chest all fuzzy, knowing how dear you still hold your friends to this day. Sunlight streams through the windows, casting your home is a lovely golden glow.
You follow him behind him, but disappear into the kitchen rather than joining him as he wanders.
Turning into the living room, he takes the whole scene in: Abbott Elementary plays on your TV, volume low enough to not be a nuisance but loud enough that you can make out the audio from where you're standing in the kitchen. Bucky takes the initiative to slip his jacket off, draping it over the back of your couch, before following you into the kitchen.
There, he finds you leaning over the stove, stirring at a pan full of what looks like to be tomatoes.
"These are for you," he says, holding out the flowers.
With the slight tilt of your head, as if to say 'thank you', you instruct,"There should be a vase in the top left cupboard if you wanted to put it in there?"
He hums, doing as you've asked without complaint. Familiarity floods the moment and you move about the kitchen like it’s a dance neither of you have had yet the pleasure of performing with a partner. He fills the vase up with water, placing the flowers inside before looking for a nice place to display it.
Bucky decides that your dining table looks painfully empty and in need of some life, so he sets the vase at the centre of it, returning to your side. He leans against the countertop, watching you
"Can we talk?"
"That's what we've been doing for the past year, Buck," you joke lightheartedly, like it might ease the tension that's growing between you. It's pulled taut, threatening to snap at any moment, and Bucky worries what might happen when it does.
"I'm serious, doll," he murmurs.
"Oh. Just… just give me a moment then."
He does, watches you move around your kitchen with a sort of ease that he rivals. He's never been good at cooking, and it seems to come so naturally to you. The way that you peer over the tomatoes. "That needs ten minutes," you tell him quietly, and he understands the hidden meaning: you have ten minutes to say what you need.
Bucky fidgets with the hem of his shirt, hardly daring to meet your eye.
"Bucky," you coax softly, after a moment of waiting, ever patient.
He lifts his gaze then, and his knees buckle, weak, because there's a softness in your eyes he doesn't feel deserving of. And then the words spill from his lips, unbidden. "Don't—don't be with that douche."
Bucky spits the word out like it disgusts him.
You furrow your brows, amused. "Did you seriously fly all the way over here just so you could tell me to break up with a situationship?"
"Yes," he deadpans.
You laugh, sweet at first, but it dies out when you realise that, fuck, that's exactly what he did. "Oh. You're… being serious."
His answer is just as flat as before. "Yes." He steps closer to you, and you let him press up against you. "Listen to me, doll," Bucky murmurs, one hand cupping your cheek while the other slides behind your neck, large hand embracing you gently. You don't object—instead, you seem to melt into him with a sigh. "I… look, I know you're mad at me about yesterday—"
"You were a bit of an asshole," you agree, and Bucky hangs his head with a self-deprecating laugh.
"I shouldn't have reacted like that when I found out about him—"
"Bryan," you offer.
He wrinkles his nose in distaste, but is polite enough to correct himself. "When I found out about Bryan, because I... I just don't think that you should be wasting time with someone like that."
"You don't even know him," you counter.
"I just don't like him," Bucky says simply, as if that's reason enough.
You shift uncomfortably, restlessly. "That's not a real answer, Bucky."
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, as if he could physically block out this conversation. With a pained sigh, his voice drops to a whisper, so low you have to strain to hear him.
"I didn't hear, Buck," you say gently.
"Because I love you!" he bursts out.
You rear back, pulling yourself out of his arms, disbelief etched in every line of your face. "You love me?"
"Yes," he whispers hoarsely.
"You love me."
"Yes."
"You're lying."
"No."
"You waited this long—"
He doesn't hear the growing frustrationg in your voice, lined with an aching hurt that's come from months of neglect. Months of pushing yourself away from him because you worried he never saw you the same way. "Yes."
"Because—"
"Because I was stupid. Because I thought that you would only ever see me in this—this platonic light, and for a long fucking time, I was alright with that, but then you brought him into your life and I just—I can't stand the idea of not being the 'one' for you when it feels like I've always been there for you."
"Platonic—" you repeat with a disbelieving laugh. "You think what I've felt for you is fucking platonic, Bucky?"
He watches as you round the counter. Frustratedly letting down your hair, you rake your fingers through it while you chew on your lip. "I didn't—for fuck's sake, Bucky, I would never have left New York if I knew you felt this way!"
Your pyjama top is unbuttoned, revealing the lace of your bra as you lean over the countertop towards him. It takes all his willpower and then some not to stare at your practically spilling breasts. Which he fails at anyway because, God, you have pretty tits. "And you're just telling me this now?"
"I haven't been honest with you."
"That much is fucking obvious—!" you snap at him, hardly caring when he flinches at the volume of your voice, eyes snapping back up to your face. He's never heard you this loud—just your laugh, which appears when you're happiest, most content. And he doesn't know who you are now, the tender, vulnerable girl he held moments ago "Be honest with me then, because I'd gotten so fucking sick and tired and throwing all my love onto a fucking brick wall, that I left—"
"I'm scared!" he screams at you. Genuinely screams, so harsh, spittle flies from his mouth, and he has to gasp for air because there's something pressing down onto his chest. Heavy and unfamiliar, and he doesn't dare breathe lest it continues to squeeze more, demanding something he's not ready to give. Weaker, he says, "I'm scared, because—because what if, somewhere down the line, you realise that you really are better off giving your love to a brick wall rather than me?"
And there's a pain in his voice that gives you pause. You soften, bones suddenly pliant, like you're ready to turn molten in his arms if he just gives himself the chance to hold you.
"Bucky…" you whisper, and he can't stand the newfound pity in your eyes.
"You're so perfect—" he chokes out. "You've got your life in check, you're smart and talented, and funny, and it's like when you smile, the sun shines down on you because there's nowhere else worthy of being touched by it. Anyone, doll. You could have anyone, and you choose me? A grump—"
"You're not a grump—" you try to protest, rushing back to him, but his eyes are closed tight, trying to block out every possible sound and thought and word you might throw his way. "Bucky, listen to me, you're not a grump. You're the kindest, sweetest, funniest guy I've ever met, and no one has ever cared about me the way you have. No one has ever dropped everything just to make me soup when I'm sick or walk me home after a concert and dance with me in the street or go out of their way to get me my favourite drink 'just because'—"
"I didn't get myself a drink that day," he confesses. He still sounds so pained, so choked up, but you have no idea what you can do to remove that lump from his throat as you blink aimlessly at his confession.
"You… what?"
"That day, I didn't know whether I'd see you. I got you that drink in the off-chance that you'd be there. It didn't matter to me whether or not I got one for myself… it just mattered that you got it."
You open your mouth, then close it again—and, when you finally find the words, repeat, "You love me."
"Always have. Not too sure when it happened exactly, but I think it was when you accidentally kissed me right…" He leans down to brush a kiss to the corner of your mouth, the same way you did the night of the concert. This time, thankfully, you're both sound of mind, and certain. "… Here."
Your eyes flutter closed at his touch, a soft gasp leaving your lips. He lingers for a minute more, before pulling away. "It's been that long?"
And fuck, if the sound of your gentle laughter doesn't make him all the more sure.
Bucky hums. His palm finds your cheek, fingertips tracing a constellation of something that only he can see. With your eyes closed, he takes the opportunity to study you—the brush of your lower lashes against the apple of your cheeks, the small smile that pulls at the corner of your lips. You are ethereal. "And every day since."
"Good," you say quietly, "because I love you."
The words sink into his sternum and take hold like they're returning home.
"I know," he murmurs. When you open your eyes, he lets his forehead bump against yours, sweet and playful and it turns your timid smile into a proper one, stretching from ear to ear. "Just didn't realise you really meant it."
He noses his way down your jaw, peppering kisses to the bone
"Of course, I meant it," you frown, but then his lips are on yours to kiss it away.
He can feel you smile into it, and it's probably not the most sexiest thing in the world—he can taste tea on your tongue and your fingers dig in a little too tight on his cheeks, almost bordering on uncomfortable, but it's okay because you're kissing him, all pretty and right and home in his arms.
That's when a strange, almost charcoal-ish smell fills the air, followed by the loud, incessant beeping of the smoke alarm.
The fucking shakshuka.
Bucky tears away from you with a groan, jumping into action. Flicking the stove off, he grabs the pan and runs it under water to abate the smoke. It hisses angrily, settling down eventually. He grabs a chair to hoist himself up to the ceiling, finding the button to turn off the smoke alarm with practiced ease. It's cut off mid-wail, shrouding your apartment in silence.
With a heavy sigh, Bucky drops down to the ground. "That's one way to start my morning."
"Aw," you groan, cradling your head in your hands. "I was really looking forward to that."
"I'll make you more later," he promises as he slots himself against you.
"Because you'll still be here later," you say incredulously, like the idea still hasn't sunk in.
"Mhm."
"And tonight?"
"And tonight."
"Doll—" he clamps a hand over your mouth. "I'm not leaving. Not when I finally have you. I made the mistake of letting you go once. I won't do it again."
The corners of your eyes crinkle and god, if that doesn't quell any nerves he had over this. Bucky loves those lines by your eyes, loves the way it proves that you're always smiling—and truthfully, he can't wait to see them mature into proper wrinkles, can't wait to age beside you, with you, now that he finally has you.
"I love you," he murmurs. He doesn't let you respond before his lips are on yours again, so he can kiss you—and kiss you and kiss you.
if it reads rushed, it's because it was i'm so sorry </3
@nightwingblvd @webmvie @ladylokilaufeyson5 @dreamlesssleepsaga @a-very-fictional-girl @serendippindots @justatinybud @normalspencerfan @thelastgoldfish @ghostxrose @turkwazz @jeanournal @cyd0129 @onlyfeng @pinksplace — feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist! my requests are open for clark kent, damian wayne, dick grayson, jason todd and bruce wayne <3
A/N: first time writing mafia bucky kinda nervous :) if you can’t tell, this was very inspired by my watching Anora this weekend, her brooklyn accent is so *chef’s kiss*
Summary: In an act of rebellion to spite your Mafia Don father, you run away across state lines. Bucky is nothing if not a faithful servant of the Family, so he sets out to find you and bring you home. It’s a harder order to fulfill than he expected.
Word Count: 7.5k
Content: sort of enemies to lovers, mild angst, firearm possession, violence (no excessive violence performed on reader, primarily restraint and struggle. Reader gets a little too feisty and punches Bucky but he’s kinda down with it tbh), smut MDNI (handjob, p in v, wrist pinning), reader nicknames - princess, pretty girl, baby
Bucky Barnes had done heinous things for the boss over the years, but a thirteen hour drive to Atlanta, with no sleep and minimal stops is certainly no picnic.
This is all your fault, of course. Bucky could be at home, or making his stops to shake down debtors, or at a club with a beautiful girl, or doing literally anything else if you hadn’t decided to make this week all about you. The boss’s daughter, running away across the country with no security whatsoever, swiping your father’s credit cards and sending his calls to voicemail. The man nearly had a coronary when he found out.
Fortunately for Bucky, you’re rather bad at running away. The credit card company has been alerting your father of your every transaction, granting Bucky a map directly to you, to the shabby motel you’re currently staying at — cheap digs for someone raised in such luxury.
It's all too easy for Bucky to lift a key card from the maid’s cart. But the guy at the front desk won’t divulge your room number, despite Bucky's generous offer of compensation. Your father gave strict instructions not to make a scene. Threats of violence were out of the question. So Bucky has no choice but to start checking rooms. He interrupts two lovers’ trysts and a drug deal before he stumbles upon what is clearly your room.
Gucci luggage on the floor, Prada handbag on the table, matching heels by the radiator. No sign of you except the sound of the running shower and the occasional hum of your voice. Bucky’s a gentleman, so instead of wrenching you out of the shower and throwing you in the back of the car, he makes himself comfortable on the couch and waits.
On the other side of the door, blithely unaware, you step out of the shower and towel dry your hair, slipping into a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top. One more night here and then on to sunny Florida. You can already hear the sands of Miami calling your name.
You push open the bathroom door and let out a startled yelp when your eyes alight on a strange man in your room. Only a second later do you realize he’s not strange at all. He's one of your father’s men. James Barnes.
He waves nonchalantly from the couch.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter.
Bucky surges to his feet when you try to break for the door, blocking your path. “No, no you don’t.”
You feint the other way, trying to throw him off his game, but he’s too fast. “Stop,” he commands. “You're coming with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you spit.
“Yes, you are.” He reaches for your arm and you slip from his grip.
You point a manicured finger in his direction, a warning. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and stalks towards you.
You back away, climbing over furniture to avoid him. “Do not— I swear to God, if you come any closer, I’ll fuckin’ clock you.”
Still, he keeps coming. Because you keep your promises, you swing on him, and he just barely dodges your fist.
“Hey!” he barks. “That's enough.”
You snatch one of your heels off the floor, brandishing it like a weapon. “I am from Brooklyn, do not fuckin’ try me!”
You go for the door, but before your hand can close around the doorknob, he catches you around the waist. You shove yourself back out of his arms and swing a wide arc with your heel. Bucky catches your wrist and wrenches the shoe from your grip, tossing it across the room.
“Okay,” Bucky huffs, "I'm out of patience here.”
With your wrist locked in his iron grip, he hauls you towards the door, ready to deposit you in the back of his car. With your free arm, you rear back to punch him again. This time, your fist connects — with his orbital socket. He swears loudly and drops your wrist, wincing in pain as he presses a hand to his face.
“You stay away from me!” you shout, backing away and shaking your stinging hand out.
“Will you calm the fuck down?” he shouts back.
You bolt for the door again, and he nearly tackles you, dragging you down to the floor with him. That's when you really start making a scene. You flail and scratch and scream and kick, trying to escape his grip, knocking over a floor lamp in your struggle. Bucky tries to cover your mouth to muffle your screams — the last thing he needs is a concerned citizen calling the cops because they’re massively misreading the situation.
Suddenly, there is a sharp pain in his palm as you dig your teeth into his skin. He yelps and pries his hand from your jaws. “Christ! Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
He manages to sandwich your body between him and the floor, limiting your movement. Still, you get an elbow free and try to throw it into his face. The angle is wrong, making your attempts useless as they fail to connect.
“Get off me!” you snarl, still not giving up.
Bucky knows he has limited options. His zip ties are in the car – he hadn’t thought you would be quite so spirited. Improvising, he reaches into your open suitcase, his hand closing around a highly inappropriate string bikini you packed for your little excursion. He straddles your back and binds your hands with the garment. You screech and wriggle and kick to no avail.
Once he is satisfied with his work, he hauls you over his shoulder, a powerful arm locked around your thighs to keep you from moving too much. On the way out the door, he scoops up your handbag and heels.
When he plants your ass in his backseat, the reality of your situation sinks in. You can’t fight your way out of this. He circles around to dump your belongings in the trunk, making a return trip for your suitcase. Desperate for a way out, you try for the door handle with your bare foot, but the child locks are on. Damn him.
A minute later, he returns to place your suitcase in the trunk as well, then slides into the driver’s seat. You lean forward, begging. “Stop! Stop, please. Please. Whatever my father is paying you, I'll–I’ll double it.”
“With what money?” he scoffs. “He canceled your credit cards twenty minutes ago, as soon as I texted that I found you. You couldn’t afford me anyway.”
“Please let me go,” you plead as he turns the key in the ignition. “I'm begging you. I can't go back.”
Unmoved, Bucky begins to pull out of the motel parking lot. “Come on, princess, it can’t be that bad.”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” you hiss, tossing your hair out of your eyes indignantly.
“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” His tone turns condescending. “You get everything you want handed to you on a silver platter because Daddy says so.”
You blink back the tears that threaten to well up in your eyes. “You have no idea what my life is like. You swallow all the shit my father feeds you and you lick the fuckin’ plate—“
Bucky’s temper flares, and his eyes meet yours in the rearview. “Don’t talk to me like that, you little spoiled brat.”
“I don’t take orders,” you shoot back. “I'm not like you. I’m not one of my father’s fuckin’ pawns.”
Bucky takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. You’re just trying to provoke him, get him mad enough to make a mistake. He won’t give you what you want.
“I’m not a pawn,” he replies evenly, his gaze firmly fixed on the road.
“Oh, yeah?” you challenge him. “What are you, then?”
“I’m the guy who’s saving your ass.”
You laugh in disbelief. Made men are so fucking deluded.
“You think that’s funny?” Bucky asks, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “You know, he was gonna send Lenny at first. He would not have been as nice as me.”
“You call what you did to me nice?” you bite back.
“I didn’t put your lights out after you bit me. I call that pretty fuckin’ generous, if you ask me. If your father sent any of his other guys, you’d be in the trunk with a bag over your head.” Bucky pulls onto the highway, chuckling, “Trust me, princess, this is your best case scenario.”
You roll your eyes, slumping back in your seat. “Lucky me.”
Three hours pass in silence. You give up on the tears and sniffling after hour one, as it’s clearly getting you nowhere with him. He doesn’t even glance back at you. Hour two, you fall in and out of a light doze, your forehead pressed against the car window. Hour three, your stomach starts to grumble with increasing demand, until it can be ignored no longer.
“I’m hungry.”
A chuckle travels from the front seat to your ears, and you frown. “Why are you laughing?” you demand.
“You make me drive all the way out to Atlanta, give me a black eye,” Bucky laughs, “and you think we’re stopping for fuckin’ pancakes?”
“I haven’t eaten today, I'm starving,” you whine reflexively. Bucky is once again unmoved, so you change tactics. “You really wanna tell my dad that you withheld food from me?”
Bucky’s eyes don’t even stray from the road, his jaw set and his hands firm on the wheel.
You sigh, suddenly so mentally and emotionally exhausted that you don’t have the energy to cry or beg or fight or pretend anymore.
“I won’t scream and I won't make a scene,” you vow quietly. “I just really need to eat something. I promise.”
You see a muscle tick in his jaw, and you know that you’re finally getting somewhere. Seems like honesty might be the only thing that works on this guy. Kinda refreshing, for a made guy.
“Please,” you add delicately, for good measure.
Bucky knows that the more stops he makes, the longer it’ll take to get back to Brooklyn, and it’s already been a long day for him. But you seem sincere, and Bucky was always a sucker for pretty eyes. You bat them innocently in the rearview and he can already feel himself caving.
A heavy sigh leaves his lungs. “Okay, princess, you’re really breaking my heart here.” He eases the car out of the left lane of the highway and thoughtfully examines the road signs. “We’ll stop for something to eat.”
Politeness has gotten you this far, so you offer him a small smile in the rearview. “Thank you, James."
That earns you a quiet snort from him, and you look up self-consciously. “What?”
“Only my mother and my boss call me James.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
He gives you a crooked half-smile in the rearview. “Bucky is fine.”
“Okay. Thank you, Bucky."
He makes no reply, just stares down the expanse of the highway. So much for politeness, you think.
The fluorescents of the diner are not doing Bucky's headache any favors. His lack of sleep and the throb of the shiner you blessed him with aren’t helping, either.
Generously, he untied your hands in the parking lot, keeping a firm hand on your shoulder as he walked you in. The sight of you in your tank top and shorts, wobbling atop your five inch heels was so pathetic, it almost earned his sympathy. Now he sits on the aisle side of the booth, keeping you penned in as you demolish a burger and fries.
It hadn’t been a ploy. You really were hungry. And your capacity to put food away is almost as impressive as your left hook.
As you finish your fries, Bucky picks at his own, and the awkward silence continues until you break it.
“You're not even gonna ask me why I ran away?”
“Does it matter?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“What, you think I ran away for no good reason?” you retort.
Always the attitude with this one, he thinks. “I don’t need to know the reason to do my job.”
You roll your eyes and return your attention to your plate. “Okay. Whatever”
It’s true. He doesn’t need to know the reason. A pretty little thing like you, with your Prada purse full of AmEx plastic? You probably just got bored and wanted to stir up some excitement, maybe tempt the tabloids — Mob Princess goes AWOL! But despite what he assumes to be true, he finds his curiosity piqued. There's some tension, something unknown gnawing behind your eyes that he can’t seem to write off.
So he asks. "Why'd you run away?”
You shake your head stubbornly. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”
“What, you get knocked up or something?”
You pull a face and elbow him in the ribs. “God, you are such a pervert. No.”
“Then what?” he presses.
You sit quietly for a moment, like you’re considering whether or not you can trust him with the truth. “You gonna eat those?” you ask, eyeing his leftover fries.
He chuckles and slides the plate in your direction. “Knock yourself out.”
The quiet continues as you pop a few fries in your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Just when he thinks that maybe you’re giving him the silent treatment, you finally speak.
“I’m like you, y’know.”
Bucky reacts with a little surprise. Considering the disdain you’d had for him in the car, he never would have predicted that those words would come out of your mouth.
“I’m at his beck and call every second of every day,” you explain. “I went to the college he wanted, I did the internship program he picked for me. I wear the clothes that he buys. I say what he wants me to say, and I'm quiet when he wants me to shut up. I dated the boys he approved of, until he didn’t, and I broke up with them when he told me to. I have done every single thing he asked me to do for twenty-six years, just so he would look at me. See me. But he just…doesn’t.”
Your voice breaks on the last word, and you turn towards the window so you don’t have to look at Bucky, so he won’t see the tremble of your lip.
While the crocodile tears you’d cried in the car were obvious manipulation, Bucky can tell these tears are real. He can tell by the way you deliberately conceal them, the way you stay stoically silent instead of letting out those theatrical sniffs. It almost makes him want to put an arm around you, offer you some kind of comfort. Almost.
You surreptitiously wipe your eyes and conclude, “Last week, it occurred to me that in those twenty-six years, I couldn't remember a single thing I had ever done just for myself. So here we are.”
“You’re telling me that running away to Atlanta was you ‘doing something for yourself’?” Bucky doesn’t mean for the tone to come out so disbelieving, so condescending. But a girl like you has everything in the world – good looks, money, a proud family, a penthouse apartment. And to throw all that away for a cross-country road trip? The idea is mind-boggling to him.
“Whatever. I don't expect you to understand,” you shrug dismissively.
Turning to him, any trace of your former vulnerability scrubbed away, you say matter-of-factly, "I have to go to the bathroom.”
“All right.” He steps out of the booth, watches you scoot across the patent leather while trying to look dignified, and falls into step behind you as you head for the restroom.
You whip around when you realize he’s still behind you by the time you reach the door to the Ladies’. “You’re not following me into the fuckin’ bathroom, you pervert.”
“You’re sniffing glue if you think I'm letting you go off by yourself,” he asserts, crossing his arms.
“Can you just wait outside?” You glance down self-consciously. “Please?”
Bucky realizes that he’s caught the attention of a few other restaurant patrons, their concerned stares practically burning holes in the side of his face.
“Fine,” he surrenders. “Have it your way.”
As you duck into the bathroom, Bucky posts up against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose and intermittently checking his watch. He'd been hoping to be farther down the road by now, but he’s still facing about ten hours of driving. And that’s if he doesn’t stop for the evening — if Bucky’s current level of fatigue is any indicator, he almost certainly will have to.
A crash and a yelp of pain echoes from behind the bathroom door, and Bucky leaps into action, ready to crack skulls if necessary. He is not greeted with the sight of an assailant when he bursts into the bathroom. All he sees is you, on the floor by a toilet, nursing an apparently injured ankle. Above your head, high on the wall is a small window, wedged open — clearly what you hoped was an escape route until your heels betrayed you and sent you tumbling to the ground.
“Oh, for chrissakes,” Bucky groans.
“I think I sprained my ankle,” you mumble sheepishly, unable to meet his eyes.
Bucky’s headache only worsens. “You've gotta be kidding me.”
You expect him to yell, maybe threaten that if you try to escape again he’ll ’put your lights out’. You expect him to act like all the other men who answer to your father, all brute force and teeth.
Instead, he carries you out to the car with an exasperated look, eases you delicately into the passenger seat, and lifts your leg to prop your swollen ankle on the dashboard. Your face reddens when he puts his hands on you like that. The touch is respectful, but decidedly different from when he had his hands on your earlier to restrain you.
Then he slides into the driver’s seat without a word, and puts the car in gear.
Annoyingly, he keeps surprising you.
As he drives, you keep your eyes on the road for the most part. Every so often, your gaze wanders over to the purpling bruise that’s developing over his left cheekbone and creeping under his eye. Oddly, it kind of suits him. The striking lines of his face aren’t marred by the violence — he wears it like a badge of honor. And it brings out the blue of his eyes.
Not that you’re paying attention to that kind of thing.
“That looks like it hurts,” you comment idly.
“Yeah, it does,” he grumbles. “Thanks for your concern, princess.”
You feel an unexpected surge of guilt. He was just doing his job, after all. It was just bad luck that his job happened to be you.
“I’m sorry I punched you,” you murmur, staring at your nails.
Something in Bucky's expression softens, just a little, though he keeps his eyes on the road. “Don't worry, I didn't take it personally.” A smirk plays at his lips as he asks, “Where’d you learn to fight like that, anyway?”
You almost smile at that. “Brooklyn bitches fight dirty. Just because my dad’s the boss doesn’t mean I didn't get into scraps of my own.”
“You’re somethin’ else,” he chuckles. "How's that ankle?”
“Hurts.” You lean on the headrest and put on a pout. “Maybe you should take me to urgent care.”
He shakes his head. “Fat chance. Your dad will take you to urgent care once I drop you off with him.”
You don’t know why it hurts so much, that he doesn’t seem to care about anything you said during your little soul-bearing exercise in the diner. Maybe it just hurts to be brushed off the way your father always does to you, like pressing on a bruise that’s already formed. You look out the passenger side window, feeling tears form and willing them not to fall from your eyes.
Bucky notices, because of course he does.
“Hey.” His voice has lost its edge, concern replacing it.
“Don’t,” you mumble. You can’t handle another lecture about how ungrateful and spoiled you are.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he promises, as if he could promise such a thing. “It could be worse.”
There’s no stopping it now. The tears spill over, and you frantically wipe them away. “People have been telling me that my entire life. It has never once made me feel better.”
Bucky doesn’t try to reassure you again, just lets the silence hang between you, taking up space like another passenger in the car.
When he breaks it, his voice is soft, softer than you thought it was possible for a man like him to be. “Is it bad?”
That doesn’t help banish the tears. If anything, it invites more of them.
“Everyone in the world keeps me at arm’s length because of who my father is,” you tell him, almost at a whisper. “And my father is so busy running everything that he doesn’t even look in my direction. I'm just another thing he owns. it’s…” Your breath hitches, halfway to a sob, and you clench your eyes shut. “…lonely.”
“I hear you.”
The sentiment is simple. It doesn't come with platitudes or empty promises. It punches straight through your chest to the softest part of you and settles there.
You still can’t look at him, so you sit there staring out the window, wiping your tears on the back of your right hand. You don’t even glance in his direction until you feel a warm, calloused hand wrap around your left one, where it rests on top of your knee.
The two of you sit in the quiet, hand in hand, as the highway stretches into infinity and the western sky starts to turn orange and pink.
Dusk falls, and still Bucky drives.
Now that you’ve fallen asleep, interruptions are few. It also makes the drive incredibly, mind-numbingly boring. He almost wishes for a pothole to jostle you, just so that you would wake and make another snide remark.
He briefly pulls over at a gas station to fill up the tank. You barely even stir, curled into yourself, looking almost fragile in the low light. Bucky removes his leather jacket, carefully drapes it over you, and turns the key in the ignition.
As night descends, it becomes increasingly clear that he can’t pull another all nighter. His eyes burn with fatigue, his face still throbs, and all the painkillers in the world can’t stave off his headache. At about the halfway point of the drive home, he finds a Days Inn along the side of the highway, like an oasis in the desert.
As the car slows in the parking lot, you finally stir, running a hand through your hair and rubbing your eyes. “Where are we?” you mumble, looking around groggily.
“Near Richmond,” he replies. “Time to call it quits for the night.”
You stretch, Bucky’s jacket falling into your lap, your chest straining against the thin material of your tank top. Bucky averts his eyes respectfully and swallows.
“You're not worried I'm gonna run off on you in the middle of the night?” you ask, half-joking.
Bucky cocks an eyebrow. “Do I need to be worried? I was given permission to cuff you to the bed, but I don't think that’ll be necessary.” Off the mortified look on your face, he smirks and adds, “Plus, I'm a gentleman, so…”
“Right,” you scoff, tucking your hair behind your ear to hide the redness blooming in your cheeks.
Bucky puts the car in park once he pulls up to the lobby. “Come on. You should get some rest.”
At the front desk, the concierge says that only single bed rooms are available. Bucky books one room with a tight-lipped smile, and you quietly examine your nails as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world.
Unfortunately for Bucky, you’re wide awake after your little road trip nap. The moment you limp through the door of the hotel room, you flop down enthusiastically onto the mattress. With how tired he looks, you expect him to collapse on the bed beside you. Instead, he slumps onto the couch, groaning in relief as he pries off his boots.
Snatching the remote off the bedside table, you kick off your heels as well and sit cross-legged, scrolling through various channels. Though you both try to ignore it, the air in the room feels charged, different energetically to when the two of you had been in the car together. Perhaps it was due to the way he’d touched your hand, or the way you’d inhaled the clean and masculine scent of the cologne on his jacket, or the low light and the implication of the bed’s presence in the room.
All you know is that as you watch him roll his shoulder and stretch out of the corner of your eye, it makes you feel a little reckless.
You lean back on your hands, silently daring him to look in your direction. When he rises to his feet, you feel a thrill swirling deep in your stomach. But he breezes past you only to grab a pillow from the bed, then returns to recline on the uncomfortable-looking couch.
“You’re gonna sleep on that thing?” you ask, incredulous.
Bucky huffs in response. “Yeah, if you think I'm sleeping in the same bed as the boss’s daughter, you’re crazier than I thought.”
“What, are you scared?” You tilt your head teasingly, letting the curtain of your hair fall over your shoulder. “Of little old me?”
His eyes settle on you, dark and hard to read in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “You’re playing a dangerous game, princess,” he warns you in a low voice that sends a shiver down your spine.
“My whole life is a dangerous game,” you reply unflinchingly. “It’s nothing new to me.”
Bucky clenches his jaw and looks absently at the tv, to give himself something to look at other than your legs or your eyes or your mouth.
You won’t be ignored — not tonight. So you scoot carefully to the edge of the bed. “Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Just did,” he volleys back immediately, smirking.
You roll your eyes. “Real funny.” It takes you a moment to work up the courage to ask, but eventually, you do. “Why do you work for my father?”
Of all possible questions you could have asked, Bucky certainly wasn’t expecting that one. “Come again?”
You shrug. “It’s just… I was born into this family. And I can't think why anyone in their right mind would choose this voluntarily.”
“Maybe I'm not in my right mind,” Bucky says thoughtfully, offering you a shrug in return.
“Fine, don’t answer then,” you sigh, annoyed at his avoidance.
For a minute, you both just watch the tv colors wash over the room in silence. When Bucky finally speaks, it surprises you, yet again.
“My mother was sick. We needed cash, bad. And when I made my oath to this family, he promised she’d be taken care of. Her and my sister both. When my mother died, he paid for the funeral. Covered her medical bills.”
He looks away from the tv, directly to you, with a soft and open expression. “I know that you see a different side of him than the rest of them do, but the same goes for me. He's not a bad guy, not at heart.”
That stuns you a bit. It's not the first story of its kind that you’ve heard. Tales of your father’s generosity are passed around just as often as the stories of the violent acts that put him at the top of the food chain. But you’ve never heard them firsthand — the men who work for your father prefer to brag about their hard-earned riches, and almost never own up to moments of weakness, to needing help. The sadness in his eyes, the sag of his shoulders when he speaks of his mother tugs at your heart.
“I didn't know that. About your mother. I'm sorry.”
“It is what it is,” he mumbles.
An overwhelming urge to touch him washes over you, like the impulse to press your finger to a hot stove even though you know it could burn you. You pat the mattress next to you. “Will you just come here, for chrissakes?”
Bucky still doesn’t move, but something in his eyes falters, some hidden resolve clearly being tested.
“I’m not gonna bite you. Again,” you add playfully. “Unless you ask me nicely.”
Bucky shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
Defiance takes over, and you unsteadily get to your feet. “Fine. I'll come over there.” Favoring your uninjured ankle, you hobble to the couch and impatiently gesture towards his legs stretched out across it. “Move.”
He exhales a laugh out of his nose, but he obliges, creating space for you. You decide to play nice — for now — and simply rest your head against his shoulder, pretending to watch whatever inane late night movie is playing on cable.
Innocent as the gesture is, Bucky's thoughts are certainly not. This can’t happen. It absolutely should not happen. You're completely off-limits. But your body is warm where it’s draped against his, and he can smell traces of your expensive perfume. And when he leans his cheek against the crown of your head, your hair is impossibly, temptingly soft.
Very slowly, you walk your fingers over to his thigh, creeping towards dangerous territory. Bucky knows, he knows he should stop this, but his body doesn’t seem to want to listen to his brain right now.
“Careful, princess,” he warns you again, his voice turning to a low rasp.
“I don’t wanna be careful,” you whisper, turning your face into his neck to breathe him in, to brush your mouth against his hammering pulse. “I’ve been careful my whole life.”
Your palm boldly presses to his groin, and Bucky immediately begins to harden under your touch. Your breath is hot against his neck as you begin to slowly stroke him through his jeans.
“Fuck,” he groans quietly. “This is a bad idea.”
Your hand moves to his belt, nails clicking against the buckle as you slowly start to unfasten it. “You want me to stop?” you ask.
“God, no,” he replies, tugging you into his lap.
When he kisses you, it’s messy – a tangle of lips and tongues and breath, teeth bumping against teeth, hips shifting restlessly against hips. His hands tangle in your hair, tugging lightly so he can angle you how he likes. Your hands push at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders. Then everything pauses when your fingers brush his shoulder harness, the one that secures his piece at his side.
Bucky half-expects you to shy away from it, but you don’t. You run your hands along the straps reverently before slowly easing them off his shoulders, placing the holster gently to the side. A princess removing a knight’s scabbard, relieving him of the weapon that defended her kingdom.
With the same patience and reverence, you reach for the hem of his t-shirt and pull it off him. Bucky's torso is an illustrated history book of violence, where knives have slashed and bullets have grazed. You lower your mouth to a raised scar just beneath his collarbone, and his breath hitches quietly.
You resume your earlier efforts with his belt and zipper. When you finally manage to shove your hand past the barrier of his jeans, he shudders at first contact of your hand on his cock. You free him from the confines of his jeans, and Bucky's brain loses most of its functionality as you stroke him steadily.
Shifting in his lap, you straddle his thigh, that same steady rhythm finding your hips, and you chase your own pleasure simultaneously. As you ride his thigh, your breath mirrors his, shallow and needy. With your foreheads pressed together, neither of you speak, like it might somehow break the spell.
Bucky, as if hypnotized, brings his hands to the hem of your tank top in a wordless request. You pause in your efforts just long enough for him to remove the garment, then resume in earnest as gazes at your bare chest before him. The rough warmth of his hands trails up your sides before cupping your breasts, making you shiver and gasp softly.
Your hand picks up speed, and he crushes his lips against yours, a rumbling groan leaving his throat that you drink up like water. Soon enough, the friction of his thigh through the fabric of your shorts has you just as wrecked as Bucky, whimpering and squirming on top of him.
As his hips begin to twitch into your hand, Bucky lets out a half-pained, half-frustrated sound and grasps your wrist to still you.
“Hold on.”
Apparently, he means it in more ways than one, because the very next second he’s hauling you off the couch, carrying you across the room and nearly crashing down onto the bed with you. It sends your heart racing, and the hungry drag of his teeth against your neck is not helping to slow it down.
His hands pause in their descent down your body when they encounter the fabric of your shorts. Whining impatiently, you consider shoving his hand where you need it yourself, but his eyes lock on yours, and you freeze, chest heaving.
“You want this?” he asks, fingers curling beneath your waistband.
You nod eagerly, lifting your head from the mattress to kiss him again. He pulls back a centimeter, a hand coming up to grip your jaw and train your eyes on his again.
“Need to hear you say it, princess.”
“I want you, Bucky,” you answer, breathless. “Please.”
He kisses you one last time, his sigh of relief fanning over your face, and then he gets to work.
Your shorts and underwear are the first to go, leaving you bare and waiting and distractingly tempting as Bucky fumbles for the condom in his wallet. If he's going to commit to making this mistake, he’s going to do it right. Your father would bury him twice over if he found a receipt for Plan B in his car at the end of this little adventure.
Once his jeans and boxers are shoved down and kicked away, you sit up and pluck the foil wrapper from his hand. With practiced ease, you open the packaging with your teeth and deftly roll the condom onto the length of him. Briefly, Bucky wonders how many of those boys your father picked for you got to see you like this — face flushed, hair tousled, eyes hungry and desperate.
Not that it matters, because he’s about to put them all to shame.
He moves on top of you again, his fingers finally closing in on where you’ve been desperate for contact, finding you wet and warm and waiting for him. A soft, helpless sound escapes you as he strokes through your wetness and coats himself with it.
Bucky sinks into you, slow and steady, nearly knocking the wind out of you. When he’s fully seated inside you, his forehead drops to yours once more, drinking in the warmth of you, your soft body molded to his, your cunt’s tight grip around him. Your breath comes out in short, labored pants at first, your body reckoning with the staggering fullness, your senses teetering between pleasure and overwhelm. After a moment, the discomfort yields, leaving only desire in its wake.
“You good?” Bucky asks, his expression tense with restraint.
“Yeah,” you whisper, inching your face towards his and brushing your lips across his jaw. “I’m good.”
At first, he’s gentler than you thought he would be. He keeps surprising you that way. He rocks steadily into you, his hands exploring every inch of you like he’s trying to learn you by touch alone, his lips murmuring quiet, broken praise into your skin.
“That’s it, pretty girl.”
“Yeah, squeeze me just like that. God, you’re so warm.”
“Baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
He feels good too, feels so good as he pushes in and grinds into you like he wants to stay there forever. But you need more — you need everything else but him to disappear.
You hitch your legs around his waist, your hips moving in conversation with his. “Bucky, I'm not gonna break. Fuck me like you mean it.”
He looks down at you, almost shocked for a moment, before breaking into a smirk. A large hand closes around one of your wrists, his grip tender but firm, and in one smooth motion he pins your wrist above your head.
“Yeah?” he asks, slowly reaching for the other one, his cock grinding lazily inside you. “You want me to send you home to your father walking funny? He won’t thank me for that.”
You let him pin both your wrists overhead with one hand, the thrill of his strength keeping you in place almost drowning out the spark of defiance at the mention of your father. Almost.
“Don’t talk about him right now,” you hiss, wriggling slightly underneath him.
He drives into you with a sharp thrust, jolting your entire body, making you cry out. “Why don’t I stop talking then, and give my princess what she asked for?”
The moment you suck in a breath to fire off a retort, he thrusts into you again, hard, stealing your breath away. and he doesn’t stop — he sets a relentless, brutal rhythm that shakes the bed and lights you up from the inside.
There’s nowhere to hide from it, pinned as you are beneath him. His gaze is on your face, focused and intense. You feel it – the way he sees you, really sees you. It makes every part of you ache with desire. All you can do is moan and gasp and wrap your legs around him tighter.
“This is what you wanted, baby,” he grunts, his other free hand moving between you to rub hard, borderline cruel strokes against your clit. “You gonna take it like a good girl?”
Your moans turn to a rough keening sound, your orgasm suddenly fast approaching. “Yes, Bucky, oh my God—”
He leans down and captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, his rhythm never once faltering. As he catches your lower lip roughly between his teeth, the storm breaks over you. You tremble beneath the force of it, as he wrings moans and broken sobs of pleasure from your body with his own. Everything that brought you here feels far, far away — you’re consumed by the feeling of his touch, his cock coaxing you through it.
The way you flutter around him, the dazed and fucked-out expression on your face, the whimper in your throat becomes to much for Bucky. He follows you over the edge, shuddering and cursing and sinking so impossibly deep into you that you’re sure to feel it tomorrow.
Stillness settles over the room again, until the only sounds are the low murmur of the tv and your breath, his breath, intertwined.
He turns tender again, his hand releasing one wrist, bringing the other down to brush a lingering kiss to your knuckles, still raw from your left hook. You take his face in your hands, your thumb stroking gently at the edge of his bruised eye. Bucky leans into the touch, nuzzles into your palm, like a guard dog gone soft and sleepy.
There isn’t much need for words, not anymore. After you clean up, the two of are tangled up in each other once again. Bucky dozes off first, and you’re not long to follow, sleeping like a log under the hotel duvet, the light of the tv flickering around you.
The sound of the hotel door opening and closing rouses you from your slumber. You lift your head groggily to see Bucky, emptying his jacket pockets of several pre-packaged items from the hotel continental breakfast onto the bedside table. A cup of questionable-smelling hotel coffee awaits you as well.
“Voila. Breakfast for Her Majesty.”
You smile, stretch, and sit up with the duvet wrapped around you. “I can’t believe you trusted me enough to leave me alone.”
“Well, you’re not getting far on that ankle. Especially not after last night.” He grins down at you, with your sex-mussed hair and sleepy, satisfied expression. “Sleep good?”
You roll your eyes and reach for the coffee first. “Don't look so proud of yourself.”
Morning unravels simply, slowly around the two of you. After the spartan breakfast spread, you each take a shower (separately, despite your teasing invitations for him to join you). You don a more modest outfit in anticipation of the long car ride ahead of you, and what awaits you at the end of it.
This bubble containing just the two of you can’t last forever. Bucky zips up your luggage and shrugs his jacket on, fixing you with a soft look. “You ready to go home, princess?”
You don’t feel the same anxiety as you did before when you think of returning to Brooklyn. There is still a lingering uneasiness, knowing you’ll be in a world of trouble. But maybe this ordeal will prime your father to have the conversation that you need to have with him, the one that’s been a long time coming. The one where you tell him that you need more than this — more independence, more agency, and most of all, more of a father.
Maybe he’ll be ready to listen.
“Yeah. I guess so."
The long drive back to Brooklyn is quiet, mostly uneventful. You nap. You sing along to the radio while Bucky rolls his eyes and tries not to smile. You make him try on ridiculous pairs of sunglasses at the gas station. Time and distance pass by, until finally, Bucky pulls the car into the parking garage of your father’s high-rise apartment building.
A new kind of tension begins to vibrate between the two of you as he helps you out of the car, as the two of you step onto the elevator together. He swipes your keycard for the penthouse floor, and the floor indicator begins to tick slowly upward.
“What happened last night…” He swallows uneasily, his hand tightening at your waist as he supports you on the side of your injured leg. “I think we can both agree it’s in our best interest that he doesn’t find out.”
You almost laugh — as if you would ever tell your father what happened. Not in a million fucking years. “It’s none of his goddamn business,” you assure him.
The floor number ticks ever higher, your time in the bubble coming to a close. You turn to Bucky and hold out your hand expectantly. “Give me your phone.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Just give it to me,” you insist.
He caves, taking his cell from his jacket pocket and handing it to you. Your manicured nails click against the screen as you type in your number before passing it back to him.
“Call me.”
Finally, the elevator doors slide open to reveal the front atrium of your father’s apartment. Recklessly, you press a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. He stands stunned for a moment as you gently wipe away the print of your lipstick. “You gonna help me get out here, or what?”
Bucky’s brain reactivates, and he supports you as you limp down the hall towards the sound of your father’s voice.
It’s not pretty, at first. Your father’s very first instinct is anger, his voice booming off the walls of his study. You get the brunt of it, but Bucky catches a few strays when he notices the condition of your ankle. You receive it patiently, without flinching once. When he stops yelling long enough to breathe, you hobble over to him and wrap your arms around him in a hug, murmuring your apology.
The boss melts immediately, in a way Bucky has never seen before.
After you make your apologies, you sing Bucky’s praises to your father – his patience in the face of your poor behavior, his attention to your ankle, his persistence through his fatigue to get you home. His kindness. Bucky listens, surprised and sheepish, his ears turning red as he stares at the floor.
It becomes clear that a longer conversation needs to be had, one that doesn’t involve Bucky. Your father draws Bucky into a grateful embrace, presses a generous cash bonus into his palm for ensuring your safety and your speedy return to him. As Bucky retreats and the study door begins to close behind him, you offer him a quick wink and a smile.
Perhaps now that you’re returned home, Bucky can do things properly. Ask your father’s permission, put on a nice suit and tie, take you out to a nice restaurant, and kiss you goodnight on the sidewalk. He likes that idea. He earnestly looks forward to it.
Summary: On a rainy night on your way home, fate decides to cross your path with someone who used to hold the dearest place in your heart.
Word Count: 4.2k
Warning(s): ANGST / heartbreak / failed relationship / very tiny mention of a surgical procedure, not in great detail / I know I mentioned angst already, but this is all angst with maybe like a tiny sprinkle of fluff / medical career mentions (I did my research, but just in case I got anything wrong) / mentions of Bucky's trauma and hardships from his past
Prompt/Theme: chai latte (caught in the cold rain) + melancholy (write a tragic tale)
a/n: This is my submission for @the-slumberparty ‘s Winds of Autumn Challenge. Did I choose melancholy because of my name? Perhaps 🫢 In all honesty, it has been too long since I wrote a pure angst piece, so I knew I had to write something to get the heartbreak going. As a piece of advice, not everything is as it seems, so wait till the end for the whole story to come together. I would say happy reading, but instead, I'll wait here with tissues and a hug for those who need it after reading this. ( ´･･)ﾉ(._.`) Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡
bucky masterlist ♡ // main masterlist ♡
Lightning crackles across the sky as you scurry across the puddle-ridden streets of New York desperately searching for a cab. The wind had rendered your umbrella useless, so the rain fell in harsh sheets against your body—soaking you from head to toe.
You had been performing an emergency surgery on one of your patients in a different hospital from the one you resided in. Your patient had suffered from an aneurysm brought on by a complication from a previous surgery. She couldn’t be transported across the city as immediate medical attention was needed, so you were transported to said hospital via the hospital helicopter.
Which you obviously couldn’t use to fly back home.
The surgery took longer than anticipated—eight hours to be exact. When you were close to being done there was unexpected bleeding coming from the surgical sight and you had to go back in and reexamine everything to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, there were no more complications after that and you could focus on stabilizing your patient so she could go and recover in the intensive care unit.
The downpour had started towards the end of your surgery. You were far from home and the already unfamiliar streets had blurred together amongst the harsh streaks of water obscuring your vision. It was still the early hours of the night and you were exhausted—longing to collapse against your bedsheets and wrap yourself in their warmth. Tiredness had seeped its way into your bones faster than the rain had seeped into your coat.
As you cross another street you spot a bus shelter nearby and make a run for it. Knowing it might be a while before you can catch a cab and at least those glass walls would be enough to protect you from the icy wind that threatened to freeze you. Once inside you try your best to warm up your hands, observing the way your breath materializes in the air. You consider ordering a rideshare, but you know the numbness in your fingertips has to go away before you can take your phone out and order it.
Fate, however, had other plans for you.
“Y/n?”
Your body stiffens when a voice calls your name, flinching slightly at the way the thunder that follows rattles the glass shelter. The shiver that makes its way down your spine is no longer from the chilly air.
This can’t be happening—not after two years. Not when you had finally moved on from him.
He calls your name again, his presence cementing itself into reality. You don’t want to face him, but there’s that small part of you—the part that will forever be his—that begs you to look. That needs to know if it's him.
Your head turns slowly, holding your breath as you keep your emotions in check as best as you can. Hoping the universe was playing a cruel joke on you and presenting you with someone who sounded exactly like him.
But what stranger would ever utter your name with such heart-aching familiarity?
Deep down you knew there was no mistaking it. It was him. It was Bucky. You would know the sound of his voice even in the loudest of crowds—like a language only your heart spoke. Even now when it was on the cusp of becoming a forgotten one.
Your eyes meet his as a flash of lightning illuminates you both. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the way his eyes seem stormier than the sky. Filled with as many conflicting emotions as you know are reflected in yours.
“Bucky. Hi…”
When you find your voice it sounds foreign to you—quiet and tight. The years of rebuilding every part of yourself are on the edge of crumbling down in a simple greeting. Bucky gives you a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks between you and the bus shelter. He frowns for a moment as if having a silent debate with himself.
“Is it okay if I um…?” He nods towards the inside of the bus shelter as he trails off. This is when you finally notice the way the rain whips against his skin, soaking him where he stands, and it dawns on you what he’s asking.
He wants to know if it’s okay for him to seek shelter from the rain with you. The man who used to insist on holding your hand wherever you went because he loved the feeling of your hand in his, the man who would hug you from behind and hide in the crook of your neck as he showered it with kisses when he missed you on the days you came home late, the man who cuddled you close every night and whispered how much he loved you between kisses that seemed to want to reach your very soul—that man was now asking for your permission to be in the same space as you.
Oh, how cruel fate could be…
“Yes, of course. It's fine,” your response is polite—too polite, and your movements are virtually robotic as you take a few steps to your right to keep a stranger’s distance between you. He mumbles a small thanks before he steps inside, his hands firmly in his jacket pockets. Keeping to his personal space as much as possible.
Silence stretches between you—heavy with unspoken sentiments—interrupted only by the booming of thunder and the drumming of rain as it hits whatever is in its way. You try to distract yourself by counting the seconds between the stoplight changing from green to yellow to red and then green again, but it's no use when he’s but a few steps away from you. The man who you used to know like the back of your hand is now a stranger and it's causing you more distress than you’d like to admit. The inside of your cheek feels the brunt of that torment as you bite it incessantly. You have to do something about this silence before it consumes you.
“How have you—”
“How’s it been—”
You both speak up at the same time, holding each other’s gaze for a fraction of a second before falling into an awkward laugh. He clears his throat before encouraging you to speak first. You look away, the civility of his tone crawling under your skin and unstitching mended wounds—some of which still had not fully healed yet.
“Okay, well how have you been, Bucky?”
“Good. I’ve been good. You?”
“Oh. I’ve been good too.”
The exchange went by quickly between half-truths and hesitations. Then it crept up again—the silence. Gnawing at you both and mocking you for not being able to have a simple conversation. When words between you used to flow as freely as the rain that traps you here—really the lack of vocabulary now is laughable. Your past selves would have never been able to wrap their heads around how hard talking to one another would be.
Your past selves would also never understand why you broke up.
Your current self still doesn’t entirely understand.
Bucky shifts on his feet, lips in a tight line as he speaks up, “I read about your recent award. Congratulations, you deserved it,” the sincerity in his voice causes your head to snap in his direction. When you see his genuine smile, one that makes the corner of his eyes slightly crinkle, it tugs at your heartstrings in a way that threatens to pull you back to him.
You won that award for your research achievements in neuroscience a few months ago. Which could only mean that at least until a few months ago, Bucky had been keeping up with you. A piece of information that left you speechless and with a million thoughts running through your mind.
Had he always kept up with you?
Or did he only just recently revisit a part of his past?
Were you on his mind all this time like he had been in yours?
There was so much you wanted to ask—to say—but instead, your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water until you were able to mutter a soft, “Thank you.” The sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rain. Bucky caught it, however, his body less rigid hearing the familiar cadence. He smiles a little wider, the kind of smile that chips away at the walls you built up these last two years and insists you spill a string of secrets you have locked away in the deepest depths of your heart.
All secrets that revolve around him.
How you also kept up with him, never scrolling past a social media or news post highlighting anything that had to do with the Avengers in hopes of getting a glimpse of him. Visiting the coffee shop where you two met on occasions telling yourself it's because no other coffee tastes better, but really it's because of the memories of you two that lie in every corner of that building. The loss of him follows you even when you order takeout because you would rather deal with the lie of ordering for two rather than with the truth of ordering for one.
However, the biggest secret of them all pertains to those days when the ache, the longing, and the loneliness become a cacophony too loud to ignore, that you find yourself rummaging through your closet. Searching for the shoe box that’s tucked away amongst miscellaneous items. One that holds the pieces of your heart that shattered the day Bucky broke up with you.
A faded movie ticket from the Lord of the Rings marathon you took him to, gum wrappers folded into hearts that Bucky had a habit of doing every time you needed a new bookmark, photobooth pictures that always ended with you two kissing, a letter he wrote you on your one year anniversary where he told you he loved you for the first time, and other items you cherished with every part of you.
Holding onto these things might seem to others like a mistake when your goal is to move on, but these were things you couldn’t find the strength to get rid of. And if that made you weak, clinging onto bits of what was the greatest love of your life, then so be it.
You were weak—and quite frankly you didn’t give a damn.
The one thing holding you back from pouring your heart out to Bucky was how things had ended. The vagueness, the fight, the resentment and confusion. All of it took hold of you and screamed at you to be more cautious—to keep your guard up.
Thunder snaps you out of your thoughts, grounding you in the present once more. You need answers, but you know you have to be careful about how you retrieve them.
You cross your arms, pressing your coat tighter against your body in an attempt to comfort yourself—turning to face him only to have your heart skip a beat when you realize he is already looking at you. His gaze softens with a vulnerability that makes the words get stuck in your throat.
You let out a shaky exhale, “I uh—I saw Sam became the new Captain America. I also saw you on the news fighting alongside him. Are you two friends now?” The question comes out innocent enough, making Bucky’s demeanor brighten as he takes it as a sign that you’re open to talking to him. Your hidden intention behind that question is a need for confirmation of something that eats away at you anytime you think about his reason for breaking up with you.
Bucky runs a hand through his damp hair, “Yeah, sort of—it's a long story. We went on a mission together and I realized he wasn’t that annoying, so we became mission partners and I guess you could consider us friends now,” he explains to you with a fond expression, one that leaves a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Through the occasional flashes of lightning you’re able to get a better look at him and the sinking feeling is on the verge of drowning you.
Bucky no longer had harsh dark circles under his eyes, his scruff was nicely shaven, and his posture was lighter as if the world was no longer falling heavily on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than when you last saw him, he had lost a bit of weight, and he had found a friend in Sam. Something you had encouraged him to do while you two were still together, but he refused on account of saying he only needed you. All of this verified to you the one thing you feared the most.
Bucky had been right all along. He had been right in breaking up with you.
Two years ago, Bucky had sat you down on his living room couch and told you he wasn’t ready for a relationship. That was it—that was his reason for ending things with you after almost two years of being together. He claimed he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment, not after everything he had gone through. And seeing him now, seeing how much better he looked was enough proof for you. No amount of your love, your support, or your companionship would have been enough to keep him in your life.
Bucky had been right all along, and you hated how utterly bitter that made you.
How could you accept that what tore you to pieces mended Bucky back together?
The air between you shifts, it’s thick and acrid, and your heart races in your chest with fury as loud as the thunder that rumbles in the clouds. Leaving you wondering if Bucky can differentiate which one is more turbulent. He can sense the change in you and it causes the heaviness in his shoulders to return and his body to go rigid—his own heart threatening to leap out of his chest.
Your phone rings and you use it as an excuse to turn away from Bucky. You pull it out of your bag and check the caller ID—it's Nate. Your neighbor from down the hall of your apartment complex who moved in a couple of months ago, and was now a casual hookup of yours. You weren’t one for hookups, but after years of no connection you longed to feel something—anything with anyone.
You were only human after all.
You answer the call, needing to put your attention elsewhere before you say anything to Bucky you might regret later. You keep your responses short, knowing Nate could only be calling you at this hour for one reason and one reason only. Bucky didn’t need to know that reason, so you decide to keep the conversation as brief as possible.
Bucky shifts his weight on his feet as he pretends to watch the rain. Focusing on a water droplet sliding down the glass wall as it races the other droplets to the ground. He’s tempted to use his super soldier hearing to listen in on your conversation, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to. There are only bits and pieces that slip through—like the fact that you’re talking to a man—and it has one soul-crushing thought come to his mind.
You have someone. Bucky comes to the conclusion that you have moved on.
As soon as you end the call the words slip out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop them.
“Was that your boyfriend?” The word boyfriend tastes bitter on his tongue and he can’t help the prickly edge to his voice. You catch the way his jaw tenses and he averts your gaze—ripping the wounds of heartbreak right open. He has no right to feel any sort of way about you moving on. He knows it, you know it, and yet there he is troubled at the thought of you with someone else.
Screw not saying something you’ll regret later.
“Yeah. That was him,” you lie with the utmost confidence that even you believe it. A tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you for lying, but it's hard to hear it when the resentment fights its way up to the surface and wins.
Bucky had fallen from a train, been brainwashed, tortured, beaten left and right in battles, gone to war, blipped out of existence, stabbed and shot more times than he can count and yet no physical blow could ever amount to the sheer devastating pain he was feeling right now knowing you had found someone else. Knowing there was someone else who got to see your sleepy smiles in the mornings, who got to cuddle you close to his chest on movie nights, who got to steal kisses from you while cooking dinner together, and who got to hear your laughter whenever he wanted—a sound that never failed to make Bucky all warm and fuzzy inside.
There was someone else who now had the privilege and the honor to be loved by you, and to love you.
Bucky would never be able to recover from that.
“I’m…happy for you. I’m happy you were able to move on,” Bucky lies through his teeth as he says those words that feel like acid on his tongue.
“It’s not like I had a choice in the matter,” you retort coldly, causing Bucky to flinch as if you had struck him.
“Y/n I—”
“No. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how you weren’t ready for a relationship. How ending it was for the best. Breaking every single promise you made to me like it meant nothing to you. You don’t tell someone you love them, that you want to move in together—you don’t talk about the future and then turn around and break up with them because you’re not ready for something long-term. Not unless…not unless it was all a lie from the start,” your voice cracks by the end and it takes everything within you to swallow the lump in your throat before it suffocates you.
The thunder roars so loudly it shakes the glass walls around you and for a second you think they might break—but ultimately they don’t. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, taking a sharp intake of a breath before blowing out the air in what sounds like a choked sob. Every fiber of his being longs to break the distance, wrap you in his arms, and never let you go. Cradling you close to his chest like he used to whenever you were upset.
He had lost that privilege—he’s well aware of that, and yet his wishes remain the same.
Bucky knows there’s more he can say. Things that might not restore what was broken, but that will definitely give you answers or closure. Although, at the risk of hurting you even more he keeps them to himself and instead whispers a strained, “I’m sorry.” Letting the weight of his apology hang in the air.
Your tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away not wanting to cry in front of him. Maybe you shouldn’t be bitter and resentful—after all the man you loved with your whole heart ended up better off without you. If you truly loved him you should be happy for him. Despite that, there is no ounce of happiness that you can conjure up for him right now. At this moment, you are swimming in an ocean of negative emotions that are close to pulling you under into a very dark place.
You can be the bigger person tomorrow—tonight you won’t be.
Bucky can hear it before it comes into view, a cab is finally making its way down the road. He steps out into the road to wave it down, the rain ricocheting off of his shoulders. Without speaking another word, he heads over to the cab and opens the door to the backseat, gesturing for you to go in. For a second, you hesitate to take the cab. You know once you do this is it—it's over.
A beat passes until you make a decision. With a heavy heart, you force one foot in front of the other, stepping into the rain and then into the backseat. Accepting this small gesture from Bucky as a heartfelt goodbye. If you stuck around any longer that bit of animosity brewing in the pit of your stomach would’ve boiled over.
You don’t look at Bucky as he closes the door, but you steal one last glance at him as you tell the driver your address. The sight squeezes your chest so tightly it might stop beating—Bucky is crying. He’s hiding it well with the rain and with the way he stands, but you know him better than that. At one point he was your other half and you can tell by the way his jaw trembles, his eyes narrow, and his expression molds to one of pain that he’s crying.
You hide your face from him as the dam breaks and everything you had been holding back comes flooding out.
Bucky steps back into the shelter of the glass walls and watches the cab drive off with you in it—taking his heart and his hope with you.
Bucky tries to force the tears to stop, but he knows it's no use. Just like you, he had held back a sea of truths he wanted to confess. Truths he wasn’t sure you even wanted to hear or he even deserved to tell.
Bucky is not doing good. He has to throw himself into work and missions every waking moment because if he doesn’t his thoughts will run straight to you. Every night he has to hold his pillow close to his chest because he got so used to sleeping with you cuddled against him, that he feels like a part of him is missing and it steals his sleep. He tosses and turns for hours and stares at the ceiling as if there he’ll find the answers on how to make the heartache go away. In the silence, he longs to hear your voice, so the radio and the tv stay on so he doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable. The food he eats lacks flavor and the world around him seems devoid of color.
His existence feels soulless without you.
Sam is trying to get him to talk about it, but you’re the one thing Sam is not allowed to bring up. Not when Bucky is ashamed of the full story—of the truth.
The full story—the full truth—was the one thing most of all that he wanted to get off of his chest and confess to you. Bucky didn’t break up with you because he wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship. That was the biggest lie he had ever told and one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He was ready. He was so damn ready he even bought the ring to ask you to marry him—to make forever official. That was until he noticed how his problems began to bleed into your life. So much so, that your career as a surgeon began to suffer from it. The one thing you were most passionate about—your dream—the one thing you worked blood, sweat, and tears for was in jeopardy because Bucky was still suffering from the baggage of his past as the Winter Solider.
Bucky felt like a burden. You would never call him that and he knew if you ever heard him call himself that, you would do and say everything you could to assure him he was wrong. You loved him so deeply and so selflessly that your career became an afterthought. When his nightmares plagued him, when his PTSD was triggered, when the world felt like it was closing in on him—there you were. By his side no matter the time of day to hold him close and reassure him he wasn’t alone, that he was safe, and that he was loved. Bucky had become so dependent on you he didn’t realize how it had affected you until he stumbled across the warning letters your job sent, the voicemails, and the overheard calls. The articles that came out questioning your morality for dating the Winter Solider—a cold-blooded killer.
Your reputation as a surgeon was on the line because of him.
That’s when Bucky knew he had to call it off. He had to be the one to end it and fix his own problems before his darkness ruined you. You had sacrificed so much and worked endlessly to prove yourself in your field, that there was no way he would let you risk all of that for him. He knew he couldn’t be honest with you over the real reasons—you would never accept them. So he made sure to find a reason that would lead you to hate him.
Bucky knew he had to be the villain of the story. He was used to it, he’d be okay with it. As long as you were safe from the shadows that followed him, he would gladly be the bad guy. For some people that was all he’d ever be, at least in this case he could control the narrative and in the end it would benefit you.
Bucky couldn’t give you forever, no, but in letting you go he made sure you kept your dream—and that was enough for him. That meant everything to him.
He had to suffer the greatest loss of his life so that the love of his life could be free. A hard truth that he would forever carry the weight of and that you would never know was done as an ultimate act of love—the selfless act of knowing when to say goodbye.
Summary: After Thanos, you did what you thought you had to do: you left. You ran away from what was left of the Avengers, from your newfound home, and from Bucky. What do you say to the man you have been avoiding for years when you finally meet again on the coast of Louisiana? (Set after TFATWS)
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, reader is a bit self loathing/insecure, not much else just sad emo vibes lol. (Let me know in the comments if I missed anything!)
WC: 3.7k
You had left. Plain and simple, you had packed your worn duffel, turned your heel, and never looked back. The guilt had eaten you alive. After Thanos, after all the death, the gray, the hollow feeling in your gut that you couldn’t quite shake, you had left. You left because running was what you knew best, it was what kept you safe, isolated, and so, so unhappy. But this form of escape, of avoidance, was what gave you security, and so you chose cowardice. You gripped your cracked mug a bit tighter, curling into yourself on the balcony of the one bedroom apartment that didn’t quite feel like “home.” This was the twelfth apartment you had moved into, for some reason, despite not wanting to return to New York, you couldn’t quite motivate yourself to stay anywhere new either. You couldn’t risk attachment. Apartment number twelve was a risky choice. You knew that. Located in a small, unsuspecting beach town that saw more sticky clouds than clear blue days, you had settled on the coast of Louisiana. You took a long, almost painful sip of your tea. You knew why you chose apartment twelve, you knew what Louisiana reminded you of, or rather who. You did not know, however, whether that “who” was in contact with the person you were trying so desperately not to think about. The only person who would be angry with you for leaving. So, that small sliver of uncertainty falsely convinced you that Louisiana was an okay choice, that the odds of seeing Bucky again were slim. The sun had gone down now, and you groaned, finding yourself too lost in thought for comfort. Too lost in the thought of what you had left behind.
“Sam, I am not going with you.” Bucky stated firmly, growing annoyed, a feeling that often came easily for him. It was early in the morning, too early for the pair to be arguing in the quiet driveway of the Wilson family house.
“Come on, Buck. I could use your old ass on my side. What would happen if I got hurt?” Sam gave his best puppy dog eyes, he was enjoying his role as Bucky’s frequent antagonist. All he got in return was a brutal stare. However, Bucky and Sam had begun warming up to one another. From late nights by the water to early morning runs, the two had fallen into a step of comfort, friendship even. Although the Winter Soldier had complained relentlessly about the crescendoing southern heat, Bucky had appreciated the sense of home he felt in Louisiana with Sam.
“Fine.” Sam nudged Bucky’s shoulder with glee, earning a shadow of a grin from him. The task was simple. Sam had received intel pointing him towards an old abandoned harbor that allegedly was used to transport serum. He had been asked to simply scope it out, take some photos, and return home. And, even though things were progressing, Sam had noticed the long pauses, distant stares, and sleepless nights Bucky had been trying so hard to conceal. Sam was worried. Bucky didn’t talk about it, about you, but it was as though you had become a sector of the heavy trauma he carried on his shoulders. You, a person who was once able to soothe and motivate him, had now become a cause of his pain. Steve had left him, and, for a brief saccharine moment, you had stayed. Then, you left. You left, and Bucky got worse. Far worse. Sam could not risk that again, not when his new, unlikely friend had just begun to get better. Sam broke him out of his trance with the sound of a beep, unlocking the car door before Bucky could change his mind. As Bucky clambered into the worn, leather seat of Sam’s truck, he felt a surge of remembrance. The barely risen sun illuminated the empty streets softly, painting a beautiful picture before the two exhausted men. A pit of nostalgia formed in Bucky’s stomach. When he had first haphazardly joined the Avengers, he had isolated himself in fear and shame from the others. He had been far different from the old version of himself, the one who belonged to the forties, who loved to tease and talk for hours. He had been changed, and he hated himself for it. But you had no hate or fear in your heart when it came to Bucky. Without incentive, you had begun prying your way into his life little by little. After two months, briefly exchanged “Hellos” and small hallway smiles had transformed into an invitation, you had asked him to join you on your morning walk. This morning, soft, wispy, delicate, reminded Bucky of those early mornings wandering by your side. This pretty morning reminded Bucky of you. Sam whistled a slow tune unrecognized by Bucky’s old ears as their drive went on. His melancholy had tapered off slightly, and he had enough patience to respond to Sam’s small quips and jabs.
“What are you thinking about?” Sam tried, apprehensively as he made a slow turn. Bucky looked down at his hands, one silver, one flesh.
“You drive like a grandma.” He replied, avoiding the topic. Sam feigned offense.
“That’s rich coming from someone who was alive during Prohibition.” He shook his head, biting back a small laugh. It was easy like this, comfortable. They didn’t talk much about Steve, or you, or anything that had happened of late besides their mission in Madripoor and plans for tomorrow. Bucky had stopped therapy. Sam thought initially it to be a good thing, thinking Bucky had begun to move on, thinking Bucky could do well on his own. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Yet, neither addressed the large elephant that lived day by day in their room of limbo, avoiding tough topics and instead making everlasting small talk. Finally, after what felt like forever, Sam pulled into the deserted harbor. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, painting a dull, antique looking picture before them. A row of boats, poor in shape with peeled paint and body damage, floated eerily by the dock. The harbor felt hauntingly empty with its eerie quiet and soft blowing wind.
“Ladies first,” Bucky smirked, nudging Sam’s shoulder forward and earning a cold glare before the two approached the row of boats. Looking down at his phone, Sam matched the final boat on the far left to the one they were supposed to search. The goal was easy, low stakes, and their solitude provided reassurance that no threat to their physical safety would soon be posed. Yet, as Bucky’s heightened senses began to feel put off, a slow wave of anxiety crashed over him. As they reached the final boat, Sam pulled its rope to let Bucky climb on. Then, a strange sound struck them both like an open palm, a groan from within the boat. They were not alone.
You had barely slept. The low buzz of your phone prompted you to leave your cold, twin bed, which always felt empty whether you were in it or not. Today, you actually had a task. A small job you picked up through an underground organization you did work for from time to time. Despite leaving the “superhero” life you often despised, it was difficult to do anything else. In fact, you weren’t sure if you even knew how to do anything else. You laughed bitterly at the conjured up image of you in a uniform, checking items out at a register, or you in a suit, headed to work on Wall Street. Brushing your teeth, you knew that this was all you were meant for, or rather made for. When you first joined the Avengers, you had made the choice with purpose. You weren’t a superhero, you had no powers, no serum, and only a semi depressing backstory. You were in college, studying psychology, eager to go to law school or medical school or whatever prestigious next step you so excitedly envisioned for yourself. You had ambition, but you did not have money. So, you opted for the army, free tuition down the line, and your soul sold away to the United States Government. You had not predicted that in being deployed, your infantry would face catastrophe, that your wit would be transformed into a miracle, that you would be phoned by Tony Stark. You never spoke about it. You weren’t a hero. Hell, you could barely do 20 push ups. You were smart and got lucky. But, no one ever bothered to listen to that side of your story, of your strange way into the Avengers. No one except Bucky. You shuddered at the thought, pulling on your black denim jeans and slipping a plain tank top over your head. You rolled up your cuff to strap on your knife, which you then quickly concealed. Then, you pulled up your shirt and adjusted the gun you concealed by your abdomen. Better safe than sorry. The harbor was far, but you didn’t mind. You decided your car would be too conspicuous, so instead, as you zipped up your too big, faded jacket, you checked your phone for the local bus schedule. Leaving your small apartment, you adjusted your coat collar, and the sudden icy touch of metal made you tense. Dog tags. Not yours, but Bucky’s. You had traded them stupidly one night, like children on Valentine’s Day. You didn’t have the heart to take them off, but the name you wore around your neck had not given you comfort lately, it just prolonged the growing guilt in your chest. You thundered down the Apartment Complex stairs, shoving open the back door and making a B line towards the nearest bus stop. The faster you could get this over with, the sooner you could go on your walk and clear your head. You waited at the stop, brimming with impatience. You and Bucky had never kissed. It was strange, the relationship you had both once shared. You leaned on each other, joked with each other, done everything with each other, but neither of you had ever crossed the platonic line of iron drawn between you. You were always, in turn, uncertain of how he felt. You were a bit young, but who wasn’t in comparison to him? You were also the only friend he had, which made you wonder if the attention you received from him was out of choice or being the only option. You were also an overthinker, which meant the two of you never even grazed the topic of more than friends. Of love. But you did love him. You did not know if he loved you back, in fact, he could be dead in a ditch somewhere as you thought about him. God, you hoped he was alive, but you didn’t deserve to hope such a thing anyways, you chose to leave. The bus arrived.
The ride was long and quiet, you had to get on and off a couple of different buses before making it to your final destination. The harbor gave you an unsettling feeling that you couldn’t quite shake. The isolated setting around you made you feel as though you had stepped right into an old gothic novel, except instead of a corset and wide gown, you were equipped with a gun and I’ll fitting jacket. You unzipped the jacket, tying it around your waist as your skin grew warm from the thick humidity. Slowly, you ventured towards the last boat, ready to collect evidence of leftover super soldier serum and get out of the creepy harbor as soon as humanly possible. Jumping without grace over the gap between the boat’s edge and the dock, you swiftly made your way inside, careful not to draw attention to yourself despite the fact that no one was around to witness your covert expertise. The interior of the boat was small, marked by a little staircase that led you to a storage room only hairs larger than a porta potty. Yet, it was all you needed. The boat was completely empty. No serum, no evidence, no trace of anything worth documenting. Still, you snapped photos, sending them to the unnamed entity that hired you with a message describing the scene. Just as you were ready to leave, the thought of your peaceful walk around the corner sparking slight comfort in your heart, you heard a faint voice. Freezing. You reached for the gun hidden beneath your thin shirt. You slowly made your way towards the rickety stairs, each move a firm calculation, yet, your last step to hoist yourself up let out an echoing groan. Fuck. Swinging around the end of the boat, gun extended, heart racing, you prepared yourself to shoot. You let out a sharp gasp.
“Oh my god.” The voice of none other than Sam Wilson whispered, but the man before you, your best friend, your partner, your everything, stayed silent. You did not lower your gun. Pain, hot and raw, painted itself all over Bucky’s face as his steel blue eyes flicked back and forth from yours to the weapon in your outstretched hands. Your name left his lips in a whisper so soft you could barely hear it. You wanted to cry, but you didn’t. Sam broke you out of your gut wrenching trance.
“You can lower your gun. We won’t hurt you.” You had heard him say those words before, to strangers, to victims, to the people he had saved along your side. Were you a stranger too? You lowered your gun. Bucky’s eyes raked over you at a rapid heart, his breathing picking up, as though you would disappear at any moment and therefore needed to be memorized.
“I should go.” You whispered, unable to find anything else to say. Bucky shook his head, tearing up. He grabbed your arm as you made your way toward them.
“No.” He managed to get out. The entire interaction was awkward, tense, uncomfortable, but what else are you supposed to say when you reunite with the love of your life years after disappearing without a trace? You didn’t know. Your face was inches away from Bucky’s now, heart beating rapidly. What you both failed to notice in the heat of the moment, was Sam’s absence, or rather, the sound of his car engine starting. Snapping out of his trance, Bucky’s head whipped up. Sam called, yelling as loud as possible, from the truck.
“I’m not coming back until you two get your shit together!” He shouted. Bucky had jumped over the boat’s edge and jogged down the dock, and, for some reason, you had instinctively followed him. It was too late, Sam was gone, and, looking down at your watch, the next bus wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. Bucky apprehensively turned back around, wearily looking at you. You opened your mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.
“How have you been?” He mumbled as though it were the most normal question in the world. You wished he had yelled at you, that he had cussed you out or expressed some type of rage toward you. But this was Bucky.
“Um, okay. I guess.” You shrugged. “You?” The tension was palpable. Bucky just sighed.
“What are we doing,” he said your name, asking you a simple, yet so complex question. You fought back tears, then hardened your gaze. Finally, you allowed yourself to take in the man before you. He looked a bit slimmer, yet, he still towered over you. His hair was shorter, he was clean shaved. He looked handsome.
“I’m not really sure.” You looked down at your feet. “Look, Bucky, I’m sorry-“ he didn’t let you finish.
“No, you know what?” He shook his head. “I don’t care. What the hell Y/N? What the hell?” His voice shook. He had reached his breaking point. Bucky inched closer to you. “Why? I don’t understand you. You put all this effort into knowing me. All this effort into bringing me into your life. Into making me know you. Into making me love you. Need you. Then you just,” he threw his hands into his hair, running out of breath “leave?” Your skin is buzzing, processing his words at an absurdly slow rate. Bucky said he loved you, but all you can feel is a marriage of guilt and pain as you look at his pained face. You don’t know why, but your first instinct was to fight back.
“I’m sorry, okay!” You yelled, surprising yourself as well as Bucky who stilled before you. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t stay. You don’t understand,” you were crying now.
“You’re right I don’t.” He spat.
“No, listen to me.” Your voice wavered. “You don’t really know me, Bucky.” You choked out a sob, Bucky was crying too. He shook his head, about to interrupt again, but you kept talking. “You know one version of me. The person who was always there for you. Who talked you through bad dreams, panic attacks. The person who was bubbly, and excited, and head over heels to be part of a team.” You let out a quivering breath. “But that’s not me. That’s not really me. Even before everything, the army, the Avengers, when I was in school, that still wasn’t me.” Bucky stepped forward, you stepped back, you didn’t know it but you were breaking his heart. Again. “I have my own shit to deal with. And I am sorry, I am so sorry that I left you Buck.” The familiarity of the nickname on your lips made him weak in the knees. “I just couldn’t drag you into my mess. Not when I could barely get through it on my own.” You felt pathetic, but at least you had finally told the truth. You both fell quiet. The sound of cicadas hummed in the air.
“You shouldn’t have made that choice for me.” Bucky whispered, inching closer to you until a single trip would make your noses touch. You looked away, unable to hold contact with his pale blue eyes.
“You don’t get it.” You stepped back, but he stepped forward again.
“I want to know you Y/N. Hell, I thought I did!” He let out a bitter tasting laugh, taking a hand through his hair.
“Trust me, Bucky, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t care how scary that may seem. We both know what I’ve been through. I can handle it. I can handle you.” His voice was soft and placating, but you couldn’t give in just yet. You were still afraid.
“It’s not that I think you can’t handle it. I don’t want you to know.” You were crying harder. This wasn’t you. You were confident, self assured, a woman who kept her head held high. You weren’t sensitive, or at least, you rarely allowed yourself to be. That was how you bottled your traumas. How you kept yourself safe. “I like the girl in there.” You lifted a tender hand, brushing over Bucky’s forehead in such a manner that he was already chasing after your touch once your hand dropped. “The one you remember. I don’t want to change that memory. You’re not going to like what will replace it.” You said firmly.
“No. You don’t know that.” Bucky sighed with heavy exasperation. It was becoming impossible to get through to you. “Maybe I don’t know the full story, but I don’t care what you say, I know you Y/N. I know you like the back of my hand. I know you like you’re my own mind, my own damn conscience. I can’t stop thinking about you, not because I’m mad, but because I miss the feeling of just standing next to you. To know you alone is to love you, and it kills me that you can’t see that.” Bucky was holding your face in his large hands, you didn’t recoil this time.
“Do you?” You asked, feeling yourself give in, taking him off guard.
“What?”
“Do you love me?” Before you could put the walls you worked so hard to build back up, his lips were on yours. The kiss was messy, your noses bumping as he held you with such an intense ferocity you thought you might snap. You kissed like two people starved, because that was exactly what you both were. His tongue swept your lower lip, angling his head to the side until you let out a small whine that only pushed him to kiss you harder. His hands traveled to the back of your neck, then your waist, memorizing every curve of your body. Finally, you both broke apart, foreheads touching, gasping for air, until you pulled back slowly to look at him. He was different now, you decided mentally. He looked different, stood a little taller, spoke with a slightly different inflection, but he was still Bucky. Still yours.
“I do, I do, I do.” He whispered, peppering kisses to your tear stained cheeks. You couldn’t help but laugh quietly at his words.
“I love you too.” You whispered, despite being alone. “I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago.” You knew this thing between you, this love, was not so simply defined. You knew that it would take time, that maybe some damage would be unhealable, that the gap in your relationship was still looming over you both. You knew all these things, but you weren’t afraid. You weren’t afraid because you had no desire to run, all you wanted to do was to stay in Bucky’s arms, to lean into him in the ways you dreamed of all these years apart. You leaned forward, burying your head in the crook of his neck, silver catching in the waning sunlight. Bucky looked down, his metal hand holding you delicately as his flesh one traced the small ball clasp. He inched away from you slowly, reaching for the thin chain and tugging it slightly so that the necklace pulled out from your shirt. His dog tags. “You still wear ‘em?” He asked, voice shaking slightly from the surge of varied emotions you had both endured. You nodded. He fumbled with his shirt collar before pulling out a similar pair. Yours. The sound of an engine pierced the air.
“Come on, I need to get gas!” Sam shouted from the other side of the harbor, pulling into the parking lot diagonally.
For the first time in years, you had nowhere to run, and for that, you were grateful.
Summary- Starting college was meant to be the most exciting time in your life, you never expected to fall in love with your brothers best friend, and you definitely didn't expect that love to all be a bet.
Word Count: 4.1k
TW: Steves Sister!reader, College!Bucky , alcohol consumption, small amounts of violence, slight sexual assault (attempted unwanted kissing), frat party, no smut yet, bit of angst, Buckys kind of a dick
A/N: Bucky and the reader only interact once in this chapter BUT there is a LOT more Bucky to come. Planning the angstiest of angst and smuttiest of smuts for the next chapters.
Autumn leaves scatter along the stony grey paving that interrupts the vast quad, the green of the freshly cut grass contrasting with the dark oak trees perfectly spaced out along the edges. Sunshine creeps between the leaves warming the crisp fall air that tickles against your skin. The old building in front of you, although beautiful, is weathered by the years, the bricks of the towering structure now adorned with ivy clawing its way to the top. Sandstone slabs from the bottom where flowerbeds frame the walls, to the very top that seems to graze the sky. Tall windows creating a kaleidoscope of colour as the September sun hits the stained glass. This place was almost like something out of a fairy tale, well apart from the waves of excited new students loud and giddy taking you away from your admiration of the place you'll be spending the next years of your life.
You were excited- scared, but excited. This is the furthest you've ever been from home, the most independence you've ever had, an experience you've been waiting for your whole life to push you out of the comfort zone of small friendship circles and Sunday church. The atmostphere is filled with the buzz of anticipation from students both new and old, the whirl of rowdy conversation and giggling floating though your ears and into your brain. It hadn't felt real at all until your parents were driving away after helping you unpack into your new dorm, which is abysmal compared to the historic buildings of the rest of the campus. I guess you'd never expected anything fancy so the single bed, limited wardrobe space and the all-but-friendly roommate didn't dampen the thrill of starting college. You hugged both your parents tight before they left, saying goodbye to the familiar safety net of family- although that wasn't entirely true. You at least had your brother here.
Steve was a year above you, and of course your parents had lectured him about taking care of his baby sister, not letting her go wild or party too hard and definitely NO boys. It seemed the rules for home were gonna follow you 6 hours across the country, even if your parents weren't there themselves to enforce them. Not that you'd ever had any interest in parties or boys anyway. Steve had always been the outgoing one of the siblings, whereas you were always in the background. Quiet and reserved, you wouldn't entirely call yourself shy but you just weren't the social butterfly like Steve was. I guess it was all down to anxiety in big crowds of people, making new friends was always on the cards; but a room packed full of people all talking over each other was possibly your own personal hell.
"So" Steve grinned, patting your shoulder and snapping you out of your blissful optimism for what your future holds here "how you settling in sis"
"I love it already" you beamed taking in more of your surroundings, groups of students littered the quad, some studying in groups, some already cracking open beers, all laughing and joking looking like they're having the time of their lives simply by being surrounded by friends. "I think I'm really gonna love it here" you smile to yourself, excited for the days ahead of the friends for life you'd undoubtably make here.
The following week was a blur. So many new faces, new names, new professors, new classes. You'd already warmed up to a few people in your classes, an outgoing red head called Nat in particular. Although she was new like you, confidence radiated out of her and she started to become a welcome face to sit next to in the classes you shared. Even though it had only been a week you'd already exhaused yourself mind, body and soul putting your everything into your studies. By the weekend your brain felt scrambled and you were excited to finally have a day to yourself without having to learn a new name or suck up to a new professor. Of course, you being you, even your days off were planned. Pulling out your little notebook, flowers printed upon the hard back cover, you run your finger down the list, admiring the little ticks next to all the tasks you'd assigned yourself for the perfect weekend reset- and now as planned you were going to spend your evening in bed watching all your favourite sappy 80s movies and eating enough popcorn to bloat your belly. The breakfast club was playing on your crappy slow laptop in possibly the worst quality available, but the best your laptop could run, your right hand peeking out from under the bed covers to shovel popcorn into your mouth. A perfect evening.
Peace was interrupted with a bang on the door. "Y/N, Y/N you in there?" you recognise the voice speaking in between the incessant pounding. "Steve?" you reply, begrudgingly leaving your bed and answering the door. He stands on the other side, shit eating grin plastered across his face, jokingly sticking his arms out for a hug. "there's my baby sister!" he mocks as you attempt to reject his embrace "are you not absolutely thrilled to see your big brother I'm offended" putting his hand over his heart in fake upset. "You know I'm always happy to see you, idiot" you lightly push at his chest "Well you're gonna be even happier then when I tell you we're hanging out allllllll night" he drags "you're coming to a party at my frat tonight" You think for a moment, Steve giddily anticipating you acceptance of his invitation, you've started to come out of your introverted shell this week but a party? Maybe too much too soon. Especially after hearing Steves stories back home of his wild frat friends. Of course he protests when you decline, but eventually gives up and stops lurking in your doorway.
End credits are rolling as 'don't you forget about me' plays through your laptop speakers, the sun has long set and you're ready to sleep when you're puzzled by the faint buzzing of the floor just outside of your door. Getting up and swinging the door open you see it lay on the dusted red carpet of the dorm halls. Steves phone. For fucks sake. You pick it up and try to unlock it, hoping to be able to call one of his frat buddies to let him know he's left his phone here- but of course you can't guess the password. The smiling faces of Steve and his friends posing on the dingiest sofa you've ever seen in what looks like someones half demolished basement glowing on his lockscreen almost appearing to mock you as you input the wrong password again and again and again until 'phone locked for 10 minutes' flashes up on the screen. Great, just great. Looks like you're gonna be showing up to the party after all.
8 minutes 35 seconds, glancing at the time on your phone from when you left your dorm to arriving at the frat and making a mental note of how long it takes for you to walk between the two places. Barely at the front door and you can already hear the music vibrating off the walls, thrilled screaming and the smashing of something no doubt antique. Shittily hung fairy lights wrap around the ivory pillars ascending three floors high, contrasting the deep brick of the rest of the building. Purple lights from inside casting a hazy glow upon the lawn and the silhoutettes of people dance and drink below the greek letters hung in gold above the largest window. This is when you really get nervous, you've never been to a party- let alone one like this. Your heartbeat rings loud in your ears, still somehow not managing to drown out the booming of the noise coming out of the house. Anxiety creeps in as you try to mentally prepare yourself for the sea of intoxicated humans you'll have to sift through to find Steve. Sucking it up and making your way inside pushing through an absolute swarm of the drunkest, loudest people on earth. You've never felt so much skin contact in your entire life, each time you manage to manouver around one person another three appear in your way. You feel the heat rush to your face in the thick atmosphere, violet lights and fruity scented vape smoke making it near impossible to see more that 5 inches infront of you. At each doorway you do your best to see over the sea of heads, frat boys with terrible mullets and the fakest of blonde sorority girls, standing on your tiptoes to scan each room. It felt like looking for a needle in a haystack. Already annoyed about having to return the phone, the stress of navigating through a frat party only overstimulated you and you just wanted to give up until you finally see your brother.
Steves reclined on the sofa, arm around a scantily clad brunette girl who looks like she could be on the cover of vogue, maybe just not in the tight little red dress she's wearing that's less than an inch away from displaying her whole crotch to everyone in the house. Two friends surrounding him you recognise from his lockscreen, a short haired brunette and a extremely muscular long haired blonde boy. You don't recognise the several other boys and girls situated around the coffee table central on the tattered rug in between the three couches lay out to all face it, cups of alcohol leaving circular stains across it. No one around the sofa noticed you, all transfixed on the empty tequila bottle spinning around and around on the surface, all cheering and hooting when the bottle stopped on the brunette you'd recognised and yet another model standard looking girl who immediately both stood up and began eating each others faces off from opposite sides of the table, the boy leaning over far enough you were sure he was gonna fall right through the delicate glass pane.
"Steve! HEY! STEEEEVE!" you yell over the music, waving your arms around to get his attention like a crazed woman rather than attempt to navigate your way though the surplus of empty red cups littering the floor alongside some odd sticky stains over the carpet you'd rather not step in. He beams when he notices you, standing up like a baby giraffe for the first time, legs almost giving way from under him. "g-guyssss itsssss my littttlleeee b *hiccups*bbaby sister" he slurs, arm falling over you, you're unsure if its a side hug or just for his own stability. The partiers acknowledge you briefly with a almost unanimous "hey Steves sister", no one willing to stop their game of spin the bottle for proper introductions. You turn your focus from the fresh new faces to Steve " You left this" you state, holding up his phone, hoping your tone conveys that you're pissed off you've had to come here "in my dorm" He gives a lopsided drunken smile, taking his phone "your my favv*hiccups*vvorite sister" "I'm your only sister and you're drunk. Idiot" "commeee onnnn Y/N" he fake pouts "c-come meet my frien*hiccups*nds" he tries to guide you with his arm back to the couch, the girl he was sat next to giving you a sympathetic smile.
You grab Steves arm, removing it from around your shoulder and look at him sternly "Steve please, I'll meet your friends some other time I promise I'm tired and I wanna go to bed" he looks upset, but too drunk to argue with you "m'kayy then, you're no fun" he starts backing off "Before I go can I use your bathroom?" you ask not wanting to spend the 8 minute 35 second walk back to your dorm holding your bladder, in hidsight you should have gone before you left but you'd stupidly thrown on a hoodie and sweats leaving to return the phone in a rush. He's already drunkenly sauntering back to the sofa mumbling "yeah its… upstairs… through… and then to…. left" is all you make out over the blaring of the stereo.
Trying to follow Steves all but helpful directions leads you through the living room and into the hallway, wide set carpeted steps framed by a deep spruce bannister each baluster featuring intricate carvings ascended against the wall of the hallway. Much like the rest of the house right now, the stairs were not exempt from being filled with people. Going up the stairs past horny couples making out and avoiding cups filled with alcohol that are being launched in every direction was not part of your evening plans. You reach upstairs and although less people, theres still an profuse amount of noise and sweaty bodies, its spinning your head. You pray for the calm of when you can leave- desperate to escape the shrill sounds echoing off every cell in your brain. Which is probably what made you open the first door you saw and step in.
The moment you close the door behind you its like the world outside ceases to exist, the former ear-splitting noise and disorderly drunkards now a muffled hush in the sancturay you now find yourself in to finally catch your breath from the overwhelming atmostphere of the first ever party you've attended, too much for you even though your attendace was the briefest it could possibly be. Back against the door you sigh. Definitely NOT the bathroom. The room before you consists of a low down single bed adorned with a dark checkered bedding, one pancake flat pillow propped up at the head; above two shelves slightly askew on the wall, a clear DIY attempt. White framed window next to them giving the perfect view of the deep night sky, cloudless tonight so every glowing dot was visible. The books along the shelves propped up with a hefty snowglobe on one side, an impressive looking golden trophy on the other. Theres a small charcoal rug just beside the desk on the opposite corner to the bed- the entire surface a clutter of stationary and paper. You forget the original reason you'd even came in here- curiosity getting the better of you as you approch the bed.
You kneel on the pillow to get a better view of the shelves, fingers tracing along each book reading each novels title engraved in the spine. They all look old, probably expensive too. You're admiring the collection of classic literature when you're startled by the 'ahem' coming from behind you. Your head snaps around quickly and you're greeted by the sight of a tall brunette boy, his hair damp and fluffy white towel wrapped so dangerously low around his slender waist. You're sure your jaws on the floor as your eyes wander over his broad shoulders, droplets of water running down his defined abs, some catching on the ridges of each muscle. "Can I help you?" he asks, voice deep as he runs his hand along his chiseled jaw in confusion as to why some strange girl has invited herself into his bedroom. You feel your cheeks flush red, although you can't see yourself you know you're a cherry shade from cheeks to forehead "I-uh, I uhm, I" you stutter attempting to scramble off the bed.
The man smirks at you, obviously amused by your embarrassment "don't worry, I know what you're doing" he drawls. "Oh? y-you do?" you ask tilting your head slightly, unsure of what he means. "course I do doll" he continues, smirk becoming more sultry "pretty girl waiting on my bed for me to get out the shower? Couldn't be more obvious why you're here" you're completely taken aback, and kinda think he's a bit of a self-indulged prick to assume the only reason a girl could possibly be in his room is because she wants him "excuse me?" you gasped, face plastered in disgust, his still smirking "you heard me doll" he shrugged. What an arsehole. "First of all" you start eyebrows furrowed as you walk towards him "its insane to just assume that the only reason I could possibly be in here is for you" another step closer "second of all, I'm offended you think I look like the type of girl to throw herself at a stranger" the smirk has dropped from his face now and you're close enough that you have to tilt your head up to maintain your defiant eye contact as you speak your irritated mind. Maybe you're overreacting because you're tired, maybe overstimulated by the nights events, definitely because the man in front of you is radiating entitlement. "And finally" you sigh "I'm only here to return the phone Steve left at my place. I got lost looking for the bathroom" making eye contact with the floor at your awkward admitting of how you ended up here.
He looks you up and down, slowly, intensely, mouth drawn into a straight line, jaw tense before completely shattering his quiet observation, laughing out loud as he saunters past you towards his bed "Okay, okay, its making sense now" he jests, holding his hands up. Atmosphere a full 180 from 10 seconds ago when he was analysing you head to toe like meat on a slab. You turn back to him before he gives you a look of slight confusion "I gotta say though, you're not his usual type" he states, beginning to rummage around the chest of drawers situated parallel to the bed. "what?" you puzzle before it clicks in your brain just what he meant, you raise your voice, not out of anger, more out of 'ewww that's my brother' as you laugh out "OH MY GOD NO! Not like that!" you drop your head down into your hands, giggling a bit before looking back up at him "I'm Steves sister"
His expression at your confession leaves you slightly confused. He doesn't laugh with you, nor apologise for the confusion. He just smiles, a similar smirk to earlier, bright blue eyes burning on your skin and his left eyebrow raises slightly, thinking. Its a look you've never seen anyone wear upon their face before, its almost… calculating? "Sister huh?" he averts his gaze back to pulling out clothes from the drawers "well Steves sister" "Y/N" you interrupt "my names Y/N" "well Y/N, bathrooms down there" he points to the left and you take that as your sign of overstaying the welcome you never had an invite to. You open the door, turning and leaning against the doorway "thanks uh" "Bucky" he interjects, still not looking up. "Thanks Bucky" you conclude your meeting of Steves insanely attractive fraternity brother, leaving to finally find the bathroom.
A sense of relief waved through your entire body as you head down the stairs and toward the front door, you'll be back in bed with shitty movies on your even shittier laptop in no time at all. Well 8 minutes and 35 seconds to be precise. Escape is just within your grasp when suddenly you're trapped between two muscular arms against the wall at the bottom step. You make startled eye contact with the man in front of you, his clearly drunken glare baring into you under heavily lidded eyes. You can smell the booze lingering on his breath, projecting directly into your nostrils as he slurs his words at you "Heyyyy pretty girl where you going" he winks. "I'm trying to go home" you bluntly reply, hoping this over-confident drunkard takes the hint. "Come on baby" he garbled "don't be like that" he leaned his putrid breath further, mouth open as he attempted to kiss you, "get OFF ME" you scream, pushing at his chest and arms and turing your head away. Pushing yourself so far back into the wall you could have sworn you'd started to sink into it. "HEY!" is the last thing you hear before the creep is bouncing off the floor. It all happened so quickly, your face turning to see Steve sat on top of the man previously trying to force himself onto you. A crowd starts to gather, all shocked by the scene unfolding. A mixed response of people cheering Steve on, and the others begging him to stop. You watch as the guys hands make a feeble attempt to cover his face as Steve lays heavy punch after punch surprisingly coordinated for a guy who'd drank so much he could barely stand earlier, until two guys intervene, pushing back the circle that surrounded the fight and dragging Steve off your assailant.
Jerking his arms away from the frat boys holding him back, Steve yells to the whole party "anyone, and I mean ANYONE who even thinks of going near my sister is gonna have ME to deal with" his breathing is heavy as he recovers from the fight, sweat pouring down his temple- you're not sure if its from the fight itself or just from anger. Maybe it was the alcohol that made Steve snap this much, I mean, he'd always been over-protective but not like this. The crowd that had gathered was silent, they could probably tell from the pulsating vein popping from his head that he was 100% serious. The bloodied mess of a man on the floor scarpering out of the front door after hurriedly wiping his hoodie sleve across his now bent nose to mop up the fountain of blood pouring from it. Steve stands in front of you, your eyes wide and panting breathlessly, almost in shock by everything thats just unfolded in the space of a few minutes. His hands rest on your shoulders and he crouched slightly to meet your eye "you okay?" he questions, concern replacing the anger on his face. "yeah I-uh, I'm fine" you breathed. Steve looks back to the congregation of fraternity brothers "I'm only gonna say this once" he forewarned "I don't want any of you even thinking of hitting on her. I don't care who you are, how close we are, my sister is off limits. Got it?" The boys quickly nod their heads and let it be known they understood, none of them wanted to antagonise an already furious Steve by even attempting to make light of the situation. "Come on Y/N" he said, placing his arm over your shoulder "let me sober up a bit and I'll walk you home"
The aftermath of the party is littered all over the now nearly empty frat house. Carpet barely visable under the plethora of beer bottles, red cups and dead vapes. The scent of alcohol still staining the air. It's 7am in the morning when Bucky comes down the stairs to hopefully make his morning coffee without tripping over the heaps of litter. He sees two of his frat buddies still on the sofa, both talking about the party last night. "Hey Buck, missed you at the party bro" Scott says. "Yeah man it was crazy" Thor chimes in. "Apparently so" Buckly retorts, gesturing to the mess the event had caused. "Steve went fucking crazy man, some jerk hitting on his sister or something" Thor adds on. Bucky raises an eyebrow, slotting himself on the sofa opposite his friends. He recalls the brief interation he'd had the pleasure of experiening with you finding yourself in his bedroom. Even though in a hoodie and sweats he still was instantly attracted to you. It was probably so wrong, but when you said you were Steves sister and not some girl he was seeing, Bucky felt nothing but relief. "I mean, his sister IS hot" Bucky shrugs, sinking into the sofa. Thor and Scott exchange a knowing glance between each other, which of course Bucky notices "what? what is it?" he presses. "Well" Thor begins "Steve made a huge deal last night about none of us hitting on his sister, so I wouldn't throw around the 'hot' comment in front of him" he laughs out.
Buckys not sure what it was, really he couldnt understand, but the thought of you being off limits sparked something deep within him. He'd already been intrigued by you after you stumbled into his room, he definitely thought you were beautiful, but now his attraction is insatiable. He'd never been the type of man to lust after what he couldn't have, the idea of chasing a woman wasn't for him, until this very moment. It was something almost dark awakening in him, maybe it was the challenge of it, maybe the taboo of his best friends little sister. It was something he couldn't ignore. And then he had an idea. A horrid, awful idea. He leaned forward, hands on his knees and a smirk across his face. "I bet I could do it" he says, sharp, almost whispering. "Do what?" Scott puzzles, eyebrow raised. "I bet I could sleep with her" he pauses "and I bet Steve would never find out" Scott and Thor errupt into laughter "are you serious man" Thor snorts, "50 bucks says it'll never happen" Scott tormented. "50?" Bucky replied, sticking out his arm to shake hands with Scott "you've got yourself a deal"
Summary : The threat of you going on a date with another man made Bucky realize that things between you and him were not so casual anymore.
Pairing : new avengers! Bucky Barnes x new avenger! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower Fic! Friends to lovers / teammates to lovers. Jealous!Bucky. A hint of canon-typical violence. Crack and Fluff and a teeny bit of angst. Sex is heavily implied, cursing, Mention of food. Set after Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 7.2k
Note : I genuinely tried to make this under 3k but unfortunately I am apparently incapable of making shorter stories. Enjoy!
You and Bucky started as nothing more than teammates.
Not even the flirty kind. You both were just good partners on the field.
You covered his blind spots, and he covered yours. You moved like you’d trained together for years even when you hadn’t. He trusted your calls in the field, and you trusted that if things went sideways, he’d be there.
It was easy.
This mission in particular ran long.
Val sent you both to an abandoned shipping yard at sundown, where rusted metal groaned overhead like the whole place might collapse in the blink of an eye.
You took high ground. He took point.
Two guards rounded the corner before you could signal.
You dropped from the container stack, sweeping one guard’s legs out. Before the second could shout, Bucky was there. His metal arm caught the guy mid-swing, disarming him with a brutal twist.
Your back hit him for half a second.
“You good?” he asked.
“Always,” you shot back, already moving again.
A gun cocked somewhere behind you, and before he could turn, you heard a crack of impact, followed by deathly silence.
“Clear,” he called.
You let out a deep breath through a grin. “Show-off.”
Bucky only chuckled.
The fight escalated quickly after that. There were more hostiles than expected, too many narrow walkways, and lots of unluckily bad angles. At one point, you slipped on loose gravel near the docks, just barely, but his hand caught your vest before you could fully lose balance.
His fingers stayed for half a second too long before letting go.
“Careful,” he murmured, close enough that you felt the word more than heard it.
You glanced back over your shoulder. “You worried about me, Barnes?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t like paperwork.”
You laughed under your breath.
By the time the last guy was down, adrenaline buzzed under your skin like static.
You and Bucky stood side by side, scanning the now-quiet yard. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, local authorities inbound.
You climbed up onto one of the shipping containers to wait for pickup. Bucky followed without a word.
It had become a habit after longer missions for the two of you. You would find the highest stable surface, sitting for a minute before extraction, letting the adrenaline drain somewhere that wasn’t inside your chest.
The metal of the shipping container was still cold through your pants when you sat down. Wind tugged at your hair as city lights shimmered off the water beyond the yard.
Bucky dropped down beside you with a thud, boots hanging over the edge.
You flexed your fingers, feeling the aftershock of combat buzzing in your bones. “Not bad,” you said to him.
“Hmm,” he tilted his head mildly. “Third guy on the east side almost had you.”
You turned your head slowly. “I had that.”
His shoulder bumped yours playfully. “You slipped.”
“I adjusted.”
“You slipped.”
You huffed, but you were smiling, slightly shifting your weight slightly more into his side. For half a second, you wondered if he’d shift away.
He didn’t.
Instead, you felt the subtle adjustment of his posture. He angled closer so you could lean more comfortably. His vibranium arm reached around, resting behind you on the container at first.
Then, slowly, it slid around your shoulders.
The metal felt warm against your upper arm. His other hand resting loosely against your bicep like he was making sure you wouldn’t tip backward.
“You sure you’re good?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” you nodded faintly . “You?”
“Yeah.”
You let your head tip fully against his shoulder this time, and he let you.
The wind howled through the ruined shipping yard, but inside that small space between you, it was strangely calm. His chest rose and fell steady under your cheek, and you could feel the faint vibration of it when he exhaled.
After a long stretch of comfortable silence, he shifted his chin slightly so it rested lightly against the top of your head.
It felt natural.
Before either of you could think too much about it, Bucky cleared his throat. “Could use dinner after this.”
You smiled against his jacket. “Same,” you said. “I’m feeling sushi.”
His chest moved with a huff of amusement. “Yeah?”
You tilted your face just enough to glance up at him. “Yeah.”
He looked down at you. You could’ve sworn there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Me too,” he said.
The quinjet lights blinked in the distance, signaling arrival. You both stayed seated for another second longer than necessary.
Then you asked, still leaning into him, “After we debrief?”
His arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders. “After we debrief.”
—
Dinner wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
It was just food. It was just two teammates riding out the post-mission crash somewhere that didn’t smell like gunpowder or seawater. You told yourself that as you slid into the booth across from Bucky, as you peeled the paper cover from your chopsticks, as you ignored the way the candlelight caught in his eyes.
He was in dark jeans and a hoodie after changing out of tactical gear, hair was slightly damp from a quick shower.
He looked unfairly good, though he refused to acknowledge that.
A server brought sake without asking twice, nodding towards you with recognition.
“You get this often?” he asked, glancing at the bottle.
“After missions? Yeah.” You shrugged. “Feels like re-entering society slowly.”
See? It was just dinner.
Except it stopped feeling like “just” anything about fifteen minutes in.
You both started with edamame.
He reached out for the bowl in the middle, tearing through pieces of the green soybeans and stuffing them in his mouth, unbothered by the fact that you were staring.
“You know you can slow down,” you said, laughing as he flicked a pod into the discard bowl. “You’re gonna choke, Buck.”
“I am slowing down,” he insisted.
“Sure.”
You grinned as the food kept coming. Before long, rolls were stacked between you from spicy tuna to salmon avocado to chef’s special unagi that you insisted on trying. Conversation drifted easily after that.
He told you a story about trying to understand modern texting slang and accidentally responding “Affirmative.” to something Sam sent. You nearly cried laughing.
Then, you told him about baking one of your famous cookies for a date, who proceeded to spend twenty minutes explaining cryptocurrency while ridiculing your lack of knowledge on the subject.
He shook his head slowly. “You stayed?”
“I wanted pasta.”
“That’s fair.”
Somewhere along the line and the second round of sake, he leaned back in the booth, arm stretched along the top of the seat. He looked… relaxed.
He smiled, and it wasn’t the usual tight smile he wore around the watchtower. It looked real. Boyish, even. Perhaps it was a window to the man he used to be before… all this.
And you caught yourself staring. You took the sight of him in, studying the way his sleeves were pushed up. The faint crease near his eyes when he laughed. The warmth in his cheeks that only showed up when he forgot to hide it.
His eyes flicked up to catch yours.
Your stomach dipped. Neither of you looked away first, and somehow that felt like its own kind of confession.
You broke it by reaching for your sake.
By the time you were halfway through your third small ceramic cup, the world outside your booth feeling more distant than it did before.
You leaned back with a sigh, the buzz in your veins attributed to more than just alcohol.
“God,” you muttered, almost to yourself, “I wish the guys I go on dates with were more like you.”
He lifted his eyebrows. For once, he did not have anything to say.
“You know,” you waved your chopsticks vaguely in his direction. “Not red-pilled. Actually charming. Capable of human conversation without making it sound like a podcast monologue.” You smiled, teasing but honest. “Doesn’t hurt that you’re not bad to look at either.”
Oh.
That did it.
Bucky stilled, like he was recalculating a trajectory mid-flight. He didn’t laugh, nor did he deflect.
Then he said, calm as anything, he just shrugged. “Well… you could just go on dates with me.”
What?
You choked on your sake.
He reached across the table instinctively, human hand hovering near your wrist like he was debating whether or not you needed help or was just in shock.
“You good?” he asked, far too neutral.
You coughed once more, sputtered, and stared at him over the rim of your cup. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Right. Right.
And that was the moment the air changed. Because he wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t flirting for sport. He… was offering.
There had always been something, had there?
You had a good partnership. And you were good friends.
And yes, if you were being honest, there was a tiny, dangerous sliver of a crush you’d both pretended didn’t exist.
Dating a teammate, though?
That was a line you never thought you’d cross.
Your brain sprinted through disaster scenarios: Messy fallout, tension in the field, Yelena’s relentless teasing for the rest of your natural life.
Bucky watched you think, but didn’t rush you.
After a moment, he gave a small shrug, almost self-conscious.
“We don’t have to make it a big thing,” he said. “Just… a couple dates. See if it works.”
See if it works.
The same pragmatism he had from the field was there now. He was not pushy, not desperate. He was only hopeful, though trying not to be.
You looked at him. At the man who trusted you with his back in a firefight. Who laughed at your dumb jokes. Who sat across from you like this mattered.
And maybe it already did.
What’s the harm? you thought.
You lifted your sake glass slowly.
“To seeing if this works,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Casually.”
His lips curved up, almost relieved.
“Casually,” he echoed.
You clinked the cups together.
Neither of you had any idea you’d just ruined your own definitions of the word.
—
Dating Bucky Barnes was supposed to be experimental.
It was supposed to be low-stakes and casual. It was a “let’s not make this weird” situation.
No one ever warned you how ridiculously fun dating Bucky would be.
That first night after sushi, you walked side by side down the sidewalk like two teenagers who had accidentally checked the “yes” box on a crush note.
You glanced down at his hands swinging at his sides.
He noticed. “What are you looking at?”
“I don’t know what to do with them,” you shot back, a teeny bit defensive.
“With what?”
“My hands.”
He flexed his fingers defensively. “I know exactly what to do with my hands.”
“Do you?”
He looked at you then, squinting slightly, like you were a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to solve.
You smiled sweetly.
He exhaled through his nose, faintly flustered. And then, in one awkward, adorable motion, he reached over and hooked his pinky with yours.
Just the pinky.
You froze for half a second, and not because you didn’t like it. Because it was so unexpectedly gentle.
He didn’t look at you. Instead, he just kept walking like this was completely normal behavior for him.
You bit back a grin.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “You’re nervous.”
“Hmmph.”
You laughed, and then decided to lace your fingers fully through his.
That was the moment it clicked into place.
His hand closed around yours immediately, a little tighter than necessary.
You both dissolved into giggles like teenagers.
“This is so stupid,” you said, slightly squeezing his hand. “But you’re doing great.”
“Shut up.”
But he didn’t let go.
You walked like that for blocks. Swinging your joined hands slightly. Teasing each other. Talking about nothing important. It felt exactly like being friends.
Only… closer.
When you reached your quarters in the tower, he just leaned his forehead against yours for a second, smiling like he couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Good night,” he laughed, slowly letting go.
“Good night, Buck.”
—
You didn’t tell the team. Not Yelena. Not Ava. Definitely not Alexei. And absolutely not John. If Bob didn't have his nose in a book, he would’ve figured it out in five seconds anyway.
But to be fair, it wasn’t about secrecy. It was more about preservation. If this experiment crashed and burned, you didn’t want the entire team dynamic shifting. You didn’t want briefings to get awkward. You didn’t want to risk how well everyone worked together.
So you kept it a secret. And it was kind of thrilling.
You somehow managed to keep it that way up until the next date a week later.
He asked you if you would like to take a ride around town on his bike.
“You know,” you said, eyeing the helmet he handed you, “this is very on brand for you.”
He smiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Broody war veteran with a motorcycle?”
He leaned closer. “You getting on or not?”
You got on.
And when your arms wrapped around his waist, when your chest pressed against his back as the engine roared to life… yeah. Casual was officially hanging by a thread.
The city blurred past in streaks of gold and neon. You laughed into the wind when he accelerated slightly just to hear you squeal.
“You’re enjoying this too much!” you shouted.
“Maybe!”
He took you across town to a tiny ice cream place that looked like it hadn’t changed since the 70s.
You both ordered cones. He went vanilla.
“Of course you did,” you teased.
“It’s classic.”
“A bit boring.”
He took an exaggerated lick while maintaining eye contact. “You’re boring.”
You gasped playfully, knowing he didn’t really mean it . “Rude.”
Ten minutes later, you both were sitting on a bar chair, and you were still laughing at something he said when you noticed it.
“Hold on,” you said, leaning closer. “You’ve got a little vanilla on your mouth.”
He wiped at it instinctively.
“Left,” you said.
He wiped the wrong side.
“Other left.”
He frowned slightly, trying again, but still missed.
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “It’s still there.”
“Just tell me where—”
Before you could think better of it, you leaned in and kissed him.
It was quick. It was sweet. Most importantly, he tasted like vanilla.
For half a heartbeat, he went completely still.
Then you pulled back just enough to murmur, “Got it.”
He stared at you, processing for a second before the corner of his mouth curved slowly. “Smooth,” he said.
You bowed down slightly in a coy curtsy. “Thank you.”
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe the guts you had, then reached up and pulled you back in properly.
That kiss wasn’t quick.
It was long overdue and certain and a little bit hungry in a way that made your knees feel unreliable.
When you finally pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots.
—
For the next couple of weeks, you both kept insisting not to label anything.
Still, training days became suspiciously synchronized. If he was in the gym at 0600, you were too. If you were running drills in the hangar, he “happened” to need the same space. Sparring matches lasted longer than necessary. Now it was less about winning, more about testing how close you could get before it felt obvious.
“You’re distracted,” you’d tease, circling him.
Sometimes, after a little tease, he’d pin you to the ground. Sometimes you’d flip him onto the mat with a grin. Either way, you both always a second too long before standing.
“Good session,” he’d say, offering a hand like it was purely professional.
“Outside of training, it was the same story.
You grabbed late-night takeout after long briefings. Sat side by side in diners instead of across from each other because the booth was “more comfortable.” You back from the rooftop together because “it’s on the way.”
Once, he showed up with two coffees and shrugged. “They made an extra.”
“They?” you asked.
He didn’t answer.
You rode on the back of his bike more than strictly necessary. He’d claim he was just heading out for air. You’d claim you just felt like tagging along. Your arms would wrap around his waist automatically, your helmet knocking lightly against his shoulder when you laughed at something he said over the engine’s rumble.
Movie nights with the team became strategic. If the couch filled up, somehow there was always exactly enough room for you to squeeze in beside him. His arm would drape over the back of the cushions. Technically, it was not around you, technically. Your knee would rest against his thigh… accidentally, of course.
When Alexei pointed it out, you’d shrug.
“We’re just hanging out.”
“Yeah,” he’d echo.
Alexei dismissed it, grumbling about how he never understood western sensibilities.
But then, when you parted ways at night, there’d be that half-second pause before he gave you a small kiss and a quiet “see you tomorrow.”
Still, you hadn’t had sex yet.
Which was ridiculous.
You were both adults. You were casually dating. God knows you slept with people two dates in because you were lonely only to be ghosted the next day. On paper, you should’ve been intimate weeks ago.
And it wasn’t for lack of trying. You both had made out against walls, in elevators, in supply closets, even in the dark corner of the gym after hours when you were certain the rest of the team were on a different floor. You’ve had his wandering hands down your body, and been one second away from dragging him by the collar of his shirt to your bedroom, but privacy wasn’t always abundant in the tower.
Every time things almost escalated, someone walked down the hall. Or a call for a mission came through. Or you both got in your own heads about keeping it quiet as footsteps passed in the hallway. After all, you were living with John and Alexei, two other supersoldiers with supersoldier hearing.
So yeah, living in the tower was great for security. Terrible for privacy.
Besides, you and him were always busy with briefings, training, field work, recovery, and debriefs that ran long into the night. By the time you were alone, you were exhausted and just wanted some quality time. or paranoid someone could hear you breathe too loudly. Or that Ava would phase through. Or that Yelena would be hanging out in the vents again.
So you hadn’t.
But you really, really wanted to.
Tonight, though, a perfectly placed opportunity fell into your laps.
Val informed the entire team they were required at some high-profile charity gala.
You and Bucky exchanged a look across the table.
He cleared his throat first. “Actually… I’m not feeling great.”
You blinked innocently. “Yeah, me neither.”
Val’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced but uninterested. “Fine. Stay out of sight.”
The pretense was paper-thin between the two of you.
The team, however, suspected nothing. They were too busy arguing over tuxes and dresses and whether Alexei could be trusted near an open bar.
By the time they took off, the tower was quiet.
You stood in the common room, arms folded. “You look terribly ill,” you told Bucky solemnly.
He nodded gravely. “You do too.”
There was a beat of silence before you both dissolved into laughter.
You didn’t rush it at first. You ordered takeout. You changed into comfortable clothes. You put on a movie neither of you were paying attention to.
You curled up against him on the couch, legs tangled, his vibranium arm warm around your waist. Your fingers traced idle patterns over his chest. His thumb slid beneath the hem of your shirt without thinking.
“You think they bought it?” you murmured.
“Mm,” he said, distracted. “Doesn’t matter.”
You tilted your face up to kiss him as his human hand slid under the hem of your shirt. He was testing, like he still couldn’t quite believe the timing was finally right.
“No sudden noises,” you murmured against his mouth, “don’t wanna trigger any alarms.”
He huffed a small laugh. “I’ll try.”
The kisses deepened as weeks of restraint poured into them. Your fingers tugged at his shirt. He pulled you fully into his lap, like he’d been imagining you in this exact compromising position for a long time. Longer that he’d like to admit, even to you.
There was laughter at first as he looked around the common room. “Are we really doing this here?”
“Unless you want to reschedule it again,” you shot back.
His eyes darkened mischievously.
The movie kept playing to an empty room as clothes ended up somewhere between the couch cushions and the floor. There was a breathy gasp when you nearly knocked over the coffee table. A breathless “wait” that turned into “don’t stop.”
You didn’t rush. You couldn’t. The whole point was finally having the space to take your time. His hands were careful at first, then firmer when you encouraged him. You learned the rhythm of each other without words, adjusting instinctively the way you did in the field.
Except this time, the stakes were entirely different.
The couch creaked under you.
It happened there, tangled in blankets, breath shared, the world narrowed down to warmth and skin and the steady reassurance in his eyes every time he checked in on you. It wasn’t wild or reckless.
It was intentional. Even when he picked you up and bent you over the kitchen counter.
When it was over, you lay there for a minute, chests rising and falling in sync, the absurdity of fucking in the common room setting in.
“Well,” you said, managing to crawl back on the couch with his help. “That was worth calling out sick.”
He smiled against your temple. “Yeah.”
You both laid on there, sweaty, breathless, and very pleased with yourselves for a little longer, until you both realised at the exact same time.
“THE CAMERAS!”
You shot upright so quickly you nearly head-butted him.
Bucky swore under his breath, scrambling off the couch and looking around like the ceiling itself had betrayed him. “I knew we forgot something.”
You scrambled for clothes that were not remotely where you’d left them. He grabbed what might’ve been his shirt but turned out to be yours. You tried to stand and immediately had to steady yourself against the arm of the couch.
“Shower,” he said urgently.
“Shower? Why shower?!”
“Because we’re still—” he gestured vaguely at both of you, flushed and disheveled, “… sticky.”
Valid.
You both bolted for his bathroom, where he said, “Five minutes.”
“Sure.”
The shower was not efficient.
It was supposed to be. That was the goal. In, rinse off, out, get dressed, handle the digital disaster.
Instead, the second you were both under the spray, he laughed that unguarded laugh he only let out when he was completely relaxed, and you started laughing too.
“This is not funny,” you insisted, while absolutely grinning.
“It’s a little funny.”
You shoved his shoulder. He caught your wrist, pulled you closer for a quick, stolen kiss that almost derailed the entire “we need to move” plan.
“We’re in crisis mode,” you said against his mouth, though made no effort to pull away.
“Right. Crisis.”
It took real effort to actually finish rinsing off, dry off, and pull on clean clothes without getting distracted again. By the time you stepped into the hallway, you looked almost respectable.
The security room door slid shut behind you.
You moved straight to the main console, pulling up the archived feed for the common area.
“Okay,” you said, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Motion-triggered recording, timestamp around—”
“Let me,” Bucky interrupted confidently.
You blinked at him. “You know how to override this?”
He gave you a look.
You squinted your eyes as suspicions crept in. “Why do you know how to override this?”
He hesitated just long enough to be incriminating.
“Bucky.” You folded your hands on your chest.
He winced slightly. “It’s not what you think.”
“That is never reassuring.”
He leaned over the console, entering a series of precise commands. “Four months ago, Bob stole some of your cookies.”
You froze. “My triple-chocolate ones?”
“Yes.”
Your jaw dropped. “That’s where they went?”
“He panicked,” Bucky continued quickly. “He thought you’d be mad, and told me “she’d never be mad at you” so he asked me to scrub the footage.”
You stared at him. “I baked those from scratch.”
“Focus,” he said urgently as a security prompt blinked red on the screen. “We have bigger problems.”
You sputtered for another second before snapping back to the task at hand.
“Fine. But Bob is dead to me.”
“After we fix this.”
You both leaned over the console, shoulder to shoulder, navigating the layers of tower security. Dual retina scan authentication? Good thing two of you were here. Encryption bypass? Bucky knew how to deal with that. Archive access? He knew that, too. You handled the system permissions; he handled the deeper override protocols
“I cannot believe you never told me about the cookies,” you muttered while rerouting the backup cache.
“I’m sorry.”
The footage finally loaded.
There it was. The couch, the kitchen, everything. It showed the two of you earlier, very clearly not sick.
You lunged for the fast-forward button while Bucky was being a guy in the worst possible time, very clearly enjoying the incriminating footage.
“Delete it!” you hissed, not thinking twice.
“Working on it,” he snapped back to life.
He initiated the scrub protocol, wiping the primary recording, then the mirrored backup. You cleared the auto-save buffer and forced a manual integrity check to make sure nothing flagged the deletion.
Processing…
Processing…
Archive Purge Successful.
You both let out a breath out in perfect sync.
There’s no way this could go wrong, right?
—
The next couple of days felt… different.
It wasn’t dramatic, but rather subtle. Because finally, you and Bucky got better at sneaking around.
Not in a suspicious way, but more in the sense that you stopped acting like you were afraid of being caught breathing the same air. You started to calmly learn the rhythms of the tower, the patrol schedules, which hallways stayed empty longest after midnight, which stairwells had blind spots from the cameras. You learned how to move around each other naturally without it looking choreographed.
It was like as if there was a mutual unspoken agreement that maybe you didn’t need to assume disaster around every corner. You still kept things quiet. You still avoided obvious PDA.
So now, you’d started falling asleep in his room. Not always doing anything, sometimes just tangled up together, decompressing after brutal days. You liked the way his hand rested at the small of your back while you slept. He liked the way you always curled closer when he shifted.
It felt… safe.
Still, despite how well things were going between you and Bucky, Bob had noticed something.
He didn't notice you and Bucky, thankfully, but he had noticed you in an anxious, hyper-aware way of someone who constantly worried they’d done something wrong. And lately, he’d been convinced he had.
You haven’t been mean to him. You weren’t cold, exactly. But you were… different.
You were ever so slightly quieter around him, a little more distant. You were less quick to laugh at his jokes and more distracted when he spoke.
To anyone else, it might’ve gone unnoticed.
To Bob, it felt catastrophic.
So, seven days after the gala, he cornered Bucky in one of the quieter hallways outside the gym.
Bucky had just finished training, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his back, hair still damp. He was halfway through pulling on his jacket when Bob appeared in his peripheral vision.
“Hey, Buck?” Bob asked hesitantly.
Bucky paused. “Yeah?”
Bob hovered for a second before asking, “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
Bucky blinked. “Tell who what?”
“I think she knows,” Bob frowned. “About the cookies.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Bucky closed his eyes briefly and lied. “I don’t think she does”
Bob shook his head. “She’s been… a little distant with me. And I keep replaying the last few weeks in my head, trying to figure out what I might’ve done.” He paused, eyes unfocused in thought. “That was the only thing that stuck out.”
Bucky felt the familiar tug of guilt, scanning Bob’s face. “I don’t think she’s mad at you,” he said firmly, though he was unsure.
“I don’t know, man,” Bob sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “ This is exactly the kind of thing I overthink.”
“I’m going to do something about it,” he said. “I’ll think of a small reset and make it up to her. Y’know, clear the air.”
Before Bucky could ask what he meant, Bob was already walking away.
—
He knocked on your door the next day, when you weren't expecting anyone.
When you opened it, Bob stood there, hands folded neatly in front of him. He did not look nervous exactly, but rather thoughtful, like he’d spent a long time rehearsing what he was about to say.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah,” you replied, stepping aside. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said. “And… I’m not totally sure how to bring it up without sounding strange.”
You crossed your arms loosely. “Now I’m intrigued.”
He exhaled, then looked you in the eye. “I took your cookies.”
There it was.
For half a second, you just stared at him, debating whether to play dumb or admit that you knew.
His mouth twitched faintly. “I don’t know if you know, but I did it.”
You tilted your head, unsure of what to say.
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely. “I should’ve said something sooner. I panicked, then I kept overthinking it, and then it felt too late to bring up without making it awkward.”
“Bob,” you finally sighed, “it’s fine. I was a little annoyed, sure, but not enough to hate you.”
He visibly relaxed at that.
“Still,” he said. “I wanted to make it right.”
You blinked. “How?”
“I… set you up on a date tonight.”
Your brain stalled. “You what?”
He lifted one shoulder slightly. “There’s a barista at a café near the tower. His name’s Theo. He’s nice, and polite. Not weird at all. And I noticed you used to go on dates pretty regularly, but you haven’t in a while, and I thought maybe—”
“Bob,” you cut in gently. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But I felt bad. And I wanted to do something good for you, instead of just apologizing and hoping you forgot.”
You stared at him, a thousand thoughts colliding at once.
Because yes, you had been a little irritated about the cookies. And yes, Bob absolutely did not need to set you up on a date to make up for it.
But how, exactly, were you supposed to refuse?
Sorry, Bob, I can’t go because I’ve been secretly dating Bucky Barnes for two months and we’re currently sneaking around the tower like teenagers?
Yeah. No.
So you hesitated.
And Bob mistook that silence for annoyance.
“If you don’t want to, you absolutely don’t have to,” he added quickly. “I can cancel it. I just thought—”
“No,” you said, a little too fast.
He paused.
You softened your tone. “I mean… thank you. Really. That was kind. And thoughtful. I’ll… think about it.”
“Okay.”
You offered a small smile. “But next time, just talk to me. I promise I don’t hold grudges over stolen baked goods.”
He huffed a laugh and nodded.
After he left, you shut the door and leaned your forehead against it.
“Great,” you murmured to yourself. “Just fantastic.”
—
You almost didn’t go.
You stood in front of your mirror for far longer than necessary, fingers idly tracing the hem of your dress as your thoughts tangled themselves into knots.
This was stupid.
You didn’t need to go on this date, but you didn’t need to refuse it either.
You and Bucky weren’t exclusive. You hadn’t defined anything beyond just trying to see where this goes.
But the idea of sitting across from someone else, laughing politely, pretending you were available in any real way, made your stomach churn.
You didn’t want Theo, or anyone else for that matter. You wanted Bucky.
But Bob had gone out of his way to do this one sweet thing for you after committing a minor infraction that made you ever so slightly irritated. And more importantly, Bob was observant. If you refused outright, he’d start wondering. Asking questions. Piecing things together.
And you and Bucky had agreed to keep this a secret, right?
So begrudgingly, you had to go, to throw Bob off your scent.
You picked a simple but flattering dress. You fixed your hair and applied just enough makeup to look awake and put together. You told yourself that you were just playing a part.
One date. One hour. Then you’d come home. Then you’d text Theo and say that the ‘chemistry just wasn’t there’ if he asked for a second date.
Simple.
On the way out, you passed through the common rooms. After doing a double take on the wreck in the kitchen, you stopped dead in the doorway.
Bucky Barnes, former assassin, elite tactician,and infamous human weapon— was standing in the middle of the kitchen in a black t-shirt dusted completely white with flour. There was flour in his hair. Flour on his boots. Flour smeared across one cheek like war paint. The counter looked like it had been hit by a powdered sugar explosion.
And he was… baking.
There was a mixing bowl in front of him, a wooden spoon in his hand, and an oven timer blinking accusingly in the background.
You blinked once. “What,” you asked slowly, “are you doing?”
He looked up, and his eyes widened.
“Oh shit,” he said automatically.
For a second, neither of you moved.
He glanced at the oven, then at the bow, then back at you, then back at the oven. His teeth flexed like he was calculating twelve different escape routes and none of them involved dignity.
“This was supposed to be a surprise,” he admitted begrudgingly to himself.
You raised your eyebrows.
He scrubbed his flour-covered human hand down his face, which only made things worse. “I, uh—” He gestured vaguely to the counter. “I felt bad.”
“About…?”
“The footage.” He wouldn’t quite meet your eyes.
You stared at him.
He shifted, awkward and defensive all at once. “I felt bad about helping to cover up a cookie theft,” he said gruffly. “Figured I could at least bake the replacement batch.”
Your heart did stupid little flip in your chest
“You’re making me triple-chocolate cookies,” you said softly.
“The first batch burned,” he admitted, nodding toward a dark tray on the stove that looked like it could double as roofing material. “I fucked up the timer.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too hard and failing miserably.
Oh my god.
How lucky were you, to have a friend like Bob— sweet, well-meaning Bob— who had set you up on a whole date to make up for stealing your cookies, while the man who you actually wanted was standing in your kitchen covered in flour because he felt guilty about helping erase security footage? He hadn’t even stolen the damn cookies.
“Bucky,” you breathed.
He finally looked at you properly, and then paused.
You realized, a second too late, that you weren’t in sweats.
His eyes traced the line of your shoulders to your collarbone. Down, then back up again.
“You look great,” he said.
“Thank you,” you replied, warmth creeping into your voice.
He cleared his throat. “Girls’ night with Yelena and Ava?” he asked, too casual.
You hesitated.
“Uh,” you said. “No.”
His metal hand froze against the counter.
“I’m going on a date.”
It was subtle at first, only noticeable by the way his posture changed. The way his shoulders drew back, not relaxed but braced for impact.
His face… fell.
“A date,” he repeated.
There was no fucking way.
The words weren’t said aloud, but his grip on the wooden spoon snapped it clean in half before he even realized he’d applied any pressure.
“Buck—” you started quickly. “It’s not—”
“A date,” he repeated, and this time it wasn’t confusion. It was disbelief. “You’re going on a date.”
You took a step further into the kitchen, heels clicking against tile. “It’s not like that.”
He let out a humorless breath, almost disappointed. “Right. Because when people say they’re going on a date, historically, that means something else.”
“Don’t,” you warned gently.
He set the broken spoon down on the counter with care. “Who is it?” he asked.
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is.”
You folded your arms, defensive despite yourself. “You and I never said we were exclusive.”
“So this is about labels?” he asked.
“No.” You exhaled hard. “It’s just… Bob.”
That made him blink.
“What?”
“He came to my room yesterday. And said he set me up with a barista he knows,” You ran a hand through your hair, already feeling the conversation spiraling.
That’s when everything clicked in Bucky’s head
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Bob told me the hallway. He thought you were mad about the cookies. He said he was going to ‘make it up to you.’”
You closed your eyes. “Oh my god.”
“I didn’t realize this was his solution,” Bucky added dryly.
The tension wavered, eased by the absurdity of it as you let out a strained laugh. “This is so stupid.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. Still he looked so… hurt. “But you’re going to go.”
“I…I didn’t know what else to do,” you admitted, words burst out before you could soften the blow. “Bob looked so relieved when I didn’t shut it down. And if I refuse now, he’ll think I’m still mad. Or he’ll start asking questions.”
“And what happens when this guy asks you out again?” Bucky sighed. “You just keep pretending?”
“It’s one date.”
“It’s not just a date.”
Of course not. Because to Bucky, it didn't feel harmless. What happens when this guy charms you off your feet? What happens when you like him more than you liked Bucky? What happens then?
And whatever jealousy had flared in him earlier, it didn’t disappear, but he now realised how misplaced it was. “You could just… not,” he said.
You met his eyes. “And say what?”
The kitchen felt smaller suddenly.
“I don’t know,” he said, voice lower now.
After a long bout of silence, the oven timer went off.
You jumped out of shock, and Bucky turned around immediately. He grabbed a towel, yanked the oven open, and pulled out the tray.
The rich and warm smell of chocolate filled the kitchen instantly as He stared down at the cookies.
They weren’t charcoal this time, but the edges were still darker than they should've been.
You didn’t move from where you stood.
He let out a breath through his nose. “Well,” he said helplessly, setting the tray down. “Let’s hope your date likes slightly burned triple-chocolate cookies.”
The word date sounded wrong in his mouth.
“Buck…”
He didn’t look at you.
He stood there for a second longer, shoulders tight, hands braced on the counter like he was holding himself in place.
The kitchen felt too small for everything sitting in it. And Bucky, unfairly soft-eyed, stood there like he’d just walked into a firefight without armor.
“All this,” he said, staring at the cookies, “because I helped Bob get away with petty theft.”
You didn’t tease him this time, smiling sadly.
He finally looked at you, and there was no bravado left. “I know I don’t have any right to ask you to stay.”
Your heart squeezed in your ribs.
“But when we started this,” he continued, voice steady but vulnerable. “I said we should just see if it works.”
You stepped closer, heels off, date forgotten. “It works,” you said, reaching out to his human hand and squeezing it.
“So don’t go,” he said. “And I’ll stop pretending any of this was ever casual. I was lying to myself anyway.”
And deep down, you were, too.
For a second, you just looked at him. Then you reached past him.
He blinked. “What are you…”
You grabbed a cookie straight off the tray.
“Careful,” he warned immediately. “It’s hot.”
You took a bite anyway.
It was absolutely hot, but not too hot. Molten chocolate flooded the roof of your mouth, but you powered through it with determination.
He stared at you in disbelief. “You’re going to burn your tongue.”
“It’s perfect,” you declared stubbornly.
“It’s still burnt.”
You examined the dark edge thoughtfully. “The char gives it character.”
He huffed. “That’s not how that works.”
You broke the cooled-down cookie in half and shoved a chunk into his mouth mid-argument.
“Mmff—” he protested, though still opened his mouth anyway.
“See?” you said smugly. “Good.”
He chewed, trying not to smile, and failing miserably.
“There’s —mm— chocolate on your lip,” he said through the food, before swallowing.
“So?”
Instead of answering, he reached down, and leaned in and kissed the smear of melted chocolate from your mouth, not giving a damn about who walked in the room or whether or not you’d ruin the team dynamics for everyone. You genuinely could not give less of a fuck.
Your fingers curled into his flour-covered shirt.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“How could I let you walk out that door?” he sighed.
You smiled up at him, heart impossibly full. “How could I go?”
And that was it.
He let out an almost disbelieving laugh and pulled you fully against him, flour and all. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest, breathing in chocolate and sugar and him.
He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t chocolate-sweet or tentative. He was relieved and happy and a little bit giddy. His hands slid to your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter, flour puffing dramatically into the air like you’d triggered your own celebratory smoke bomb.
You laughed against his mouth as your fingers got tangled in his hair.
Just as his hands found their way to your hips again and you were very close to forgetting that the outside world even existed…
A voice cleared awkwardly behind you.
“Uh.”
You both pulled away and turned your heads.
Bob stood in the doorway. He blinked at the flour. At you on the counter. At Bucky standing between your knees.
“…I’ll tell Theo the date’s off?” he offered carefully.
You slid off the counter, attempting dignity and failing completely because there was chocolate on your chin and flour in Bucky’s hair.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Please.”
Bob nodded. “Great. Good. That’s— yeah. That’s good.”
Bucky cleared his throat, trying and failing to look unbothered.
Bob looked between you and sighed in mild relief. “Honestly? This makes way more sense.”
Summary: The fate of the universe was in your hands. Bucky and you had been sent to retrieve the soul stone, a seemingly simple task. Unbeknownst to you, there was a hefty price to pay for such an exchange. You’re able to return to Earth, but it’s soon apparent part of you was left in Vormir.
Pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader
Warnings: major angst, some fluff, swearing, major character death.
Word Count: 8.1k
Disclaimer: In this AU, Bucky didn’t get snapped and you two got the soul stone instead of Nat and Clint. Natasha is still alive in this universe.
~
If it weren’t for the circumstances, Vormir would have been one of the most breathtaking places you’d ever been to. The cool sand seemed to slide off your shoes seamlessly and the eternal sunset that peaked over the land reflected a warm purple color off of Bucky’s and your skin. If Bucky tried hard enough, he could momentarily convince himself that this was just a stroll on the beach for you two, that the fate of the universe wasn’t dependent on getting that stone.
But it was. So there you were. Hand in hand, silently hoping to leave this majestic place for more familiar scenery back home.
“I love you,” Bucky spoke, eyes remaining at the rocky mountain ahead.
“Don’t say that.”
“I do.”
“You make it sound like we’re going to die. Save it for when we get back home.” You were trying your best to stay collected, keep cool, but you were hanging on by a thread. The weight of what you had to do hadn’t dawned on you until you got to Vormir.
His eyes travelled over to you, giving you a melancholic look. In return you gave him a weak smile. As you further trekked towards the mountain, you knew something was wrong. Where was the battle? Where was the fight? It felt too easy, too simple to just climb a hill and claim one of the most powerful items in the cosmo. You knew something was wrong. He did too.
If only you both understood the dire fate you were about to become entangled in.
“After this, we should get married.”
“Bucky-”
“I’m serious,” he confessed, stopping to look directly at you. “I know I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Why shouldn’t we?”
You halted your movements to return your lover’s gaze. Sighing, you corrected lightly, “You’re just saying that because you feel like the world is ending.”
“Maybe because it is.”
“It’s been ending for the past five years,” you said, taking his hand back into yours to pull him along to your final destination.
“All the more reason. Doll, say yes and we get back and ditch this life for something simpler. Just you and me.”
“Buck-”
“Welcome,” an unfamiliar voice spoke out as you reached the peak of the rocky structure. You both whipped out your weapons, taking a defensive stance. A shadowy figure emerged from behind one of the stones, cloaked in a cape of darkness, face blood red. Not an ounce of flesh clung to his body, revealing an unnaturally bony figure.
“Bucky, son of Winnifred. Y/N, daughter of-”
“Cut the crap, what’s your game?” you spat, still ready to attack.
“There’s no game. I’m just a guide to the soul stone.” Bucky lowered his weapons, detecting this man was no threat to either of you. Not here, at least.
“How about you show us and we’ll be on our way,” he said, placing his gun back into its holster.
The stranger with the velvet face shook his head lightly in disappointment. “If only it were that easy.” Turning, he approached the edge of the cliff, Bucky and you cautiously following.
You looked over, seeing nothing but a long drop to the bottom, filled with uneven ground and rough terrain. “So the stone is down there?”
“To obtain the stone, one must lose which they love. The other must lose their life. A soul for a soul.”
For a few minutes, Bucky and you assessed your options.
You now leaned against one of the rocky walls, gazing out into the lovely dusk. Bucky paced slowly, trying to figure out what to do, if there was another way.
“He’s lying.”
“I don’t think he is,” you replied, nervously fixating on your hands.
“Why not?”
“Think about it, Buck. Thanos came here with Gamora and left with the stone, but not his daughter. . .”
You two knew what had to be done, but saying it out loud is what made the weight fall upon your shoulders. Although not tangible, it was suffocating at best and harrowing at worst.
You now shifted your position from the wall and stood at Bucky’s side. You both faced out to the edge, only feet away from obtaining the soul stone, looking out.
“If we don’t get that stone. . .” he spoke quietly.
“Billions stay gone. . .”
“I guess we know what we have to do.”
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
You turned to face each other, slowly. His faded eyes beamed into yours. You took the moment to remember his face, bask in it just one last time.
The bluest sea.
The quietest breath.
The strongest jaw.
The saddest eyes.
You rested your foreheads together, lacing your hands with the others. Bucky was ready to crumble at that moment, but he refused to cry. He didn’t want the last memory you saw of him to be such a tragic one.
“The answer’s yes.” You let out a weak smile, eyes closed.
His eyes remained shut as well, but he heard the grin in your cadence. “We’ll have to start planning when we get back, then. You’ve just made me the happiest man alive.” His voice remained low, stricken with grief.
“I love you, Bucky.”
“Hey,” he cooed, “‘I love you’s are only for the dying.” You sniffled as you let out a defeated laugh in response. “I love you too.”
He pulled his forehead back from yours, studying you. His hand cupped around your cheek and wiped a silent tear that threatened to spill over. Don’t cry for me, now.
“Another lifetime maybe?”
“I’m just sad it couldn’t have been this one.” He gently laid a kiss upon your forehead, lingering for longer than he meant to; he was just making it harder for himself. It was supposed to make up for the words he’d never get to say, the moments you’d never get to share. Taking your hand in his, he gently laid a kiss upon the back of it. For later. Finally, he gave it one last squeeze before letting go.
Simultaneously, you both turned to walk towards the edge. Your heads snapped immediately into the direction of the other.
“I don’t think we meant the same thing,” he said lowly.
“Seems like we have different ideas of who’s going.” Your voice remained steady.
“You have to let me do this.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I won’t.”
Like machine work, he gathered all his strength to toss you as far back as he could to the ground before he started bolting towards the rocky ledge. Grunting, you shot up and ignored the pain in your side to pursue him. Your adrenaline began to surge as you pounced him, taking him down as he swiftly moved.
“Please don’t make me fight you,” he begged.
“Bucky, you’re not going,” you commanded, frustration and sorrow arising in your voice.
He shoved you off of him and went to regain his footing. Before he could begin to run again, you conjured rocks out of the ground and wrapped them around his feet, causing him to come to an aggressive halt midmotion. You surpassed where he was quickly and dashed off the side of the cliff, free falling for only seconds before Bucky collided into your body.
Bucky wrapped his flesh arm around you and used his remaining metal one to grab on for dear life to the side of the jagged rocks. Now there you were, dangling, Bucky’s arm being the only tether you had left keeping you from a long way down.
“Bucky,” you breathed, “you have to let me go.”
“There’s no me without you, I can’t.” Tears were beginning to brim his eyes as he desperately tried to think of a way to get you back home.
Bucky’s grip was slowly slipping on you. Your fingers were finding ways to escape his grasp, shuffling and twisting, making it harder to keep a study hold. This was the way it had to be.
“We’re going to be okay, I promise.”
It was hitting him, there wasn’t anything else he could do. Your hold was too loose, he’d never be able to pull you back up. In that brief second, as he stared down at the love of his life, he contemplated letting his arm go, falling with you. He knew it’d be selfish, that you would’ve died in vain, that they’d never get the soul stone, that the world would have perished because of him, but his mind was a cloudy mess. He couldn’t begin to fathom a life with you.
Before you started your spiral down, he took one final moment to take in all the features he’d never see again. The ones that kept him safe at night, the ones that’d now haunt his dreams.
The softest lips.
The starriest gaze.
The truest heart.
The warmest smile.
One by one, your fingers released themselves from Bucky's hold, try as he might to keep his grasp on you. You were now falling, making your way down. You felt the air slide between your fingers as they left the safety of Bucky’s. The smell of the cold wind stung your nose as your further plummeted. Even from halfway down, you could see a pair of desperate blue eyes looking down at you. The final thing you heard was the blood curdling scream Bucky let out, the swan song of your love. The last thing you tasted was the grotesque flavor of metal that came with blood.
-
The world was smiling again, in all her glory. Families had been reunited, friendships were brought back together, and the sun seemed to be shining on the Earth once again. All was well.
Well, for most anyways.
There were those who crumbled under the wait. Faces that used to be called home were different now, unfamiliar. Some learned to move on, starting new lives without those from before. Others suffocated in the waves of the past.
Bucky returned with the stone.
They saved the world.
You saved the world.
He was supposed to be happy, joyful as the rest of the Earth. You died a hero, a true martyr. People sang your name in praise and for generations to come children would learn of your sacrifice. You died for a cause and that was supposed to help coax the pain. It never did, though.
There were nights where he’d wake up, aching for your touch once more, whispering your name. No matter how hard he hoped or how much he tried, he could never conjure you. You were a memory, a picture in the hallway, a piece of the past.
Bucky had always been a reclusive person, but your passing amplified his hermit tendencies. He never ventured out anymore. He confined himself to the small house you used to share, barely leaving the bedroom most days. The coffee cup you last used remained on the counter, undisturbed. He refused to move any of your things out, despite what everyone suggested. He couldn’t corrupt the last remaining traces of you. The team sent their condolences, words of pity to try to console him.
They’ll never understand. They didn’t know her like I did.
Of course, visitors came, not in droves, but a fair amount. As the days passed, they stopped coming by and Bucky stopped asking for them. What was the point? They couldn’t give him what he wanted.
The last person from the team to see him was Wanda. It was a brisk early winter night, not a star in the sky or a flake of snow on the ground. She stood at his door, hands in pockets, shielding what she could from the cold. It had been two months since that day.
He creaked the door open, looking out to see a familiar face, red hair tucked inside her coat hood.
“You look like shit.” His face had noticeably grown gaunt and his flesh was a sickly pale color. He looked beyond exhausted.
“It’s nice to see you too.” He was too tired to quip back.
“Can I come in?” Without saying a word, Bucky turned around to enter back into his house, leaving the door ajar as her only invitation in.
“How have you been?” Wanda asked, stepping in, taking in the house around her. Unopened mail piled up near the door greeted her. As she passed by the coat hanger, her fingers quickly lingered at the fabric of one of your jackets. If she didn’t know any better, it was almost like you were still there. Your shoes were still neatly placed near the door where you’d left them, your keys still on their usual hook.
“Never better,” he replied flatly.
“Bucky,” she sighed, “I want to help, but you can’t keep shutting me out like this.” She followed him into the kitchen where he stood, opposite the counter to her.
“Maybe I don’t want your help!” he barked back. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but he had grown so frustrated. He didn’t want sympathy, he wanted you. No amount of I’m sorry or this is what she would’ve wanted eased the ripping sensation in his chest.
“You’re not the only person who lost somebody,” she snapped.
Vision.
Steve.
Tony.
Gone.
Bucky sighed. He hadn’t realized how hard his hands were gripping onto the kitchen counter, knuckles turning white from the strain. She was right. “I’m sorry.”
“She was my friend too.”
“I know.”
Wanda sighed, rubbing her temples in frustration. “I don’t even know why I came here.”
“Wait.” Bucky released his grip from the counter, looking up at her. “Stay, please”
Wanda nodded silently. Bucky decided to concoct a small pot of tea to fill the silence. Despite being best friends with you, Wanda and Bucky never talked much. It wasn’t because they didn’t get along necessarily, they just existed as separate pieces of your life.
It wasn’t until now that they realized they were the closest thing the other had to a family left. The world had learned to move on without them. They were both caught in a state of purgatory, seemingly endless mourning. What bound them was that nasty sting of survivor’s guilt. The phrase it should’ve been me played in their minds like a broken record.
They sat on the couch, ignoring the piping tea Bucky made and instead opted to nurse a beer. It was times like these that Bucky really wished he could just get a little intoxicated, anything to ease his mood.
“Do you see it in your dreams too?” Wanda asked, taking another sip of her drink.
“What?”
“How she died.” A moment of silence paused. “I see Viz sometimes.” Her voice was quiet.
He simmered in the question for a minute. “Every night.”
Bucky heard a quiet sob come from her direction causing him to turn his attention away from his bottle and to her. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
“Your thoughts,” she sniffled, “they’re- they’re so loud. I can hear her, Bucky.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. That moment, those few minutes were on an eternal loop in his mind. He didn’t ever really stop thinking about it, but those few times the thought went dormant all he felt was numb. Wasn’t it better to feel sorrow than nothing at all, though? Doesn’t that just prove it was real?
Bucky went to gently place his hand on Wanda’s shoulder for reassurance. In a flash, he was back there, upon that rocky cliff reliving that awful moment. Except this time, Wanda saw it all too. Ripping his hand away abruptly he cursed under his breath. Wanda was now shaking, tears drowning her face.
“Bucky I saw it- I saw her.” She was crying too hard to form a coherent sentence but he knew what she meant. “Oh, Bucky, I’m so sorry.” She pulled him into an embrace, still sobbing. At first he wasn’t sure what to do, the last person he held being you, still trying to register how he felt. Soon enough, he settled into the hug.
Wanda pulled back after a few minutes, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, trying to regain her composure.
“She would’ve made a beautiful bride,” she smiled sadly, picturing her best friend adorned in a gorgeous dress.
“Yeah,” he ached, “she would have.”
“A soul for a soul.” She let the words marinate on her lips.
“A soul for a soul.” He let the words fester like a venom on his tongue.
They sat in the quiet of one another for a moment. Bucky felt awful Wanda had to watch her best friend die, but secretly it was oddly pleasant to share the burden. If he could’ve done the same for her, he would’ve. It was a strange comfort to know it hurt someone as much as it cut him.
“If you could, even if it was just for a while, wouldn’t you bring her back?”
“Wanda. . .” It was wishful thinking. You were gone.
“I miss her.”
“I miss her too.”
“Wouldn’t you do it?”
“You know I would.”
She then got up, excusing herself quickly. She left in a hurry, as if she were running late and thanked Bucky for the cup of tea she hadn’t even sipped. She had work to do.
He went to bed that night, dreaming of that day all over again. Except this time, it ended the way he wanted it; you safe at home and him at the bottom of a rocky tundra.
-
“Child, I am warning you, you’re playing with the natural law,” the Red Skull cautioned sharply.
“Are you going to stop me?” she asked, ready to face any obstacle that came in her way.
“I’m here to warn you. You cannot retrieve the soul. The exchange has been made.”
“You can keep the soul,” she hissed.
With those fateful words, Wanda had sealed your fate.
-
You didn’t know how long you’d been trapped inside the darkness, but once you were pulled from it, it was an abrupt awakening. Your ears continued to ring for a while longer, but you could make out snippets of a heated argument.
What did you do? I saved her. What if it’s no longer her? What did you trade? This is bad, this is bad. She’s back. This isn’t natural. None of what we do is natural.
Your mouth still had the slight taste of blood in it and your body ached, but besides that there weren’t many physical ailments you suffered. You began to open your eyes a little to assess the room. Bucky held tightly onto your hand, too busy ugly crying to see you had awakened. As you finally sat up, everyone in the room quickly turned their attention towards you. You used your free hand to shield yourself from the light.
“Is it really you?” Wanda asked, slowly approaching.
“I believe it is.” Something was different. Not physically perhaps, but you knew something had changed.
Bruce came over to look at your vitals, affirming that you would be fine. Wanda began to smile at you. Internally, though, she was panicking.
She knows.
“Y/N, I’ve missed you so much-”
“Wanda, I need to talk to you,” you cut off Bucky, not paying much mind to his tears. Everyone in the room was taken aback by your bluntness. Like a scorned child, Bucky slowly kissed your hand before leaving the room with the rest of the team. She just needs time.
“I’m different,” you commented, pulling and tugging out the many wires inside your veins to stand up.
“You’re back.” She embraced you, happy to see her friend alive.
“What did you do?” You didn’t bother to return the gesture.
“I got you back,” she sniffled, pulling away to look into your gaze.
You narrowed your eyes. “No, you did something else.”
“Y/N-”
“Fucking tell me, Wanda.” She wasn’t used to this version of you. You were distant, biting with your words. You normally would’ve never spoken to her that way.
“Don’t be mad.” Her tears were now ones of pain instead of joy.
“Fine. Tell me.”
“You don’t have a soul.” She was trying to hold back, not breakdown immediately. She was way in over her head with this one. But she couldn’t lose you and Viz, not if she could help it. You were all she had left.
You stared blankly at her. In your head, you knew that statement was supposed to warrant a reaction, some form of emotion. Nothing. No words came, no strong feelings manifested, so you just continued to look at her absent mindedly. What was there to say?
“But-” she continued.
“But?”
“I can fix this. We just need to ‘borrow’ a piece of someone else’s. It’s not perfect, but it can work.” Wanda wanted to sound convincing, but she wasn’t even sure she believed in herself at that moment. She wasn’t even really sure you would wake up once you were back.
You already had heard enough of her bargaining. You gave it a quick thought before responding. “No.”
“What?” Her face twisted into an expression of confusion and horror. Of all the reactions she pictured, she would’ve never assumed you wouldn’t want it back.
To her further surprise, you began to walk out of the room. There wasn’t anything left for you there, not that you could tell anyways. As you passed Bucky, he went to take your hand and get your attention.
“Doll, is everything alright?” His voice was gentle, eyes still puffy from the recent crying he had just endured.
“Yeah,” you answered, not stopping to look at him as you found your way to the exit.
Nat saw you were in pursuit of the door and casually stepped in front of it, creating a barrier. “Why so eager to head out?” she asked, careful in her tone.
You gave it a second of thought. “There’s nothing here for me.”
“Wanda, what did you do?” Clint wasn’t accusatory in his voice, but there was an underlying sharpness.
“She’s not dangerous, she’s just, she’s just-”
“You’re scared of me?” You asked everyone, inspecting the room. Footsteps were making their way to the nearest exit, others had their hands closed to their weapons, some just shifted nervously, unsure of what to do.
“Wanda, we need to figure out what’s happening or she can’t stay,” Bruce reasoned calmly.
“Like hell she can’t.” Bucky instinctively stepped in front of you. “Wanda is going to fix whatever this is. Right, Wanda?” He was desperate and was beyond horrible at hiding it. He wasn’t going to lose you again, not when he just got you back.
“I can, but-”
“See. She’s going to be okay.” He turned to look at you now, ignoring everyone else in the room. “You’re going to be okay. This must be really hard for you right now. Just like you said, we’re going to be okay, doll.”
“I am okay. Now if you don’t mind I’ll be on my way,” you said matter-of-factly.
“Love,” Bucky whispered dejectedly, “what are you talking about?”
They wouldn’t understand, but you knew you had to try to explain if you ever wanted to make it out without a fight. “My soul’s gone.” The room turned eerily silent. Some eyes turned to Wanda, others remained focused on you.
“Doll-”
“I don’t love you.” Every muscle in the room tensed with shock. This was not the same girl who died at Vormir. “Stop saying doll like it’s going to bring me back. She’s gone. I can’t care about you even if I tried-'' Suddenly, you were hit with a monstrous wave of fatigue.
As you were monologuing, Wanda snuck up behind you and was working her magic. She couldn’t continue to watch this, she didn’t need spells or sorcery to know this was killing Bucky all over again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered before the world went dark once more.
-
“You said you can fix her.”
“I can. I think.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“She wasn’t dead when I got there. She wasn’t alive. Her consciousness was in this sort of limbo state, neither fully in either state. I could pull her from that. But she didn’t have a soul, that was far gone once I got there.”
“That doesn’t sound like solving the problem.”
“I need someone else’s soul, even just a piece. Kind of like a transplant. It would morph into her and she could use it. I just need to find-”
“Use mine.”
“Bucky, I’ve never done this before and I don’t know what might happen. . .”
“Wanda. I said use mine.”
A silence fell between the two. It was only a matter of time before the team would find a way to return you. They loved you, but the person who came from Vormir was barely a shell of the girl they knew. They couldn’t have a mutant with no moral compass running around.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Bucky was really beginning to hate the concept of time. There was never enough of it, always slipping through the cracks of his palms. But there was nothing he wouldn’t do for more time with you.
-
The exchange happened in secret. It is quite a difficult thing to quantify a soul and even more challenging to find a way to split it into two. It was also unknown what the soul determined. You still had your memories without one and you still had desires, but no emotional regard for others. Would taking half of another person’s soul mean you were now that person? Did you feel emotions the way they felt them? Can you run off half of one?
The whole situation was messy, but Bucky and Wanda well knew they were past the point of no return. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t stay like this. This was the only viable option.
After what felt like centuries of darkness, your body was back once more. The lights, they were all too flashy, too proud. They mocked you, jeered in your face as they reflected off your pupils and announced I was here before you were born and I’ll exist long after you die. Light was a very prideful entity. But the way Bucky made you light up was warm, and soft. It was tender and its rays peppered I love yous along your flesh.
In many ways, having half of Bucky’s soul felt poetic. There’s no me without you. You were now tethered by a celestial bond, something deeper than what was written in the stars. You had a piece of him, you were a piece of him now.
Your eyes flickered open slowly, straining against the dim lamp. This time you were in your normal bed, no wires or needles poked or prodded into your skin. By your side were a nervous Bucky and Wanda, waiting with bated breath.
“Bucky?” your voice rasped.
“Y/N?” His voice was hesitant. He wasn’t sure what to expect anymore.
You immediately jolted up to embrace him. His arms were just as safe as you remembered, his hair just as soft as you ran your fingers through it.
“Buck, I’m so sorry,” you groveled. You had a crystal clear memory of all the hurtful things you had said, the image of a melancholic Bucky and Wanda etched in your mind. “Wanda, I’m sorry,” you hicked into Bucky’s chest.
“Shh,” he reassured you, “It’s okay. We’re okay now.”
“We missed you,” Wanda smiled, tears filling her wide eyes. You got up to hug her. A dizzy spell struck you as you got to your feet, Wanda having to bear some of your weight on her as you fell into a hug.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just a lot,” you smiled through joyous tears.
Life was beginning to look up. Sure, maybe you were a little tired, but that’s expected when you’re essentially resurrected from the dead.
“How long was I gone for?” you asked, sitting back down on the bed.
“Two months,” Bucky answered. Now that the excitement had waned, you saw how haunted he looked. His face was hollowed and his eyes were tinted an autumn red. He was by no means thriving, but he’d never looked so handsome to you.
As you looked at your best friend and your boyfriend by your side, surrounding you with warmth and hugs of reassurance, you knew things were going to be alright.
-
It was the fourth night you had returned. The team had greeted you, albeit hesitantly, and reveled in your comeback. The world knew of your return by your third. You were a hero, an emblem of greatness. It was a strange sight, walking around seeing portraits of your face along the city streets. What hurt most was learning of everyone who died along with you, their faces preserved in the same murals.
Peacefully, you slept next to Bucky, his arms wrapped firmly around you. He never let you out of his sight once you returned. Some would say it was overbearing, borderline clingy, but with the given circumstances you understood why.
You’d slept relatively with ease until that night. It all happened so quickly, rapid fire images. Their screaming. The blood. The horror in their eyes. The snaps and tears of their bodies. You woke up, breathing in deeply. In an attempt to regain your grip on reality you sat up and took a small sip of your water on the nightstand. Bucky felt your weight shift off of him and sat up alongside you.
“Everything okay?” he asked, rubbing circles on your back with his cool metal touch.
“Yeah, just a bad dream.”
“Was it about. . .”
“No. It wasn’t even mine,” you confessed.
Even in the dark, you could easily decipher that Bucky’s face was settled into a confused disposition.
You’d play this scene, many endless nights before. Except you’d usually be consoling Bucky, assuring him he was okay. They were all just dreams, not a reflection of his reality.
“I have your nightmares,” you whispered. It was strangely intimate, to not only hear about them, but live them. Borderline invasive.
“Oh, doll,” he lilted, holding you against his chest as you laid back down. He couldn’t help but feel horrified. He didn’t want you to see, to relive that part of his past.
“Do you have them often?”
“Not anymore.”
“Really?” you asked hopefully, eyes travelling to look up to him. “That’s good.”
“I have nightmares about Vormir instead.”
“I’m back, we’re alright,” you assured, nuzzling deeper into him.
“I know. I’m still scared I’ll wake up sometimes.” He rubbed light circles around your back. “And you’ll disappear again.”
“I’m here to stay.”
“Promise?” He knew you couldn’t.
“Promise.” You weren’t sure. But that was enough to hear for the night. It was all the convincing you two needed for the moment, even if it was capricious. You’d only been back for a few days, there were no signs you were staying or leaving. You fell asleep once more, being lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest. Bucky stayed awake, though. Every moment was precious, too irreplaceable to not enjoy. Sometimes he wished he could stay awake for every minute you shared. The cute face you made when you woke up, the way you tugged at his hand, how you sounded when you sang along with the radio.
You were right in his arms, but he couldn't help but dread this would slip from him again.
-
“I didn’t understand love until I met you. I love you when you’re happy and laughing and I love you when you’re angry with me. I love your messy hair in the mornings and I love your sleepy yawns at night. I love when you say my name loudly and I love when you take my hand mindlessly. There is not a piece of you I haven’t loved since the day I met you. You’re half my soul and my whole life. You’re my sun, my moon, my stars, and my everything. There’s not enough words to describe how much I love you with all my being. I love you, my love.” Tears streamed down his face as he spoke. He had prepared the vows the day you died and now here he was, saying the very same words to you.
Life was a dream, a ray of sunshine once again. He kissed your lips fervently, fearing he might perish if he had to stay another moment away from you.
You were his.
He was yours.
-
The sun peeked through the curtains and onto the kitchen floor. The snow was beginning to melt off the ground and the trees were collecting their green shades back. Birds chirped outside as you continued to make lunch. You heard the light sound of Bucky’s bare feet on the wooden boards as he sneaked up behind you, encaging you in his arms.
It had been three months since you returned. All was okay. You were finally going to be okay. It shouldn’t have happened and you sometimes didn’t believe it yourself, but you were here to stay. Your comeback didn’t come without its obstacles, of course. Running off of half a soul was not a particularly viable way to live. You’d began to grow weaker, slower in your movements. Unlike Bucky, you didn’t have super soldier serum to keep you running. You no longer had your previous geokinesis abilities which meant no more fighting. Bucky and you decided to retire from the Avenger’s because of that, but the extra time together took your mind off your fragile state.
You felt the tinge of Bucky’s stubble against your neck as he kissed it lovingly.
“What are you doing, Mr. Barnes?” you giggled, his beard hair tickling your skin.
“Admiring my wife, Mrs. Barnes.”
The wedding ceremony was modest. You two bought the first rings you saw and married the same night. You’d only been back a week, but you weren’t sure how much longer you had. Time, it was fickle as always. Wanda acted as your maid of honor. The rest of the team also attended. It was the happiest you’d seen any of them in a long time. Glasses clinked in celebration and well wishes were directed to the newly weds. It was the pick me up everyone needed.
Bucky continued to pepper kisses down your neck, shoulders, and collar bones. He just couldn’t get enough of you.
“How am I supposed to make lunch if my husband won’t give me some room?”
“Forget lunch, come cuddle with me,” he mumbled into your neck.
Before you could quip back at your husband, the breath was knocked out of your chest. If Bucky hadn’t been standing right behind you, you surely would’ve fallen to the cool ground.
“What’s wrong, doll?”
You went to answer him, but your words were stopped by a sharp inhale. You clutched at your chest, it felt like your heart was burning a hole inside your ribcage.
“Baby, c’mon stay with me now,” he pleaded gently. He lifted you up and tenderly set you on the couch to lay down.
“Bucky, I don’t feel so good,” you groaned, a light headed feeling settling into your skull.
“No, no, no, no,” he mumbled panickedly. “We’re going to get Wanda and you’re going to be alright. Okay?”
He went to dial her number, one hand still firmly gripped around your shaky one. Before the phone could let out its first ring, you were out cold.
-
“Bucky.”
“Yes, love?”
“We need to talk about it?”
“About what?” he asked, genuinely curious as to what you were referring to.
It was exactly two weeks since you passed out. Wanda came over to assess the damage. Maybe you just didn’t get enough sunlight or enough sleep. Bucky was hoping it was an issue of the Earthly medical realm. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t and instead called the only person who could possibly give answers.
You let out a sigh. Your fork mindlessly pushed around your food on your dinner plate. Recently, you’d lost your appetite. The days blended together, fading in and out of conscious understanding of your reality.
“You know what.”
Bucky swallowed and continued to stare at the plate in front of him. “She said she didn’t know.”
Your husband was never the optimist until you came back. He was strong headed, and resilient. At first his unwavering positivity was sweet. Quickly, you realized it was a state of denial. He was going to lose you twice and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. So he rather just not talk about it. He would rather make all the meals and do all the shopping and pretend that you sleeping eighteen hours straight was normal. Your new shivering habit was just a result of the cold wind and your lightheaded spells happened because you didn’t drink enough water. That’s what he tried to tell himself, anyways.
“What if I die tonight?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Bucky, you know as well as I do that it could happen.”
“I won’t let it.”
“You don’t get a say in that!” You yelled across the table. This forced Bucky’s eyes to peer up at you. “We have never gotten a say in any of this. Stop acting like we’re okay. Maybe Wanda can give you your other half back-”
“You are my other half. I don’t care about the soul, I want you.” He walked over to you and kneeled down to where you sat. He firmly looped your hands into his. “Can’t you see that?”
“Bucky, I’m dying.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We can’t stop it.”
“I know!” he cried. “I know.” He now put his face defeatedly into his hands. The usually large, intimating man looked pathetic crying on his knees on the kitchen floor. His body shook as his pulse raced.
Your fingers softly grazed through his hair to offer him some comfort. Maybe it was selfish, but you needed to hear him admit it. The fear that you’d leave and he wouldn’t be ready further and further crept into your mind at night.
“How about we go lay down?”
“Yeah,” he sniffled. “Yeah.”
“And you can tell me about your childhood.”
“And then you’ll tell me yours?”
“Of course, Buck.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” he affirmed, and gently kissed your hand before helping you upstairs.
-
“Wanda, what the fuck do you mean?” Bucky barked.
Her tone was solemn. “I told you it might not work.”
“She was alright just three weeks ago.”
“That’s a funny way to put it.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Bucky. Look at her.” Bucky and Wanda both stood at your bedroom door. After the first time you passed out, they knew there was no use in taking you to a hospital. They couldn’t help you, why waste the trip?
“She looks fine.”
“If you won’t stop lying to yourself then I can’t help you.”
Bucky glanced over to you, cradled in the sheets. He had been absolutely blinded by the fear of losing you. You’d begun to look sickly since the day you’d returned. It was slow at first, maybe a weak moment here or there, but as the weeks progressed you were withering more rapidly. The past week was the worst. You looked empty, barely surviving.
“We both have half a soul. How am I fine and she’s not?”
“Bucky, that’s not even half her own soul.”
He looked over to the love of his life as he asked, “Did you know this would happen?”
“I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Give her mine.”
“You’ll die,” Wanda reasoned.
“I don’t care anymore!” His voice was forlorn.
Bucky’s booming voice disturbed your deep state of sleep. You slowly began to peel your eyes open. It hurt to know the two people you loved the most were always arguing. All because of you. Because the world had to be saved and there was no other way.
“I’m not losing both of you,” she answered plainly through gritted teeth.
Slowly, your body began to rise to a sitting position on the bed. The two stared at you with pitiful gazes, scanning your figure. You looked like a wilting flower, clinging onto the last few breaths life could afford you.
“Bucky? Wanda?”
“Hey, doll,” Bucky soothed. “You had me worried. You feeling better now?”
It was hard to meet his sincerely hopeful gaze. As you looked back into his bright blue eyes, you could see his judgment was clouded. He was delusional.
You shook your head slowly. “It’s happening.”
“What are you talking about?” He slowly stroked at your cheek.
Wanda left the doorway for the living room. She couldn’t watch this any longer.
It’s a strange feeling, to know your body is succumbing to itself. The funny thing about death is, no one really plans on it. You had known for weeks and had plenty of time to come to terms with such a fate, but now that it was here, you weren’t sure what to do.
You slowly took your hands into Bucky’s hand and sighed. For a moment, you both allowed yourselves to become engulfed in the silence. Absently, you traced your thumb around the back of Bucky’s hand. His voice may have remained calmed, but his body betrayed him easily. He was shaking, like a sick kitten forced to endure the rain.
It felt appropriate to say something, anything. But the silence was welcoming. For those few minutes in the quiet, you could pretend that everything was normal. You were his. He was yours. It would be alright.
“We’re on borrowed time, Buck.”
“Don’t say that. Please, we’re going to fix this.”
“James.”
“Y/N.”
“The only other option is living with no soul. I don’t want that. I don’t want to die not feeling love. Yes, there’s a lot of pain too, but that comes with it. And that’s okay. We’re going to be okay.”
You began to lethargically inch off of the bed, tiredly tossing the sheets aside. Bucky couldn’t help himself, he immediately rushed over to try to help you lie back down.
“Doll, you’re sick. You need your strength. Please rest.”
“Bucky, I’m dying. There’s nothing we can do. I’m not spending my last few hours shut up in a bedroom.”
He nodded with a sense of understanding. “Okay.”
You hated putting him in this position, but he knew it was coming. There wasn’t anything left. It was your time and you wanted to spend it in a meaningful way. He aided you back into the living room. Wanda awaited on the couch, head resting in her hands. No exchange of words needed to happen, she already understood.
“I love you, Y/N.”
“I love you too, Wanda. Thanks for the extra time.”
You met each other in a warm embrace. She took in the scent of your hair one more time, the feel of your skin against hers. Wanda would miss the stories you’d never get to share, the laughs that would never happen, and most of all her best friend.
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it longer,” she smiled sadly. She wouldn’t cry until she got home. You’d been strong this whole time, the least she felt she could do was extend the same courtesy to you.
With a loving last squeeze, she released and excused herself out of the house. The door closed with a foreboding quiet and all that remained was Bucky and you.
“Do you want to see the team?” He was still staring at the door. This was truly the finale, it was all coming to a close.
“I don’t think they’ll make it in time. Let’s go somewhere.” Your eyes remained at the door as well.
“Where to?”
“How about the backyard. The sunset looks beautiful this time of year.” You took his hand in yours. With what strength you had left you squeezed it lightly.
“That sounds wonderful.”
Little by little, you made your way outside and took a seat on the small bench in the back. The air was that of mid spring, clean and welcoming in her wake. By now, many wildflowers had begun to pop up, decorating the green yard with soft pastels. You rested your head gently on Bucky’s shoulder, him still keeping a strong hold on your hand.
“What’s it like?”
“Death?”
“Yeah. Do you remember it?”
“Well,” you explained, “I wasn’t fully dead. I was in some in-between state. It was dark, but I wasn’t scared.”
“Are you scared now?”
You gave it a moment's thought. “No. Not when you’re here.”
The sun slowly made its descent and began to color the sky with beautiful hues in its path. There were swirls and combinations of magentas, lavenders, and oranges across the dusk canvas. The air settled into a cooler temperature, causing you to snuggle closer into Bucky.
“Maybe in another lifetime,” you pondered.
“I’m just sad it couldn’t be this one,” he answered. He was almost glad you couldn’t see him. Silent tears were violently making their way down his face.
Gently lifting your hand to his mouth, he kissed it lightly. For later.
The sky was almost the same shade as Vormir’s, illuminating your skin in a lovely violet. It was a halo around your image, beautiful enough to paint in a picture. Silence dominated most of your time left. There was too much left to say, so instead you expressed your last remarks to one another with your touches and sweet nothings. A quick kiss on the forehead, a longing gaze exchanged with the other, a tender I love you mumbled in the other's hair.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
“All the time.”
“I don’t say it enough. You’re beautiful. Thank you for the privilege of being yours.”
“Bucky.”
“Yes, doll?”
“We’re going to be okay.” You delicately placed a prolonged kiss on his cheek before returning to your previous position, your head on his shoulder.
“I know.”
The wind danced through the trees, the sun disappearing behind their jagged silhouettes. The sky faded to a deep lilac to finally a grand navy color. The sound of nature whizzed throughout the air and the steadiness of Bucky’s breathing was the only company it shared.
“Hey, Y/N?”
A distant animal pranced in the forest, crushing leaves as it travelled, filling the silence. The moon slowly began to take the sun's place, offering dim light to the tragic scene.
“Doll?”
The world went still. The blue in Bucky’s eyes travelled down to the girl leaning on him. Peaceful. She looked so peaceful. Weeks of fatigue and sleep deprivation had melted from her face and she looked content. Her soft hands still remained gripped around his, her eyelashes reflecting the beams of the moon off of them.
“I love you,” he whispered out into the lonely night.
-
The years went by. Your death wasn’t the only major one Bucky would suffer. He outlived many of his other friends, in fact. The super soldier serum kept him running longer than he intended. Still, everyday he would go to the small cemetery to talk to his lover. She was the greatest listener, the most fantastic person to cry to.
After two decades of her absence, he donated her items. To try to move on, to evolve from his past. But that didn’t help. She was everywhere. He still only slept on his side of his bed and made sure to come home at a decent time, subconsciously expecting someone to be waiting for him. There was a piece of her in everything he did. He hated it. He loved it. It was wonderful and the most horrendous feeling ever.
So there he sat now. Withered and grey on the coldest day of the year at your gravestone. He had lived a lifetime, desperately trying to remember the sound of your voice. The way it sang his name and how it lulled I love you. Your image was a fading photograph in his weary mind, a fuzzy picture of what could’ve been. As he took his final breaths, he thought of the girl he let fall, but just couldn’t let go.
~
A/N: I want to thank @cherry-season for the wonderful suggestion. I had a lot of fun (and a lot of crying sessions) writing this piece, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. All likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated. Have a lovely day.
pairing: best man!bucky barnes x maid of honor!reader | 4.8k
warnings: wedding shenanigans, lots of fluff, meddling!steve, one clipboard-induced stress spiral, mentions of alcohol, cheesy flirting, one suggestive line or two, absolutely zero chill on the dance floor
summary: you’re hell-bent on running your best friend’s wedding like a military operation. no distractions, no drama, and absolutely no falling for the groom’s best man. bucky barnes takes one look at the stressed maid of honor, hijacks the mic to ask the dj to “play a song for this pretty little lady,” and spends the night smooth-talking you out of your clipboard and into falling for him on the dance floor.
authors note: i don't know what to say about this fic. it came to me one day while listening to this song and i thought it would be so adorable to play out. i love it and i hope you do too!
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You realize the centerpieces are crooked at exactly 12:28 p.m.
Which is ridiculous, because you personally measured the distance from each vase to the edge of every single table last night. But there it is anyway—table eight, an inch off, leaning just enough that you can feel it from across the reception hall.
“I’m going to die,” you mutter, more to the universe than anyone else.
“Not before I get married, you’re not.”
You glance up to find Steve standing there in his dress shirt and slacks, tie hanging open around his neck, hair still damp from his shower. He’s supposed to be upstairs getting ready for photos. Instead, he’s wandered down to watch you spiral.
“Why are you here?” You hiss, flapping your clipboard at him. “You’re not allowed to see the chairs before the ceremony, it’s bad luck—”
“That’s not a thing,” he laughs, stepping around a folding ladder. “You made that up yesterday.”
“I stand by it,” you say, already speed-walking toward table eight. “Go away, groom. I have crooked hydrangeas.”
“Yes, and I have a best man you still haven’t met.”
You freeze for a fraction of a second before forcing your eyes to stay glued to the vase you’re rotating by—yep—one stupid inch.
“We’re not doing this,” you say, a little too fast.
“We are absolutely doing this,” Steve counters. “You like charming idiots with big hearts. That’s literally my entire personality and you adopted me in college.”
You squint at him over the flowers. “You were a stray in need of coffee and lecture notes. Don’t romanticize it.”
He grins, wide and hopelessly in love with the world this week. “He’s funny. And hot. And he thinks I’m a moron for trying to set him up at my own wedding, which, okay, fair. But it would break my heart if you spent the entire night running around instead of dancing with somebody who looks at you like you hung the damn moon.”
“I have to make sure this goes perfectly,” you say, markering a tiny check next to centerpieces on your color-coded list. “I promised Nat. She’s already stressed. If I’m not on top of it, who will be?”
“I hired staff,” Steve reminds you, gesturing toward the catering team. “They will be. That’s literally their whole thing.”
You ignore him and flip to the next page of your checklist. Lighting. Cake delivery. DJ arrival. Emergency sewing kit—
“Are you at least going to let him say hi?” Steve asks, softer now. “You’ve been dodging my texts about him for weeks.”
“I have not.”
He lifts his phone, scrolls, and starts reading. “And I quote: ‘lol no I’m busy.’ ‘Men are a scam.’ And my personal favorite, ‘if your best man is anything like you, I’m going to lose it and we’ll all die alone, thank you, next—’”
“Okay,” you cut in, cheeks heating. “First of all, that was clearly a reference. Second of all, you’re supposed to be getting married in”—you check your watch—“two hours and you’re harassing the maid of honor instead of… warming up? Meditating? Writing your vows?”
He pats his breast pocket. “Vows are done. I wrote them last week because unlike someone, I am not a chaos goblin.”
You glare at him.
He grins wider. “Just meet him. That’s all I’m asking. I want my two favorite people in one room.”
“We’re in one room right now.”
“I want my two favorite people who aren’t marrying me in one room,” he amends.
“That’s a suspiciously romantic thing to say on your wedding day.”
“Shut up and let me live.”
You sigh, knowing you’re losing this battle. You always do. Steve weaponizes his puppy eyes and you crumble like day-old cake.
“Fine,” you grumble. “You can introduce us. Briefly. But if he distracts me and the cake collapses, that’s on you.”
“Deal.” Steve leans over, presses a quick kiss to your temple, and starts backing away. “You’re gonna love him.”
“I didn’t say I’d like him,” you call after him. “I said I’d meet him.”
“Same thing!” he yells, already halfway out the door.
You roll your eyes so hard it gives you a minor headache, then turn back to your list.
You have a ceremony to run. You do not have time for some guy with nice eyes and a stupid smile just because your best friend thinks you’ll hit it off.
You definitely don’t have time to fall in love on the dance floor.
Bucky is late, which is not his fault.
Technically.
He blames the traffic, the parking situation, and the fact that Sam insisted on stopping for coffee and then took one sip and decided it “tasted like sorrow” and sent Bucky back to get him another one.
By the time he makes it into the side entrance of the hall, Steve is waiting with his arms crossed and his “I’m trying not to be mad because I love you” face on full display.
“You’re late,” Steve says, unnecessarily.
“I brought coffee,” Bucky offers, holding up the cardboard tray like a peace offering.
“That doesn’t—actually, give me one.” Steve snatches a cup. “Nat will kill us if we’re sluggish in the photos.”
“She’ll kill you,” Bucky says. “I’m a guest.”
“You’re the best man,” Steve protests. “And speaking of. I tried to introduce you earlier, but she escaped.”
“Who?” Bucky asks, distracted by the way the reception hall looks like a Pinterest board exploded in here. Fairy lights twinkle from every beam. The tables are set with blush linens and white hydrangeas. There are tiny handwritten name cards at each seat, each one in the same neat script.
Someone has been working their ass off.
“My maid of honor,” Steve says. “Well. Nat’s maid of honor. My best friend. The one I’ve been telling you about for, like, months? The one whose texts you keep asking me to screenshot?”
“I do not—”
Steve arches a brow.
Bucky sighs. “Okay, I asked once.”
“You asked three times and sent a heart emoji.”
“Those are lies.”
Steve pats his shoulder. “Look, just… don’t let her stay glued to a clipboard all night, okay? She’s been planning this thing like it’s a UN summit. If anyone can distract her long enough to have fun, it’s you.”
Bucky smirks. “Is that your way of saying I’m charming?”
“It’s my way of saying you won’t shut up,” Steve says. “Use your powers for good.”
“Okay, okay.” Bucky holds up his hands. “Point me in the direction of our overworked maid of honor and I’ll work my magic.”
“She’s probably backstage threatening the florist,” Steve says fondly. “You’ll know her when you see her.”
He’s right.
Bucky follows the soft hum of chaos to the far side of the hall, and there you are—commanding the staff like a tiny general in a pastel dress.
You’re juggling a headset and a clipboard and a roll of tape, your brows furrowed in concentration as you direct a pair of servers toward the cake table.
“No, not there, that’s for the toasts,” you say. “We need the sweetheart table visible from the door so they don’t miss the grand entrance. Yes. Perfect. Thank you. No one touches the cake without telling me, okay? If it leans even a little, I will cry.”
Your voice wobbles just enough on the last word that Bucky feels it in his chest.
You look… frazzled. Gorgeous, obviously—your dress hugs you in all the right places, and there’s a tiny streak of flour or maybe dust across your forearm from hauling something earlier. Loose strands of hair frame your face, escaping whatever style you tried for this morning.
You look like you care so much it hurts.
Bucky’s screwed.
He waits until the servers are out of earshot before stepping up beside you.
“Ma’am,” he says, pitching his voice smooth, “I’m gonna have to ask you to step away from the cake.”
You jump so violently you nearly drop your clipboard. “Oh my God—”
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds quickly, hands up. “Though, for the record, if anyone’s going to make it lean, it won’t be the cake.”
You blink up at him, eyes wide, taking him in. You do a quick scan—suit, tie in the wedding colors, boutonniere—before your gaze flicks to his face.
He can’t help it; he smiles.
You swallow. “I know you?”
“James Barnes,” he says, offering a hand. “Bucky. Best man, chronic menace, occasional savior. You must be the legendary maid of honor.”
There’s a flash of recognition in your eyes. “Steve’s Bucky?”
“I’d like to think I’m my own person,” he says, “but yeah. That’s me.”
You take his hand and shake, your grip firm despite the tremble in your fingers. “I’m… yeah. I’m me.”
He laughs. “You have a name, me?”
You exhale, cheeks flushing. “Sorry,” you tell him your name, and it clicks into place like it was always supposed to sit on his tongue.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Your eyes narrow. “If he told you about the incident with the chocolate fountain, it was an accident.”
“I feel like I need more context,” Bucky says. “But we can circle back. I was sent here with a mission.”
You glance warily at his empty hands. “Does it involve a fire extinguisher?”
“It involves you,” he corrects. “And dancing. And the promise that if I don’t get you on that dance floor tonight, Steve will never forgive me.”
You snort. “He’s supposed to be thinking about his bride, not my social life.”
“He says he wants you to have fun,” Bucky replies. “Apparently you’ve turned wedding planning into a full-contact sport.”
Your gaze slides down to your list. “Someone has to keep things moving.”
“Sure,” he says lightly. “But maybe that someone could also move to the beat later. Just a little. For morale.”
You look at him like he’s slightly insane.
“Do you have any idea how many things can go wrong at a wedding?” you ask. “The florist could be late. The officiant could mispronounce their names. The DJ could forget the playlist. The ring bearer could swallow a ring. The cake—”
“—could lean,” he supplies, gesturing toward it. “I’ve been fully briefed on the cake situation.”
You shake your head. “If I don’t stay on top of it, Nat will worry. If Nat worries, Steve worries. If Steve worries, he’ll make that face—”
Bucky mimics Steve’s concerned eyebrows and you huff out a laugh despite yourself.
“Exactly,” you say. “So no. No dancing for me. I’ll be over there making sure the bartender doesn’t serve tequila to the flower girl’s dad before the ceremony.”
“That sounds like a terrible time,” he comments. “For you, anyway. The flower girl’s dad is probably thrilled.”
“Welcome to weddings,” you say, already turning away. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.”
He watches you march off, headset crackling as you switch it on.
“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “You too.”
The ceremony goes off without a hitch.
You watch from the side of the gazebo, heart swelling as Nat walks down the aisle, radiant in lace and soft tulle. Steve’s eyes are suspiciously shiny; Bucky claps him on the back, whispering something that makes him laugh through his nerves.
You don’t cry.
Much.
Once the last of the guests files back toward the hall, the real chaos begins.
You’re everywhere at once—coordinating the transition from cocktail hour to reception, cueing the DJ, wrangling the bridal party for photos, smoothing down Nat’s veil when it catches on a shrub. Your feet ache in your heels by the time the guests start filtering into the reception hall, dazzled by the lights and the flicker of candles.
The playlist starts up soft and romantic. You hover near the DJ booth, triple-checking the order of songs, the timing of the first dance, the father-daughter dance, the bouquet toss—
“You know, most people only do one job at a time,” a familiar voice says behind you.
You turn to find Bucky leaning against a support beam, tie slightly loosened now, jacket off, dress shirt sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms. His boutonniere is still hanging on for dear life.
You try very hard not to stare.
“Most people don’t give me a free pass to micromanage,” you say. “I’m making the most of it.”
“And how many items have you checked off that list so far?” he asks, nodding toward your clipboard.
You glance down. Half the page is already covered in little triumphant checkmarks, but there are still more lines below.
“Some,” you say evasively.
He tuts. “That’s not a number I recognize.”
“Are you a math teacher now?”
“I’m flexible,” he says. “I can be whatever you need. Best man, dance partner, human distraction from your stress spiral—”
“I’m not spiraling,” you protest.
“You’re vibrating,” he counters.
You open your mouth to argue, but at that moment the DJ calls everyone’s attention for the grand entrance. You’re swept up in the choreography of it—lining the bridal party up, whispering last-second instructions, cueing the music. When Steve and Nat finally burst through the doors to applause and cheers, your chest fills like someone opened a window.
This is why you do it. The joy. The love. The moment everything works.
The first dance follows, then the parents’ dances, then dinner. You weave through the room, checking on guests, troubleshooting minor crises (someone’s zipper broke, a centerpiece holder wobbled, a cousin got teary and needed extra napkins).
Every time you glance toward the head table, Bucky is already looking at you.
He winks once. It throws you off enough that you nearly walk into a waiter.
Later, during the toasts, you finally stand still.
You squeeze Nat’s hand before taking the mic, your speech folded and refolded in your palm. Your voice wavers at first, but it gains strength as you talk about late-night study sessions that became friendship, about the way Nat lit up when she talked about Steve, about how she deserves the world and somehow found a man determined to give it to her.
“And lastly,” you say, blinking away tears, “I promise to stop calling you at two a.m. to stress about napkin colors. You’re married now. You’re free.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
You blow them a kiss and hand the mic off to Bucky.
He’s a smooth talker, Steve had said.
You believe it the second he opens his mouth.
Bucky’s speech is equal parts chaotic and heartfelt. He tells stories about Steve’s terrible haircut phase, about the time he broke his nose trying to impress Nat with a skateboard trick, about how he’d never seen his best friend look more terrified and more sure than when he’d bought the ring.
“And as for Nat,” Bucky says, glancing your way just long enough to make your stomach flip, “I knew she was a keeper when she dragged Steve into a craft store and somehow walked out with a full-scale mood board and a color palette in under twenty minutes. Anyone who can wrangle him and plan all this?” He gestures around. “She’s a superhero. And her maid of honor…” His gaze lingers. “Well. Let’s just say she’s a miracle worker.”
You pretend you’re very interested in the tablecloth to hide the way your cheeks burn.
“To Nat and Steve,” Bucky finishes, raising his glass. “May your lives be as full of love as your Pinterest boards. Cheers.”
He’s funny. Charming. Completely at ease with a microphone in his hand and a hundred eyes on him.
It’s… a problem.
You’re still trying to get your heart rate back under control when the DJ announces the dance floor is open.
You instinctively check your list.
Everything necessary is done. Dinner served. Speeches given. Cake-cutting scheduled. Only the fun stuff remains.
Your pen hovers over the last unchecked line.
Dance.
You hesitate.
A warm presence at your elbow startles you.
“Moment of truth,” Bucky says.
You look up. He’s holding out a hand, his expression soft but determined.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve earned at least one dance.”
You shake your head, the old anxiety flaring. “I should stay available. In case something goes wrong. The DJ might mess up the next song or the—”
“I think he’s got it,” Bucky says.
You glance toward the booth. The DJ flashes you a thumbs-up.
Traitor.
“I really—”
“Tell you what,” Bucky interrupts. “Give me five minutes. If you hate it, I’ll help you patrol the rest of the night. I’ll be your co-commander-in-chief of wedding security. I’ll even confiscate suspicious champagne flutes.”
You chew your lip, torn.
On the dance floor, Nat catches your eye and makes an exaggerated go motion with both hands, her grin wicked.
Of course she’s in on this.
“Fine,” you sigh, more to yourself than to him. “Five minutes.”
Bucky’s smile could light the fairy lights all on its own.
He takes your clipboard gently from your hands, sets it on the DJ’s table, then twines his fingers with yours and leads you onto the dance floor.
You feel exposed. Untethered without your checklist. The music thumps through the speakers, a bright, upbeat track that has guests spilling onto the floor in couples and groups. Bucky pulls you into the edge of the crowd, close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm and clean, with a hint of something you can’t name.
“Relax,” he says softly, one hand settling at your waist. “No one’s watching you.”
You snort. “That’s objectively untrue. Nat is absolutely watching me.”
“Nat is busy making heart eyes at her husband,” he counters. “Trust me. I’ve known Steve since we were kids. When he looks at someone like that, the rest of the world disappears.”
You follow his gaze and see it—Steve and Nat wrapped up in each other, swaying in a bubble of their own making.
Your chest aches.
“See?” Bucky murmurs. “They’re good. You did good. The whole night is beautiful because of you.”
“Because of them,” you correct weakly.
“Because of you too,” he insists.
His hand squeezes your waist, guiding you into the rhythm. At first your steps are stiff, your brain still half on the logistics of cake-cutting and sparkler send-offs.
But Bucky is… easy.
He jokes about the guy at table four who’s already loosened his tie and is attempting to moonwalk. He spins you clumsily at one point and almost gets elbowed in the ribs by a toddler, laughing it off in a way that makes you laugh too. Little by little, the knot in your stomach starts to unwind.
“You’re good at this,” you admit over the music.
“Dancing?” He shrugs. “I’ve been known to bust a move.”
“Distracting people,” you say. “I haven’t thought about the cake in five minutes. That’s unprecedented.”
He beams. “High praise.”
A slower song fades out, replaced by something with a bright, familiar beat. The DJ starts to segue into another generic wedding track, but Bucky suddenly squeezes your hand.
“Be right back,” he says. “Don’t move.”
He disappears into the crowd before you can question it, weaving through the dancers like he was born on a dance floor. You watch him head straight for the DJ booth, lean in to say something. The DJ nods, scrolls through his system, and then—
A new song starts.
The opening groove hits, funky and smooth, and your heart does a silly little flip because you know this one. Of course you do. It’s Bruno. It’s bright and cocky and joyful, the kind of song that drags even the shyest person out of their seat.
You blink as Bucky takes the spare mic from the DJ with an ease that should not be allowed.
He turns back toward the crowd, eyes finding you immediately.
“Hey, Mr. DJ,” he says, voice echoing through the speakers, “play something for this pretty lady right here.”
Your jaw drops.
Heads turn. People start cheering and whistling, looking between you and Bucky like they’ve stumbled into the climax of a rom-com.
Your face goes nuclear.
“Oh my God,” you mumble, covering it with your hands.
“Too much, maybe?” the DJ asks Bucky with a grin.
“Just enough,” Bucky replies, handing the mic back. He drops off the little platform and cuts through the crowd again, all confidence and swagger and barely-contained excitement.
You’re torn between tackling him and fleeing the building.
He stops in front of you, slightly breathless, and bows at the waist like you’re royalty.
“May I have this dance?” he asks, eyes dancing.
“You are ridiculous,” you tell him, even as you slide your hands up to his shoulders.
“Ridiculously charming,” he says. “Ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously into the maid of honor who hasn’t taken a break all day—”
“You’ve known me for five minutes.”
“Longest five minutes of my life,” he deadpans. “I’m already in too deep.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you without permission. The last of your resistance cracks.
“Fine,” you say. “But if I trip, you’re going down with me.”
“Deal.”
He pulls you closer as the song kicks in properly, the beat infectious. You let it take over, letting your hips move, letting your body loosen. Bucky matches you step for step, not crowding you but not holding back either.
It feels easy.
You spin under his arm, your dress flaring. He steadies you with a hand at the small of your back, his touch gentle but firm. Heat flares under your skin in a way that has nothing to do with the packed dance floor.
He leans in, his lips close to your ear.
“You look happier when you’re not clutching a clipboard,” he murmurs.
“You’re very obsessed with my clipboard,” you mutter back.
“I’m obsessed with the girl hiding behind it,” he corrects softly.
Your breath catches.
“That’s a strong word, Barnes,” you manage.
“Yeah, well,” he says, spinning you again, catching you easily as you come back to him. “I’m thinking big tonight.”
You look up at him, really look. At the laugh lines near his eyes. At the easy curve of his mouth. At the way he watches you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room, like he’s trying to memorize every expression you make.
Your heart does that weird, traitorous squeeze.
You just might be in trouble.
The song shifts into another, just as upbeat. You don’t notice the transition. Time blurs into a loop of laughter and motion and warmth.
At some point, Steve and Nat join in, dancing near you. Nat bumps your hip, eyebrows raised halfway to her hairline.
“Having fun?” she mouths.
You roll your eyes and nod, unable to stop smiling.
“Thank you,” Steve says quietly when he spins past, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky.
You don’t have to ask what he means.
You’ll thank him later. Probably. If you survive this night without combusting.
Bucky keeps you out there for song after song, give and take. When you start to flag, he guides you to the edge of the floor, snagging a couple of waters from a passing server.
“Hydrate, boss,” he says, pressing a bottle into your hand.
“Are you mocking my leadership style?” you ask, bumping his shoulder with yours.
“Never,” he says. “I’m fully prepared to follow your every order. Within reason.”
“Within reason,” you repeat, amused. “Can I order you to stop flirting?”
“No,” he says. “That’s against my religion.”
You snort water up your nose.
He looks absurdly pleased with himself.
You glance back toward the hall. Everything is still running smoothly. Guests are dancing or laughing at their tables. The cake is intact. The DJ is in his element. Nat and Steve are wrapped up in each other, lost in their own orbit.
No disasters. No fires to put out.
For the first time since this whole thing started, you let yourself believe that maybe… you did it.
Maybe it’s okay to let go.
“Hey,” Bucky says suddenly, more serious. “Can I ask you something?”
You turn back to him, curious. “Sure.”
“Is this why you don’t dance at weddings?” he asks. “Because you’re busy taking care of everyone else?”
You open your mouth to answer with a joke, but the words get stuck somewhere behind your teeth.
You look down at the bottle in your hands, twisting the cap.
“I like control,” you admit after a moment. “I like knowing everything’s going to go the way it’s supposed to. Dancing is… the opposite of that. It’s messy. Unstructured.”
“Fun,” he adds gently.
“Terrifying,” you correct.
He’s quiet for a beat.
“Can I make a confession?” he says.
“Is it about how you hijacked the microphone?” you ask. “We’re absolutely talking about that.”
He chuckles. “That too. But, uh. I had this picture in my head before I even met you.”
You look up, startled. “What?”
“Steve talks about you like you hung the stars,” Bucky says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’ve seen photos, sure, but it’s not the same. I started imagining it, I guess. What it would be like to see you at this wedding. In some ridiculous dress, frowning over a clipboard. What it would take to get you to look at me instead of your list.”
Your chest tightens.
“And?” you ask softly.
“And the second I walked in and saw you bossing people around with tape on your arm, I thought… yeah. That’s her. That’s the girl I just might fall for if I’m not careful.”
Your heart stutters.
“Bucky,” you say, barely a whisper.
He holds up both hands, half-grin, half-plea. “I know, I know. It’s fast. It’s insane. We’ve known each other for, what, six hours? But I can’t remember the last time someone made me want to risk getting in trouble with the DJ just to see them smile.”
You stare at him, the edges of the world going soft and blurry. The music, the chatter, the clink of glasses—it all fades into the background.
“I don’t do this,” you tell him honestly. “I don’t meet guys at weddings and… I don’t know. Just might fall for them on the dance floor.”
He leans in, close enough that you can count his eyelashes.
“Then we’re both brand new at this,” he murmurs. “Kinda exciting, don’t you think?”
You exhale, a shaky little laugh. “Terrifying,” you repeat.
“Maybe both,” he says. “We could figure it out. Slowly. After tonight. Coffee. Dinner. Screaming into the void together when someone uses Comic Sans on an invitation—”
“I would never—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “That’s why I like you.”
You bite your lip, fighting a losing battle.
You think of all the times you’ve stayed on the sidelines, safe and in control, watching other people dance. Other people fall. Other people risk looking stupid and getting hurt and being happy.
You think of Steve, eyes shining at Nat at the end of the aisle. Of the way your heart swelled and ached all at once.
You think of the way Bucky looked at you when he said that’s the girl I just might fall for.
Maybe tonight is the night you leave your clipboard on the table.
“Okay,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds. “Ask me again.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You heard me,” you say, nudging him toward the dance floor. “Ask me again, properly. No microphones. No theatrics.”
His eyes soften. He steps closer, one hand finding yours, fingers threading together.
“Can I have this dance?” he asks.
You smile.
“Yes,” you say. “You just might.”
He grins like you handed him the moon.
He pulls you back onto the dance floor, into the crush of bodies and music and light. This time, when his hand settles at your waist, you don’t think about the cake or the playlist or the potential for disaster.
You think about the way his thumb strokes absent-minded circles against your dress.
You think about tomorrow, and next week, and the electric possibility of more.
You let the music carry you, let your body sway against his, let your brain go blessedly quiet.
You let yourself fall—not all the way, not yet. Just a little.
Just enough.
Later, when the night winds down and the guests drift away, when the last sparkler fizzles out and Nat and Steve disappear into their getaway car, you’ll find your clipboard waiting on the DJ’s table, untouched.
A new line will be scribbled at the bottom in unfamiliar handwriting.
Dance with Bucky again.
You’ll glance up to find him leaning in the doorway, tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled, hair a little mussed from hours on the dance floor.
“So,” he’ll say, pushing off the frame. “How about an after party? There’s this little diner down the road. I hear their milkshakes are life-changing.”
You’ll look at the list, then at him.
And you’ll realize you don’t need a checkmark for this one.
does nobody want to write excruciating angst anymore? i keep trying to find angst only to end up with “hurt/comfort” “happy ending”. WHAT ABOUT “no comfort”, and “no happy ending”?? people don’t want to write peak anymore. and yall keep tagging it angst when its full on smut.. its like nobody wants to write angst these days
summary: a gladiator who survives to spite the gods. a princess who loves him anyway. and a promise made in moonlight, a life built too late—by the sea.
pairing: gladiator!bucky x princess!reader
content warnings:⌞18+ MDNI - graphic depictions of violence⌝ alternate universe - gladiator/fighter & ancient greece au, bucky is only referred to as 'james' (with one greek iteration of it), author is bad at history so expect inaccuracies, forbidden lovers, descriptions of blood and violence, era typical societal roles (ie poor people are slaves & the rich own the slaves etc), flirting?, yearning, mutual pining, semi slow burn, a few greek phrases, worse than lovers, angst, hurt/semi comfort, angst with dare i say no happy ending? (a little bit), just a tragic romance, depictions of death, major character death, minor religious themes (praying to gods), doomed by the narrative, not beta read we die like bucky men.
w/c: 11.8k
a/n: what is grief if not love preserving? idk what happened with this one i wont lie, its been sitting in my drafts dusty asf and i randomly thought about it the other day and just locked in on it. had to tap into the sad part of the mind palace for this one, i hope you enjoy & thank you for reading. <3
edit: ps i forgot to put it in but i was thinking of you @quantumbarnes the entire time i was making this header, it just oozes your vibes and i love it (and you 😋)
The first thing they took from James Barnes was his name. They called him the Thracian, though at the time he had never set foot beyond the valleys where olive trees grew crooked and stubborn, their roots splitting stone just to survive.
The second was his future.
He had grown up where the land was thin and stubborn, where olive trees twisted themselves into survival and the earth rewarded only those who bled into it. His father taught him how to coax crops from unkind soil, how to mend a fence with rope that should’ve snapped years ago, how to keep his head down when men with polished armor rode through villages like gods who’d forgotten mercy.
When the levy came, they didn’t call it slavery.
They said it was duty.
His father kissed his mother’s brow, pressed a calloused hand to James ’s shoulder, and promised he would return when the season turned. He never did. The silence that followed hollowed their home out from the inside. No letters. No word. Only rumors carried on merchant tongues—men sold to the arenas, branded and broken for sport.
James was sixteen when he became the man of the house. Too young. Too angry. Too desperate.
He learned hunger early after that. Learned how to steal without being seen. How to lie with a straight face. How to stand between his sister and the world with nothing but his own body and stubborn will. It still wasn’t enough.
They caught him lifting grain from a magistrate’s storehouse one winter morning, fingers numb, jaw set. The punishment was swift, efficient, merciless. Chains. Paperwork. A mark burned into his future.
Fit for the pits, they decided.
That was how he ended up here—sun-baked stone, salt in the air, the roar of thousands pressing down on him like a living thing.
The arena smelled of blood and iron and anticipation.
They shoved a sword into his hands that was better balanced than anything he’d ever owned and told him to fight. No lessons. No prayers. Just the sand and another man just as desperate not to die.
James didn’t fight like a hero. He fought like a farmer’s son who knew how to endure.
He stayed low. Conserved energy. Waited for mistakes the way he once waited for frost to break. When the opening came, he took it without hesitation, blade driving home as the world narrowed to breath and heat and survival.
When it was over, his opponent lay bleeding but alive, groaning and dragged away by attendants.
James stood alone in the sand, chest heaving, ears ringing with the crowd’s approval.
He had won. It felt like nothing.
They washed the blood from him quickly, roughly, as if he were livestock. Bound his wrists again. Then came the summons.
His sponsor awaited him.
The magistrate was everything James despised—soft hands heavy with rings, a fine robe draped over a body untouched by labor. This was the man who had signed the order that turned theft into a lifetime sentence. The man who smiled now as though he’d personally cultivated James ’s strength.
“A promising debut,” the magistrate said. “You’ll bring prestige to my name.”
James said nothing.
Silence had become its own kind of armor.
They escorted him through the palace gates, past columns painted in reds and blues that told stories of gods and beasts and victories long past. The air changed here—cooler, perfumed, untouched by the grit of the arena. This was the heart of power, and it made his jaw tighten.
The courtyard opened wide, sunlight spilling over polished stone.
That was when he saw you.
You stood near a fountain, draped in linen the color of fresh milk, hair caught up with gold that glinted when you turned. A princess—not in the way stories made them fragile, but in the way mountains claimed the sky. You looked at him directly, unflinching.
Curious.
“Is this him?” you asked, voice calm, measured.
The magistrate bowed. “My newest gladiator, Your Highness. He fought well today.”
Your gaze lingered on James —not on his chains, not on the scars mapped across his skin, but on his eyes. “You did,” you said. “Your movements were precise. Controlled. You carry great skills in fighting.”
James met your stare despite himself.
“It’s not a skill,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “It’s survival.”
The courtyard went still.
The magistrate laughed awkwardly, as if to soften the edge of it. “They’re an ungrateful lot, gladiators. Don’t mind—”
“I do mind,” you said, quietly.
Your eyes sharpened, not offended but intrigued rather. As though he had handed you a truth no one else dared offer. “Most men thank the gods for the chance to prove themselves.”
“My father was brought here,” James said before he could stop himself. The words burned on the way out. “He didn’t come back. I don't think he was thanking the gods then.”
A beat. Something unreadable crossed your expression. Not pity. Not horror.
Recognition.
“I see,” you said.
The magistrate cleared his throat, already uneasy. “We should—”
“Yes,” you agreed, though your eyes never left James . “We should.”
As they turned him away, you watched him go—this man who refused gratitude, who wore defiance as naturally as scars. You did not know why his disapproval lingered with you longer than the cheers ever had.
But you made a note of him.
And in palaces like this, even the smallest of notes had a way of becoming fate.
Life in the pits was not made of battles. Battles were brief. Loud. Final.
What wore a man down were the spaces between.
James slept on stone with a thin mat that smelled of old sweat and rust. The ceilings were low, the air stale, the light rationed like mercy. Every morning began with the scrape of sandals and the bark of orders, the clatter of weapons dragged from racks by men who pretended they were choosing swords instead of coffins.
He learned quickly where to stand, when to speak, and most importantly, when not to.
That didn’t stop them from testing him.
The other gladiators circled like dogs who sensed weakness in silence. Bigger men with heavier arms, men who laughed too loudly and hit too hard. They shoved him in corridors, knocked his food to the floor, tried to take his space in the yard.
James never started it.
He finished it.
The first time, he broke a man’s nose with his forehead and walked away bleeding from the mouth, eyes cold. The second time, he dislocated a shoulder and left the arm dangling uselessly as a warning. After that, the shoves stopped. The looks didn’t.
He trained harder than the rest. Not because he believed in the games—but because hunger had taught him that effort was the only thing no one could steal from him. He sharpened blades until his fingers split. Ran laps until his lungs screamed. Fought with the same grim patience he’d used in fields that never yielded enough grain.
At night, when the noise settled and the shadows stretched long, he thought of his father.
Of how the same walls might’ve heard his breathing once. Of how the sand had probably drunk his blood just the same.
That was when Steve found him.
Steve Rogers was smaller than most of the men in the pits—narrow shouldered, pale in a place that burned color into skin. What he lacked in size, he made up for in speed. He moved like a thought—quick, clever, always just out of reach.
They met over a shared water jug and a bruised rib.
“You fight like you’re expecting to lose,” Steve said one night, not unkindly.
James snorted. “I fight like I don’t plan to die today.”
Steve grinned at that. A real grin. Unbroken.
From then on, they stuck together.
They sparred in the yard, Steve darting in and out while James learned to adjust, to guard against what he couldn’t overpower. They traded food when one came up short. Shared silence when words felt like too much.
Eventually, they shared stories.
Steve spoke of a village near the coast, of a mother who sang while she worked, of a house he used to sketch in the dirt when he was a boy. “I’m gonna win enough,” he said one night, staring up at a ceiling neither of them could see past. “Buy my freedom. Go home. Build myself a place with a porch. Somewhere quiet.”
James listened.
Then Steve nudged him with an elbow. “What about you?”
James stared at his hands—scarred, strong, already half-owned by the arena. “I think I’ll die here,” he said simply. “Same as my father.”
Steve frowned. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” A beat. Then, softer, almost embarrassed by the truth of it: “But if I got one wish… I’d burn the coliseum down. With me in it.”
Steve went quiet.
Then he nodded, slow and solemn, like a man agreeing to a prayer he understood too well. Somewhere above them, crowds cheered for blood.
The summons came without ceremony.
A messenger arrived at the magistrate’s residence before midday, breathless and pale, bearing the seal of the palace. The words were polite. The implication was not.
The magistrate arrived an hour later, robe immaculate, hair oiled, confidence carefully arranged across his face like armor. He bowed deeply when ushered into the inner chamber, where cool shadows pooled beneath painted columns and the sound of water echoed softly from a nearby fountain.
You stood near the window, watching the city beyond the palace walls.
“You sent for me, Your Highness?” he asked, smooth as polished stone.
“Yes,” you said, turning at last. Your expression was calm, unreadable. “I wished to ask you about your gladiator.”
The smile came easily to him. “Ah. The Thracian. A fine investment already—”
“From what I was told,” you interrupted, “His name is James.”
The magistrate hesitated. Just a fraction of a breath. Then he chuckled lightly. “If you say so, Princess. As I understand it, he came from nothing. A thief. Strong, but unremarkable beyond that.”
Your gaze sharpened.
“Unremarkable men do not look at the arena the way he does,” you said. “They do not refuse praise. They do not speak of death so plainly.”
The magistrate shifted his weight. “Well… gladiators are a morose sort. The pits do that to them.”
“You sponsored him,” you replied. “You own him. Are you telling me you know nothing of the man who brings you honor?”
A pause.
He cleared his throat. “I know enough.”
The displeasure crossed your face then—brief, but unmistakable. Your lips pressed together, eyes cooling like shaded marble. You turned away from him again, dismissive in the way only royalty could afford to be.
“I see,” you said quietly. “You may go.”
Panic flared behind his eyes.
“—Unless,” he added quickly, words tumbling over one another, “unless Your Highness wishes to know him better.”
That caught your attention.
He straightened, seizing the moment. “I could bring him here. Under guard, of course. A conversation. You are entitled to inspect any property tied to the games.”
Property. You turned back slowly, expression carefully composed.
“A conversation,” you repeated.
“Yes,” he said eagerly. “It would be my honor to facilitate it.”
Your gaze drifted, thoughtful now—not pleased, but considering. You imagined the gladiator again: the set of his jaw, the quiet fury beneath his restraint, the way he spoke of survival as though it were a wound.
“Very well,” you said at last. “Bring him to me.”
The magistrate bowed so low his rings nearly brushed the floor. “As you command, Your Highness.”
As he departed, relief written into every step, you returned to the window. Below, the city moved as it always had with merchants shouting, soldiers marching and the distant echo of cheers from the arena.
They brought James to the palace at dusk.
Chains still bound his wrists, iron links clinking softly as he walked—head high, shoulders squared, eyes sharp with the awareness of men who had learned long ago how quickly curiosity could turn lethal. The magistrate walked ahead, flushed with importance, while guards flanked him on either side, hands never far from their spears.
You waited in the inner garden.
It was quieter here, tucked away from marble halls and echoing chambers. Flowers drooped in the lingering heat, petals curling in on themselves, the air heavy with water and crushed leaves. When James was brought before you, he did not bow.
He did not kneel. He only stopped.
You gestured to the chains, a simple expression that took the breath from the room.“That will be all,” you said calmly.
The magistrate hesitated. “Your Highness, the chains—”
“Remove them.”
The garden stilled.
“My princess,” one guard began carefully, “for your safety—”
“If he wished to kill me,” you interrupted, eyes never leaving James ’s, “he would have done so already. In our first meeting. Or on the walk here. He may even try later, and if he succeeds we shall know what— or who you're truly dealing with. Though I doubt that.”
James’ mouth twitched despite himself.
The magistrate swallowed, then nodded sharply. “Do as she says.”
The chains fell away with a dull, final sound. James flexed his hands slowly, like a man reacquainting himself with his own body. The guards stepped back, but not far. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to pretend they trusted him.
You gestured toward the path winding through the garden. “Walk with me.”
After a beat, he did.
“What is it you wish to know?” he asked, voice low.
“Everything,” you replied lightly. Then softened it. “Where you came from. How you ended up here.”
He exhaled through his nose. “That’s a long walk.”
“We have time.”
So he told you.
Of olive trees and thin soil. Of a father taken under the guise of duty. Of hunger and theft and iron laws written by men who never starved. He did not dramatize it. Did not ask for pity. He spoke as though recounting weather—harsh, unavoidable.
“I am sorry about your father,” you said quietly when he finished. “I never knew mine. Only stories of great victories. Brilliant tactics.”
James glanced sideways at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “They usually clean those up,” he said. “Sounds better that way.”
You smiled faintly. “You think they lied?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that they probably made him into something easier to cheer for. Easier to swallow. War does that.”
A hush fell behind you. Guards stiffened. The magistrate went pale and braced for your sentence of banishment or beheading.
James continued, unfazed. “Truth is? He was probably a vicious murderer. Died hot-blooded, scared, and forgotten.”
Every breath in the garden seemed to stop. You turned to face him fully.
Then, to everyone’s shock, you smiled.
“Thank you,” you said.
“For…?”
“Not pretending,” you replied. “It’s rare for people to feel the ability to be honest with me. Refreshing.”
The tension loosened, slow and reluctant. You resumed walking.
You spoke then of smaller things. He talked of sweat and stench of the lower pit chambers. You lamented the way flowers wilted too quickly in this garden, as if they resented the palace as much as men did. He told you how the sand never truly came out from under a gladiator’s nails.
Eventually, his disdain surfaced fully, raw and unapologetic as it slipped through conversation.
“The coliseum,” he said flatly. “This palace. The whole of Rome. It’s all built on bodies.”
You studied him. “And if you could leave?”
“I would,” he said without hesitation. “I’d sail until the land stopped knowing my name. Live quiet. Alone.”
“That sounds lonely,” you said.
“At least it would be a life,” he replied. “Not a performance.”
The words settled between you, heavy and undeniable. For the first time since meeting him, you realized something dangerous and thrilling all at once: James Barnes did not belong to the arena.
And he did not belong to your world either. But gods help you, you wanted to know what it would take to change that. They turned back toward the heart of the palace as the light began to fade, shadows stretching long across the stone.
The air shifted the closer you drew to the main chambers—less green, less alive. Duty seeped back in through marble and torchlight. Guards fell into tighter formation, steps more deliberate. The magistrate reappeared like a bad habit, already signaling for the irons.
James didn’t resist when they reached for him.
The chains closed around his wrists again, cold and familiar. He barely flinched. You watched it happen, something tightening low in your chest.
“Wait,” you said.
Everyone froze. You stepped closer, gaze lifting to meet his. “When is your next fight?”
James blinked, caught off guard. “Not for a while,” he answered honestly. “They space them out when a man survives too long.”
Your lips curved—not playful, but intent. “I look forward to it anyway.”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. You leaned in just enough that only he could hear you. “Stay alive until then.”
For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between you.
“Yes, Princess,” he said quietly.
They pulled him away before either of you could say more.
The pits welcomed him back with heat and noise and the comforting misery of familiarity.
Steve didn’t give him three steps before ambushing him.
“The princess?” Steve hissed, eyes wide as he dragged James into a shadowed corner. “You’re telling me the actual princess summoned you?”
James shrugged, playing it loose. “Wanted to see how well I fought.”
Steve stared at him. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He left the rest unsaid. The garden. The chains falling away. The way you listened, not like royalty, not like a spectator, but like someone who meant to remember him. Steve eventually shook his head, muttering something about trouble and luck and gods who enjoyed cruelty, before being called away to training.
James lay back on his mat when night came, stone leeching the warmth from his skin.
He told himself not to think about you. Did it anyway.
The way the sun had caught on the gold of your armband, how it pressed gently into the soft of your skin when you moved. The sound of your voice when you smiled—genuine, surprised, unafraid. The look you gave him when you told him to live.
Above him, the arena slept. Below it, a gladiator stared into the dark and wondered when survival had started to feel like hope.
The longer he was there the more life settled into a rhythm, one he never asked for.
Beans boiled down until they split. Barley so dry it scraped his throat going down. Water that tasted faintly of metal. He ate because hunger made a man stupid, and stupidity got men killed. Around him, bodies thinned and thickened in cycles, new fighters arriving full of terror and bravado, old ones leaving carried or not at all.
He watched men learn how to disappear inside themselves. He watched others break.
Sometimes it happened quietly—a fighter who stopped speaking, who stared too long at nothing. Sometimes it was loud and sudden: a scream in the night, a body dragged away before dawn. The pits did not mourn. They replaced.
James endured.
He trained. He slept. He fought when ordered. He counted days by the ache in his joints and the scars knitting over older scars. Through it all, he kept an eye on Steve, quick-footed, stubborn, still smiling more often than sense allowed.
Then one night, Steve didn’t come back walking.
They dragged him in just before torchlight dimmed, blood slicking the stone behind him. His leg was split open from thigh to calf, a deep, ugly gash that bled freely, soaking the hem of his trousers, dripping down to his foot.
James was on him in an instant. He shoved past a gawking fighter, dropped to his knees, hands already working. Tore cloth into strips. Pressed hard, ignoring Steve’s hiss of pain.
“Easy,” James muttered. “You’re not dying yet. Don’t get to be all dramatic now.”
Steve laughed weakly. “You always say that.”
James cleaned the wound as best he could with what little water he had, jaw clenched tight as he stitched skin together with practiced care. He’d learned young from watching his mother sew his shirt shut, forced to practice on himself when he took too deep of a fall, on men who didn’t have anyone else to do it.
When it was done, the bleeding slowed. Steve sagged back against the wall, pale but breathing steady.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
James sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “You still owe me for last week.”
Steve huffed. “I know.”
Silence settled, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind earned. As sleep began to pull Steve under, he shifted, voice dropping. “James.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s… something.” Steve swallowed. “I’ve been saving.”
He turned his head. “Saving what?”
“Coin. Little bits. Winnings. Bribes. Stuff men don’t notice.” His eyes fluttered. “I’ve got it hidden under the arena. Been counting it. I think… I think I’ll have enough soon.”
James felt something tight and sharp lodge in his chest.
“If I don’t make it,” Steve continued softly, words slurring as exhaustion took hold, “you take it. Don’t let it rot down there. Use it. For you.”
He shook his head once. “You’re gonna make it.”
Steve smiled faintly, already halfway gone. “Just in case.”
He fell asleep then, breathing even, leg bandaged and mended as much as it could be. James stayed awake long after. Listening to the distant hum of the arena above them. Thinking of freedom buried beneath stone. Thinking of promises men made when they were too tired to pretend.
And somewhere, beyond walls and iron and sand, a princess had told him to stay alive.
So he did. James prepared the way he always did, methodically and without ceremony.
Leather straps tightened around his forearms. Fingers checked the edge of his blade, then checked it again. He stretched until his joints loosened and the familiar ache settled into something usable. Around him, men muttered prayers or boasts or nothing at all. Some laughed too loud. Some stared at the floor like it might open and swallow them whole.
James did neither.
His mind split cleanly in two.
One half cataloged the fight ahead, an unknown opponent, likely heavier, likely slower. He planned his footwork. Counted breaths. Remembered where the sand dipped near the eastern edge of the arena and how blood made it slick.
The other half betrayed him completely.
He wondered if you would be there. Not just present—of course you would be present. The princess always was. But watching. Watching him. Not glancing away when steel met flesh. Not distracted by wine or whispers or spectacle.
He wondered if your eyes would find him the way they had before. James clenched his jaw and pulled harder on a strap.
You had told him to stay alive.
The words had lodged themselves somewhere inconvenient—beneath his ribs, perhaps, or behind his eyes. He had turned them over in the dark more times than he cared to admit, searching for meaning he had no right to want.
Why should you care?
He was a gladiator. A slave. One body among hundreds offered up to the sand. Princes and princesses were taught to mourn in abstractions, to value lives in numbers and victories, not names.
And yet. You had stopped him. Asked him when he would fight again. Looked at him like his answer mattered.
James exhaled slowly.
Maybe it was curiosity. Novelty. A fleeting interest in a man who refused to be grateful. Or maybe—he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
The horn sounded in the distance. Steel rang as gates were tested. The roar of the crowd seeped down through stone, a living thing calling for blood.
James rolled his shoulders and stood.
If you were watching, he would give you nothing pretty. No grand gestures. No heroic flourishes. Only survival, honest and unadorned. He stepped toward the light with one promise clear in his mind, steady as a heartbeat, sharp as steel.
He would do what you asked. He would stay alive. The noise hit first.
Not sound exactly, more like pressure. A wall of voices crashing into him as the gates opened and the light poured in, white and unforgiving. James stepped onto the sand and let it wash over him without reacting. He’d learned early that the crowd was not there for him. They were there at him. A force, not an audience.
He didn’t look up.
He didn’t need to.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the weight of the blade. Feel the sand shift under his feet.
Stay alive.
The thought cut clean through the roar.
His opponent was already moving—bigger than James as he had expected, shoulders thick, weapon heavy. A man who liked to end things quickly. James saw it in the way he advanced, confident, hungry for a decisive blow that would make the crowd sing his name.
James didn’t give it to him. He circled. Let the other man swing first. Steel screamed through air inches from his head. James ducked, rolled, came up with his heart hammering but his mind steady.
Let him tire.
That was the trick. It always had been. Strength didn’t mean much if you burned it all at once. The fight stretched on. The sun beat down. Sweat ran into James’ eyes, stung his scars. His opponent’s breathing grew heavier, steps less precise. Each miss cost him more than it cost James to evade.
Then came the mistake.
A feint too slow. A lunge too eager. James stepped in to capitalize and misjudged by a hair.
Pain flared sharp and bright as the blade kissed his left arm, slicing deep enough to burn. Blood spilled immediately, hot and slick, running down to his wrist. The crowd roared louder at the sight of it.
James staggered back, teeth bared—not in fear, but in fury.
Not today.
He tightened his grip despite the pain, forced his arm to keep working. Endurance carried him where speed failed. He absorbed the next clash, drove his shoulder forward, used his weight and stubborn refusal to quit to shove the other man off balance.
When the opening came, James took it.
One clean, brutal strike. Strength behind it. No flourish. No hesitation.
His opponent went down hard, the wind knocked clean from him, blade skittering uselessly across the sand. James stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping steadily from his arm.
The signal sounded.
It was over. He didn’t look to the stands as they dragged the other man away to see if he were alive or dead. Didn’t search for gold or linen or familiar shapes. If you were watching, he couldn’t afford to know it. Knowing would make him reckless.
He walked back through the gates on his own feet.
They patched him quickly in the underbelly of the arena—rough cloth, rougher hands. The cut stung like hell, but it wasn’t mortal. He barely registered it.
He was still breathing. That was when he saw his sponsor waiting in the shadows.
“Clean up,” the magistrate said sharply, eyes flicking to the blood on James’ arm. “As fast as you can and better than last time.”
James frowned. “Why.”
“The princess wants to see you again.”
Something in James’ chest went tight and warm and dangerous all at once.
He nodded once. “Yes, δεσπότης.”
As the magistrate turned away, James pressed his palm against the stone wall to steady himself—not from the pain in his arm, but from the echo of a promise that had carried him through steel and sand.
Stay alive. He had done what you asked. Now all that was left was to find out why he had.
James was cleaner this time. Much to his surprise.
Not clean, the pits never truly left a man but his hair was damp, his arm freshly bound beneath linen, blood scrubbed away until only the ache remained. He was brought to you in the outer courtyard, sunlight catching on stone and bronze, the day far too pleasant for the things that happened beneath it.
You looked him over with a familiarity that startled him.
“You fought well,” you said.
James exhaled through his nose. “You know I—.”
“I know,” you interjected easily. “That doesn’t make it less true.”
He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “Is this another walk through the gardens, then?”
“No.”
You smiled—small, conspiratorial. “We’re going for a ride.”
Before he could respond, you lifted your hand. The command carried.
The carriage arrived in a smooth roll of wheels and leather, drawn by two pale horses, polished and unmistakably royal. Guards immediately stepped forward, already moving to take their places beside you.
“I want James with me,” you said.
The words landed like a dropped blade.
“Your Highness,” one guard said carefully, “slaves walk behind the carriage. Or alongside it. They do not ride inside.”
James stiffened, already preparing to step back. “It’s fine—”
“No,” you said flatly.
The guard tried again. “For safety reasons—”
You turned to James then, eyebrow lifting. “Do you plan to kill me?”
James froze.
“What—no,” he said quickly, hands coming up in surrender. “Absolutely not.”
“See?” you said sweetly, turning back to the guards. “No plans.”
James shot you a look, muttering under his breath. “I don’t think anyone who did would admit it.”
You laughed—soft, genuine. “You survived the arena today. I think you can survive a carriage ride.”
The guards hesitated, visibly torn between protocol and the unmistakable steel in your voice.
“Inside,” you repeated. Reluctantly, they obeyed.
James climbed into the carriage with careful movements, like a man expecting the floor to fall out from under him at any moment. You followed, settling across from him, the door closing with a quiet finality that made his pulse jump.
As the carriage lurched forward, James glanced at you again. “You really shouldn’t trust me.”
“I don’t,” you said calmly. “I trust your honesty.”
He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “That might be worse.”
The carriage swayed as it pulled away from the palace, wheels humming over stone worn smooth by centuries of passing lives. Sunlight filtered through the open slats, catching dust in the air, brushing gold over everything it touched, including you.
James sat stiffly at first, knees drawn in, hands folded like he was afraid they might offend someone if left idle. He kept glancing at the walls of the carpentum, then out at the street, as though committing it all to memory.
“I’ve never been in one of these,” he admitted at last.
You smiled faintly. “No?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t think I ever would be. Still don’t think I will again.”
There was no bitterness in his voice. Just fact.
“They’re overrated,” you said lightly. “If I could, I’d walk everywhere. Feel the road wear me down one step at a time.”
James let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “I’ve felt the earth,” he said. “It’s not kind.”
“No,” you agreed, without hesitation. “It isn’t.”
The carriage rolled on, horses snorting softly as the city passed by beyond the wooden frame—vendors calling, children darting between shadows, life happening at a distance neither of you truly belonged to.
“But it’s real,” you continued, voice lower now. “And I’d trade every jewel, coin, and gilded wall in that palace… for something real and true.”
James turned to you fully then. Really looked at you—not as a princess, not as a symbol, but as a woman sitting across from him in a moving box pretending to be free.
For the first time since he’d met you, he didn’t know what to say. Honesty, he’d learned, was dangerous. In the pits, it got men killed. In palaces, it got them remembered for the wrong reasons. And yet here you were, offering it freely, like it cost you nothing at all.
“I didn’t think people like you were allowed to say things like that,” he said quietly.
Your mouth curved, but there was sadness in it. “People like me aren’t allowed a lot of things.”
The carriage lurched slightly over uneven stone, and for a moment your hands brushed as you steadied yourself. Neither of you pulled away right away. James swallowed. Something shifted inside him, something unsettling, unfamiliar. A crack in the armor he’d built from endurance and expectation. He had known hunger. Pain. Loss.
But this—this was different. The ride grew quieter the farther they went.
Stone gave way to dirt, the city’s noise thinning until it was nothing but wind and the soft creak of the carriage. James noticed it before he understood it, the way the land flattened, the way markers grew scarce and uneven, the way the air felt heavier, older.
When the carriage finally slowed to a stop, he already knew.
Beyond the wheels stretched an open field scarred with shallow mounds and broken stones, some marked, most not. No names. No offerings. Just earth piled back over bodies that had once been useful.
The dead Rome did not bother remembering. Your breath caught, not dramatically but enough that he heard it.
“Stay here,” you told the guards quietly. “Give us a moment.”
They hesitated.
You didn’t look at them when you repeated it.
They stayed back. James stepped down from the carriage slowly, boots sinking into dry soil. His chest felt tight, like something had reached inside and closed a fist around his lungs.
“This is where they bring them,” he said. Not a question.
You nodded. “Those who aren’t claimed. Those who they believe aren’t worth ceremony.”
His jaw flexed. Somewhere out there, beneath unmarked earth, beneath weeds and indifference, his father lay. Or what remained of him. A man who had promised to come home.
You stood beside James, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you, though you did not touch him.
“You should know I think about you more than deemed necessary,” you said suddenly.
The honesty of it hit harder than any blade. James turned his head slightly, but you kept your gaze forward, eyes tracing the horizon like you were bracing yourself against it.
“There’s something about you,” you continued. “You fight to survive, yes—but there’s restraint in you. You’re not merciless. And you’re not merciful either.” A pause. “It’s as if the gods themselves stepped aside and let you decide who lives and who dies.”
James swallowed. He had never thought of it that way. Never allowed himself to.
“I don’t choose,” he said quietly. “I endure.”
Your mouth curved faintly. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”
The wind stirred the tall grass around the graves. The world felt very wide, very small. James knew, knew that he should step back. That he should put distance between you and everything you represented. Princess. Palace. A life he was never meant to touch.
But instead, his hand shifted.
Just slightly.
His fingers brushed against yours, his rough and calloused pinky curling around the edge of yours, soft and slender.
It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t possessive. It barely counted as a touch at all.
But you didn’t move away. You let your hand rest there, close enough that warmth bled through skin and silence, enough to say everything neither of you could afford to speak. Together, you stood before the dead. And for that moment, no matter how brief, forbidden or achingly real—it was enough.
The ride back was silent yet thick with tension. Something had changed between you two that day as you stood with the dead, something unattainable through something as simple as words.
You both told yourselves the same lie.
This is kindness.
This is duty.
This means nothing more.
And each of you believed the other far more easily than you believed yourselves.
James told himself that you were generous because that was what princesses were taught to be—gentle where it cost them nothing, curious where it amused them. That your interest in him was obligation, or novelty, or a sense of guilt sharpened by proximity. He told himself you looked at him because you were trained to look at everyone that way.
He told himself this every time you sent for him.
You told yourself that James was loyal because loyalty was all he had left. That his quiet attention was habit, not longing. That the way his eyes tracked you when you spoke was vigilance, not devotion. You told yourself he listened because he had learned that listening kept men alive.
You told yourself this every time you found another excuse.
A request to walk the outer gardens—for the air.
A summons to observe training—for understanding.
A short ride beyond the palace walls—for perspective.
Each time, you freed him from the pit for a few hours at a time, and each time the world seemed to breathe easier for it. You showed him small things.
The fig tree that split the stone and refused to die.
The balcony where you hid as a child to watch storms roll in.
The servants’ passage where laughter lingered longer than incense.
James watched it all like a starving man offered bread—not touching too quickly, afraid it might vanish if he moved wrong.
He told himself it meant nothing. You told yourself the same. Still, you found yourself thinking of him when he wasn’t there. Wondering if he had eaten. If his arm still ached. If the sun burned too hot in the pit that day.
And James—James lay awake on stone nights, imagining a life that would never be his.
A small house by the sea.
A woman who walked barefoot beside him.
No chains. No sand. No cheering.
He never let himself imagine your face too clearly. That felt dangerous.
The bracelet came on a morning that felt ordinary until it wasn’t. You held it out to him in the shade of the garden—woven red and white thread, simple and uneven, made by hands that had learned patience instead of survival.
“A martaki,” you said lightly. “For protection.”
James stared at it like it was something holy.
“For me?”
You shrugged, trying to make it casual. “If you want it.”
He took it with careful fingers, like it might dissolve if handled too roughly. When he tied it around his wrist, just above old scars and newer ones, something in his chest tightened painfully.
“Thank you,” he said, and meant far more than the words allowed.
From that day on, he guarded it like his life depended on it. He cleaned around it instead of over it. Hid it beneath wrappings before fights. Checked it after every blow, every night, every return from the sand.
And you, watching him notice when it was visible, watching the way his thumb brushed it unconsciously when he was tired, told yourself it was nothing.
Just thread.
Just kindness.
Just duty.
But sometimes, alone in your chambers, you let yourself imagine a world where neither of you had to lie. And somewhere beneath the arena, James did the same.
Each of you believing your longing a private sin. Each of you secretly hoping the gods were listening anyway.
The summons comes long after the palace has gone quiet. Not formal. Not written. Just a soft knock at the pit door and a guard who won’t meet James’s eyes.
“She wants to see you. Now.”
James almost says no.
His left side still burns beneath the bandages, stiff with dried blood and healing gone wrong. Every breath pulls. Every step reminds him how close the sand came to keeping him.
But he goes anyway. He always does.
They bring him not to the audience hall, nor the gardens, but to a small antechamber lit by a single oil lamp. No courtiers. No musicians. No guards inside, only the door closed behind him with a sound that feels final.
You’re already there.
Sitting. Wrapped in a simple cloak instead of silk. Hands folded too tightly in your lap. For a moment neither of you speaks. Then your eyes lift and you see the way he’s standing, how carefully, how his weight favors one leg.
“You’re hurt,” you say.
James exhales. “I’ll live.”
That’s when it cracks. Not loudly, not all at once. Just enough. You cross the room before he can stop you. Your fingers hover, uncertain, then settle lightly at his arm, just above the bandage. You don’t touch the wound, only the place where his body learned fear.
“I thought you were dead,” you whisper.
James swallows. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to carry the truth of it without letting it show.
“I waited,” you continue, voice unsteady now. “Every time the crowd roared, I thought—this is it. This is when they cheer for his end.”
Something in his chest twists hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s the only thing he’s ever been allowed to offer.
You shake your head. “I’m so tired of losing people.”
The words fall between you like a confession already made.
James looks at you then as he always does, as if he had a special lens to looks right at you. At the shadows under your eyes. The tension held too long in your shoulders. A girl raised on marble and gold who has buried more than she’s been allowed to mourn.
“I don’t know how you do it,” you say softly. “Walk back into that place. Over and over.”
He almost laughs. It comes out as breath instead.
“I don’t,” he admits. “I just… survive it.”
Silence stretches. Thick. Fragile. Your hand is still on his arm. James feels the martaki bracelet press warm against his wrist, grounding him. Reminding him he is here. That this is real.
“If things were different—” you begin.
He stiffens. His heart starts to pound so loudly he’s sure you can hear it. You stop yourself, breath hitching.
He opens his mouth anyway, shaking his head in preemptive denial. “You deserve—”
What could've been something almost sacred, almost pivotal and true is quickly tossed aside as duty slams down between you two like a blade, footsteps and voices echoing from the hall. Reality clearing its throat. You pull your hand back as if burned.
“I'm sorry I—” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
The door opens. A summons for the princess back at the palace.
A reminder that their world that does not bend for almosts. James steps back, every instinct screaming to stay, to say something reckless and true. To claim the moment before it vanishes forever.
But he bows instead. You straighten, the princess again, mask settling into place with practiced ease. There's a quick cross of hesitation on your face, something in your mind pulling your brows together until you cast a small glance behind yourself.
Seemingly sastified with the lack of company you step towards him, the closest you've ever been. The air around you smells like floral and fresh mint, a pale lavender stem twisted in the clip of your hair. James is too enveloped in your proximity to realize what's happening until he feels something pressed into his hand.
The key is small. Ordinary really, iron worn smooth at the edges, no jewels, no crest. It shouldn’t feel like anything in his palm. It feels like everything.
You presses it into his hand when no one is looking, fingers closing over his knuckles just long enough to make the world tilt. Your voice is quiet, steady in that way it always is when you look braver than you feel.
“Before dawn,” you say. “The terrace above the east gardens. You won’t be seen.”
James swallows. He wants to ask why. Wants to ask if this is a mistake. Wants to ask a hundred things that would all sound like hope, and he has learned the cost of hope.
Instead, he nods.
“Yes, my princess.”
Your mouth curves—sad, fond, unreadable. Then you're gone, swept away by guards and duty and the weight of a crown you never asked for, leaving him with a key burning a hole through his fist.
He hides it before they take him back to the pits. Tucks it into the lining of his belt line, beneath the place where leather rubs his waist raw, beneath pain he knows how to live with. He does not tell anyone. He does not look back.
From that moment on, time stops behaving properly.
Every breath tastes like your name. Every clang of iron, every shouted order, every shove into the dirt is measured against the distance between now and before dawn. He fights on instinct alone, muscle memory carrying him through while his mind drifts upward, past stone walls, past torchlight, past the city itself to a terrace where the sky will be paling and you will be waiting.
If you're waiting.
That thought is the cruelest of them all.
He tells himself a hundred reasons you might not come. That you’ll be stopped. That you’ll come to your senses. That this was kindness, nothing more—another mercy you shouldn’t have offered, another wound you’ll carry alone. He tells himself he deserves nothing, expects nothing.
And still, every moment stretches toward you.
When the pits finally quiet and the guards grow lax in that hour before morning, James moves.
He has learned how to be invisible. How to slip through shadows and silence his breath and make his body smaller than it is. He has learned how to endure. Tonight, he learns how to hope without letting it show on his face.
The palace at night is a different creature, hushed and vast, its corridors breathing softly, as if it too is afraid of being caught awake. The key turns with a whisper that sounds far too loud in his ears. He freezes, listens, waits.
Nothing.
He climbs the last stair slowly, carefully, heart hammering so hard he’s certain it must give him away. The door to the terrace opens onto cool air and starlight, the gardens below still dark, the sky just beginning to thin at the edges.
And there you are.
Wrapped in a cloak the color of early morning, hair loose down your back, hands braced on the stone balustrade as if you're holding yourself in place. You turn at the sound of him, and for a moment neither of you speaks.
You just look.
Relief crosses your face first—bare, unguarded, devastating. It hits him harder than any blow ever has.
“You came,” you whisper, like you hadn’t been sure you were allowed to want that.
“Yes,” he answers, because it’s the only true thing he has.
The world narrows to the space between you. To unsaid words pressing at your throats. To the knowledge that when the sun breaks the horizon, this moment will end, and reality will rush back in with all its rules and punishments.
“I owe you an apology,” you begin, hands twisting in the fabric of your sleeves. “For earlier. For the interruption. For leaving things—” Your voice falters, then steadies again, thinner but braver. “For my abruptness.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me—”
“I do,” you say, gently but firmly, the way you do when you aren't speaking as a princess but as a woman who has already decided. “Because I’ve been careful my entire life. And last night, I wasn’t. I won’t pretend I didn’t mean it.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. You lift your eyes to his at last. There is fear there. And something brighter. Something terrifying in its honesty.
“If choice were allowed,” you confess, words trembling but unbroken, “if the world were even a little kinder than it is— I would choose you. I would choose you over the crown, over duty, over everything I’ve been told I am.”
James goes still. This—this is the moment he never let himself imagine clearly, only in pieces, in half-formed dreams he punished himself for having. He swallows hard, chest tight, and steps closer without thinking.
For the first time, he touches you.
Not boldly. Not all at once. Just the backs of his fingers brushing along your forearms, almost disbelieving. His hands are rough, scarred, calloused from iron and blood and survival. Your skin is warm and soft beneath his touch, like something sacred he was never meant to reach.
He traces upward slowly, as if giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
His thumb catches on the arm band at your upper arm—the one you wore the day they first met. He remembers it vividly, remembers thinking it was too beautiful for a world like theirs. He traces its edge, grounding himself.
Your breath shudders. Then you lift your hand, hesitant, questioning and places it flat against his chest.
James inhales sharply. Your fingertips are feather-light as they move, mapping him with care, finding a scar near his collarbone. You trace it as if it might speak back to you.
“This one,” you murmur. “What happened?”
“Survived,” he answers quietly.
Her throat works. Her touch lingers.
“I shouldn’t feel this,” you whisper.
He leans in, foreheads touching, breath mingling. “I shouldn’t either.”
A beat. Then, softer—truer—
“But I do.”
Your breath catches. His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the inside of your arms, feeling the contrast between them, the difference in the lives that shaped your bodies. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.
“I would choose you too,” he says. “Every time.”
Your eyes shine.
He closes them and lets himself speak the dream he’s never said aloud. “Sometimes I think about a house by the sea. Nothing grand. Just stone and wood and open windows. The kind of place where the salt gets into everything.” A faint, almost-smile curves his mouth. “We’d watch the sun set every night. Sea spray on our faces. No guards. No crowds. Just… quiet.”
You're crying now—silent tears slipping free despite your effort to hold them back.
James draws you closer, instinctively, until there’s no space left between you. Your arms come around him suddenly, tightly, like you're afraid to let go. You press your face into his shoulder, breath hitching.
“I would give it all up for you,” you say, voice breaking. “Every jewel. Every title. Every promise I never made for myself.”
He closes his eyes, holding you tight, forehead resting against your hair. You part from each other slowly, reluctantly, like pulling away from warmth into cold air.
You're the first to really look at him. Not The Thracian gladiator. Not the slave. Not the man shaped by blood and survival.
Just James.
“I never noticed before,” you mumble, almost to yourself. “Your eyes.”
He blinks. “What about them?”
“They’re… so blue,” you hum, wonder softening your voice. “Like the sea you dream about.”
Something in his chest aches at that.
He lifts a hand without thinking, knuckles brushing your jaw before his palm settles against your cheek. Your skin is warm beneath his touch, impossibly soft, and you lean into it with a quiet sigh, content and trusting like you've been waiting to do that all along.
James swallows.
He lowers himself slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t.
So he presses a kiss to your lips. It’s gentle. Barely there. A question more than a claim. When he pulls back, his forehead still rests against yours. His thumb strokes your cheek once, adoringly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just— I needed to. At least once.”
Your breath stutters. Surprise flickers across your face, brief and bright—
—but there’s no disappointment in it.
Only resolve.
You rise onto your tiptoes, one hand fisting in the linen at his chest, and kisses him again. This time, it’s surer. Still soft and careful. But chosen.
James exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding his breath his entire life, hands steady at your waist, afraid to ask for more and unable to want less.
When they part again, their noses brush, foreheads touching once more. The palace looms behind them. The world waits, cruel and unavoidable. But for this heartbeat, for this stolen moment before dawn, they are only two people who chose each other.
You find a corner of the terrace where the stone still holds a trace of warmth from the day, sheltered from the wind by a low column and a spill of ivy. James shrugs off his cloak and wraps it around you without a word, tucking you close until you're pressed against his chest, your cheek fitting just beneath his collarbone like it was always meant to be there.
Above you, the moon hangs heavy and white. Stars scatter themselves across the sky without care for thrones or chains or rules.
For a while, you don’t speak. You just breathe together. Your fingers curl into his tunic, knuckles pale, and he feels the shift before you say anything—the way your body tightens, the way your breath goes shallow.
“This won’t ever happen again,” you whisper. Not a question. A knowing. “Not like this.”
James tilts his head down, pressing his mouth to your hair, then your temple, then the corner of your eye where tears gather despite you trying to blink them away. He kisses each one as it falls, slow and reverent, like he’s committing the shape of your sadness to memory.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Look at me.”
You do, eyes glassy in the moonlight. He kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring everything he can’t promise into the press of his mouth. When he pulls back, he holds you so close it feels like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, the world will tear you away.
“I’ll keep fighting,” he says quietly. “I’ll earn my freedom. I’ll get my rudiarius. And when I do—” his breath hitches, but he keeps going, “—I’ll climb these walls every night if I have to. Just to hold you like this.”
Your lips tremble.
“And one day,” he adds, softer now, almost pleading, “I’ll build our house by the sea. White stone. Salt in the air. We’ll watch the sun set together, every night. One way or another… we’ll be together. I promise.”
You both know. You both understand the lie wrapped gently inside the dream.
You cannot abdicate, not when the bloodline ends with you, not when the kingdom would fracture without a crown. And James, no matter how fiercely he survives will never rise high enough for the world to allow this.
But lies can still be merciful.
You nod, pressing your face into his neck, tears soaking into his skin. “I believe you,” you say, even though your heart is breaking.
So you keep kissing. Slow, aching kisses. Foreheads touching, noses brushing, hands mapping each other like they’re trying to memorize every inch before dawn steals it away. James holds you like he could fuse you together through sheer will alone, like if he grips you tightly enough the gods might look away.
The sky begins to pale.
Stars fade, one by one, retreating from the coming day. A thin line of gold cuts the horizon, cruel and beautiful. They don’t stop holding each other. Not until the sun crests the world and reminds them who they are.
James traces the martáki with his thumb as they wait beneath the arena. The woven thread is already worn soft, darkened where sweat and blood have soaked into it, but it holds. It always does. He presses it to his wrist like a promise, like a prayer.
Just one more night, he asks the gods—not for freedom, not for victory, but for moonlight and stone and your arms around him. For the quiet. For the lie that felt like truth.
The gates groan open. Sunlight crashes down on him as he steps into the arena, heat and sound swallowing him whole. The crowd roars, hungry and thoughtless, but James doesn’t hear them.
He looks up and finds you, yet you're already watching him.
Not the sand. Not the spectacle. Him. Something in his chest loosens. He smiles—small, crooked, just for you. You go still, breath catching, and for one suspended heartbeat you speak without words.
I’m here.
Stay alive.
I’m trying.
The horn sounds. The fight begins wrong. His opponent doesn’t posture. Doesn’t test. He comes in fast and brutal, blade snapping toward James’s knees instead of his chest. James barely twists away in time, shock flaring sharp and cold.
Again.
Low, fast and cruel. Steel kisses the back of his leg—once, twice, a third time and pain explodes, white-hot and dizzying. James grits his teeth, refuses to cry out. He staggers but stays upright, sand slipping beneath his feet.
This isn’t a bout. This is an execution. Up in the stands, you lean forward with your heart pounding. You've seen hundreds of fights, know the rhythm of them, the unspoken rules. Disarm. Yield. Mercy.
This man shows none. You turn sharply to James’s sponsor, voice tight. “What is this?”
The magistrate doesn’t look at the sand. “His opponent is my slave as well,” he says smoothly. “I require only one of them.”
Your blood goes cold. “You mean to kill him.”
“Whichever survives,” he corrects, almost bored.
Rage flashes bright and blinding. “Stop this,” you order.
He finally looks at you then, lips curling. “With respect, Princess— The Thracian is not your fighter. You have no claim here.”
Silence falls. You don’t raise your voice, hand wrapping around your arm and pulling the metal down in a fierce snap—gold band striking his hand hard enough to echo.
“I do now.”
The box around them goes silent.
“I will pay his debt,” you spit, each word ringing. “Every drachma. Every chain. He is mine.”
The magistrate sputters, scrambling for words, but the crowd has gone eerily still, all eyes snapping between the royal box and the bloodied sand below.
They don’t see it in time. James’s opponent lunges. Steel strikes his side, the impact knocking the air from his lungs, and his legs finally give out. He hits the sand hard, vision blurring, the world narrowing to heat and pain and the echo of your voice somewhere far away.
“James!”
You're already moving. Guards shout. Hands reach for you. Protocol fractures as you break from the box, skirts gathered in your fists, running toward the arena floor without thought for crowns or consequence.
James turns his head weakly, sand sticking to his cheek. And even as darkness claws at the edges of his vision—
he sees you coming.
James comes back to the pits on a stretcher that sags under his weight.
Blood slicks the stone beneath him, dark and shining in the torchlight, trailing from the gashes at the backs of his legs and the ugly wound at his side where the blade struck deep. His breath rattles, too shallow, too fast and every jolt of movement pulls a broken sound from his throat.
You follow like a ghost.
You’ve seen blood before, on armor, on marble floors after executions, rinsed away before it could stain but never like this. Never warm. Never his. Your hands shake uselessly at your sides, your mind lagging behind the reality unfolding in front of you.
This is what the arena does. This is what it takes.
Steve appears out of the shadows the moment they set James down, already tearing cloth, already pressing his hands to wounds with the kind of calm born of necessity. He freezes when he looks up and sees you there—gold and silk among dirt and chains.
“…Princess,” he says, startled. “You shouldn’t—this isn’t—”
“I’m not leaving him,” you say immediately. There’s no command in it. Just truth.
Steve studies your face for a long moment, then nods once. “Alright,” he says quietly, and goes back to work.
James drifts. In and out. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, and he smiles faintly when he sees you, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You remember… the sea?”
Your breath breaks. “James, please, stay with me.”
“I am,” he insists softly. “I’m gonna build it. White stone. You said you liked white stone. We’ll hear the waves at night…” His voice fades, then stirs again. “You’ll laugh at how small it is.”
Steve presses harder, jaw tight. “He’s losing too much,” he mutters, hands slick with red. “I can’t— I can’t stop it.”
Panic claws up your chest. You drop to your knees beside James, hands coming to his bare chest like that alone might anchor him here. Tears spill freely now, soaking into his skin.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No—you promised me. You promised.”
Your voice fractures as you bow your head, forehead pressing to his sternum.
“Please,” you pray—to gods you’ve honored your whole life but never needed like this. “Please keep him. Give him one more chance. I swear—I swear I won’t waste it. I’ll never take it for granted again. Just—don’t take him from me.”
James’s hand lifts weakly. His fingers find your cheek, trembling, smearing it with his blood. You don’t flinch. You lean into the touch the same way you did on the terrace, eyes squeezing shut like you can will the moment to mirror itself.
“I’m here,” he breathes.
You lift your head just enough to see him, and then you kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s desperate and real and defiant—your mouth pressed to his like you can breathe life back into him, like love alone might be enough. You don’t care who sees. Don’t care about the muck or the chains or the rules that say this should never happen.
All that matters is this.
Steve looks away, swallowing hard, and keeps working.
It's not enough.
It happens quieter than you think. Death. It's not something that crescendos all at once, rather it flutters and wither apart in pieces, like the tide pulling back grain by grain.
His breath stutters, shallow and uneven, each inhale a small victory and each exhale a surrender. You feel it before you see it, the way his weight settles heavier against you, the way his grip weakens even as he tries to hold on.
“James,” you sob, rocking slightly, as if motion alone could keep him tethered. “Please—please come back. I’m here. I’m right here.”
His lips part. A sound forms. His brow furrows with effort. A choked up gurgle comes out in place of words and you hush him with a kiss. Salted tears slipped from your lips to his.
"It's okay. You're going to be okay," you say, spit, tears and blood connecting you both. "You can't leave me please, eίσαι το άλλο μου μισό, please."
You cling to him harder, pressing your face into his neck, begging the gods, the earth, the cruel watching world to undo this moment. You promise everything, your crown, your life, your future anything if they would just give him back to you.
"Σ' … αγαπώ…" his voice doesn't sound like his own, like someone had tied strings to his vocal chords and pushed and pulled at them until a sound came out. You'd never unhear it for the rest of your life.
His hand slips from your cheek. You catch it, desperate, pressing it back there, holding it in place so you don’t have to feel it go slack. So you don’t have to see his eyes lose their focus, that terrible glassy stillness creeping in.
“No,” you whisper. “No, no, no—”
But the truth comes anyway. James exhales one last time, soft and soundless, like he’s falling asleep in your arms. And doesn’t wake.
You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for Steve to finish what he can, hands shaking now, tears burning his eyes even as he keeps his head bowed and his mouth shut. Long enough for the torches to burn lower and the pits to feel emptier than they ever have.
When the palace finally comes for you, their voices are sharp with reprimand, with disbelief.
“Princess, what are you doing down here—”
They stop when they see you.
You’re covered in blood. James’s blood. It streaks your hands, your dress, your cheek. And worse than that—your eyes are hollow, like something essential has been carved out and taken with him. You don’t argue. Don’t protest. You gently lay James down, fingers lingering at his jaw, his brow, memorizing him one last time. Then you reach for the martáki still looped around his wrist.
You slide it free. With steady hands, you tie it around your own.
“He’s to be brought to the palace,” you say, voice flat but unbreakable. “Cleaned. Buried properly. With honor.”
No one dares refuse you. You turn to Steve then, finally looking at him.
“He saved him,” you say simply. “He saved him every day he could.”
You pay Steve’s debt in full. Give him enough coin to build the life James once dreamed of—quiet, honest, free. Steve doesn’t know how to thank you. He only nods, eyes wet, and promises he won’t waste it.
As they lead you back into the light, the pits swallow their shadows behind you.
The funeral is quiet.
There is no crowd. No prayers spoken aloud for the sake of ceremony. No magistrates, no banners, no spectacle. Just you and the earth.
You made sure of that.
The grave rests beyond the city, where the air smells of dry grass and salt carried faintly from the sea. The stone is simple but solid, carved by skilled hands you personally paid for. You had stood there while they worked, correcting them when they tried to shorten it, to make it easier.
“No,” you’d said. “His full name.”
And so it reads:
Iákovos Boukanános Bárnis
James Buchanan Barnes
Not The Thracian gladiator.
Not slave.
Not a number etched into records that would rot with time.
His name.
You asked Steve about his family—about his mother, his sister, the farm, the way James used to steal grain so they wouldn’t starve. You listened like a penitent, committing it all to memory so he would not go into the ground alone or forgotten.
You come bearing offerings.
His rudiarius sword, carved of the finest wood and wrapped in linen. A laurel wreath, green and fragrant, its leaves brushing your fingers as you lay it down. Oil, bread, small tokens meant to ease a soul’s journey—things a mother might give, or a lover, or both.
You kneel. Only when you are close, when your breath ghosts over the stone can you see it. Beneath the larger inscription, carved smaller, fainter. Something not meant for the world.
Το άλλο μου μισό.
My other half.
Your breath breaks. You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the letters as if they might warm beneath your touch, as if stone might remember the hand that asked for this. Tears spill freely now, unchecked, blurring your vision until the world narrows to grief and gray.
You curl against the gravestone, cheek pressed to it the way you once pressed to his chest, arms wrapping around cold stone like it might give way and yield him back to you.
“Please,” you whisper into the earth. “Just a little warmth. Just enough to know you’re still… somewhere.”
But the stone is still.
The sun moves higher. And you stay there anyway, holding what’s left of the man who was never allowed to live, but was loved fiercely enough to be remembered forever.
You go to him every day.
Without fail.
Rain or sun, ceremony or silence—you kneel by the stone and trace his name with the same two fingers, lips moving in prayers you no longer directs at the gods. When you marries another royal, you go to James before the wedding and after it, veil still pinned in your hair, eyes already hollow with knowing. When you bear an heir, you bring the infant once, standing back so the child won’t touch the grave.
Years pass. Seasons turn.
Your children grow, two of them now, fast and laughing, chasing one another through the courtyard while you watch from the shade. They have his stubbornness in them, you think. His heart. Not by blood, but by the quiet way love finds its way forward anyway.
One morning, you pack a small bag.
You tell the court you're traveling to the countryside for rest. Says it lightly. Convincingly. That night, your husband finds your crown left on the patio—set neatly, deliberately, like an offering returned. By the time the panic spreads, you are already gone.
You travel dressed as no one important. Plain linen. Dust on your sandals. The road does not recognize you and for the first time in your life, that feels like mercy.
At your destination, a man waits. You pay him without ceremony. A heavy purse. Enough to end questions before they begin.
“It’s done,” he says.
When he steps aside, the world opens. A house stands there—white stone, sun-warmed, simple and whole. Salt hangs thick in the air. The sea breathes in and out like something alive and patient.
You walk inside. Everything is exactly as it should be. Nothing excess. Nothing missing. A table. A bed. A hearth. A life pared down to what is real.
At the back, a door stands open to the water.
You close your eyes.
The salt fills your lungs, sharp and clean—and for the briefest, most terrible, most precious second, you feel him. The brush of calloused fingers up your arm. The press of his damp forehead to yours. The warmth that was never supposed to last.
Tears slip free, but softly now.
You stay there until it's your time to return to the earth. And though the world will go on without ever knowing where its queen truly went, you spend the rest of your days by the sea. In a house born of a promise, a house built for two yet alone—with white stones and salted air, loving him in all the ways time still allows.
GUYSSS I NEED TO KNOW WHAT FIC THIS IS BUT I REMEMBER THE SUMMARY WHERE BUCKY AND NATASHA TRY TO SET READER UP WITH STEVE AND STEVE AND READER TRIIES TO SET UO NATASHA W BUCKY EVEN THO IT HURTS THEM BOTH
a/n: welcome to my first (real) post! i haven’t written in a long time so my apologies if this is a bit rusty. this was inspired by an excerpt on a post i saw and decided to turn it into a prompt:
“He held her face in his hands. ‘Do you think I care about anything but you?’”
phoenix & the winter soldier masterlist
You were on edge.
This was the first mission in a long time where you hadn’t spent the night before with Bucky, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s arms, and waking up with another before heading off. Your regular routine almost happened. It would have happened if it hadn’t been for the argument that happened just about five minutes before you were ready for bed, an argument you deemed unnecessary and frustrating the second you stormed out of Bucky’s room and back into the one you barely spent any time in anymore.
Not having that routine definitely threw you off your game. After dealing with a restless night and a series of tosses and turns, you decided to just stay up until you had to leave.
Biggest mistake you could have ever made, you thought.
You packed everything you needed and, first thing in the morning, walked straight into the kitchen to fill up a thermos with a lot more coffee than you’d ever drink on a normal day before heading off to the quinjet launchpad without a word. Everyone else eyed you as you walked out; your usual, greeting nature was replaced by a silent one, a sight no one had seen since you first joined the Avengers. Once you exited, everyone’s eyes quickly turned to Bucky who had walked in just as silent. Though it was less rare for Bucky to avoid conversation, the two of you being separate was the clear elephant in the room.
Bucky looked up to meet everyone’s gazes on him, his brows furrowing immediately in annoyance.
“What’s the problem?”
“Something going on between you and Y/N?” Sam asked without hesitation. He beared witness to the entirety of your relationship with Bucky, especially since he was often assigned to missions with the both of you. If anyone could tell something was off, it’d be him.
“She’ll get over it,” Bucky replied monotonously before also heading out to the launchpad, everyone else straggling out shortly after.
You were already sitting in your normal seat inside of the quinjet, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone to distract yourself from the eyes that would eventually fall on you as you heard everyone else approaching.
Though you were still angry, Bucky was not. In fact, he was more angry with himself than he was with you. He didn’t even think he was upset with you at all, but he was convinced you thought otherwise.
Finishing a shower after an intense sparring session had never felt better to you.
You had been with the Avengers for about two years now, picking up on more useful ways to use your fighting abilities rather than always being so destructive. Old members of Hydra, who decided they wanted to somehow reinstate and resolidify the organization, had taken you–along with more people than you could count on both of your hands–to be experimented on with a serum similar to the ones used on Bucky and Steve. After managing to escape, you had definitely lost a piece of yourself. It took a while to warm up to the thought of fighting alongside such honorable people, but after two years, you had found your home.
The first year and a half was strictly training and shadowing anyone who had gone on a mission. You were eager to prove yourself as being part of the team, and in the last six months, Steve and Tony had agreed to allow you to not just shadow missions, but be part of them. You had just finished mission 26 as being “part of the team” two days ago, and Steve had stopped you before your workout with Natasha to let you know that he thinks you might be able to do your first solo mission.
That news definitely kicked your motivation into overdrive during sparring. Natasha’s never been one to go easy on you, per your own request, and was riding on a 10-0 streak against you.
That streak got broken fairly quicker than she had expected.
Upon finishing your workout, you were most excited to tell Bucky the news. He had been there the whole ride to see just how hard you’ve worked to get to where you are today, especially sharing the experience of being under Hydra and struggling to use your abilities for the right reasons.
But for some reason, things just didn’t go as you expected.
And it hurt. Really hurt.
Bucky stepped on the jet and gave you a quick glance. Everyone else had taken their usual seat, meaning the only one available was the one he always took right next to yours. He sighed deeply to himself before sitting down, seeing you immediately cross your arms across your chest from his peripheral vision.
This was definitely going to be a long trip.
You didn’t say a word to him the entire ride. Not even so much as a shoulder or thigh touch. You kept your stoic nature for all of the ten hours you were sat next to him.
Bucky was losing his patience, and the only person he blamed was himself. This might have been the first day in the year and some months that you’ve been together that you hadn’t said a single word to him, and it was eating him alive.
It was most definitely eating you alive too, but you couldn’t get the argument you two had out of your head.
Bucky was starting to pack his things when you had walked into his room, his attention quickly diverting to the door and onto you, shooting you a soft smile.
“You’re back already?” He asked, knowing you always took a hefty moment to yourself to relax after sparring with Natasha.
“You are now looking at the woman with a singular victory against Agent Natasha Romanoff,” you said confidently with a playful victory bow, making Bucky chuckle as he stood up and made his way over to you.
Standing up straight to look up at him, Bucky cupped your face in his hands and kissed your forehead. “I’m so very proud of you, baby,” he said with his lips grazing yours that had just pulled into a small smile.
“I also might have really good news,” you said in an eager tone, which Bucky noticed and loved immediately.
“What’s the good news?” He asked right away as he wrapped his arms around your waist, wanting to hear your excitement. After seeing you have so many losses, with yourself and others, he knew you took every win very seriously. You reminded him of himself when he first joined the Avengers as well, and knew just how difficult it was to adjust and get even just a glimpse of triumph.
“Steve pulled me aside today and said he thinks I might be ready for solo missions,” you responded as you wrapped your arms around Bucky’s neck. “He saw how well I did during the last mission and wants to see how I do alone. He just wants Tony to agree first.”
Bucky’s face dropped slightly. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked rather than answering his question, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion.
Of course you thought you were ready. You had prepared long enough for this and knew you could take on the challenge. You also thought that Bucky of all people would be able to recognize that and agree.
“You’ve only been on 26 missions, honey,” he contested. “It took me a lot longer than that before I was even able to handle a mission with just Sam.”
“So you think that I can’t go on a mission by myself because it took you longer to adjust than it took for me?” you asked incredulously as you pulled out of Bucky’s grasp and took a few steps back.
Bucky ran his hands over his face in frustration. He knew just how stubborn you were; he had seen it mission after mission and debrief after debrief. You were never one to stand down from defending yourself and your decisions. However, you had never been so persistent with him over anything beyond a playful dispute between the both of you.
“You know that’s not what I meant, Y/n, so can we table this conversation and go to bed?” he bargained with you softly.
You scoffed. “You just patronized me by implying that I’m incapable of handling a mission on my own and you want me to ‘table the conversation’?”
Given your tenacious anger, you knew it’d be best to not say anything at all until you felt a lot calmer about the situation. You had surely pondered if you were just overreacting, but Bucky’s words still hurt you.
He was never one to patronize you or make you feel like you couldn’t do something. In fact, it had always been the opposite. To hear that he felt you were incapable of taking on something you felt you were ready for had stung you harder than any other accusation ever thrown at you. He was the man you loved, the one person on the team who you trusted the most, and he thought you were unprepared.
So you avoided him. The jet landed and you gathered your things and walked right past him. You got lucky that Clint couldn’t come on the mission anymore and you could take his room so you wouldn’t be stuck with Bucky for the entire week.
Bucky had felt like he was stabbing himself in the chest. He couldn’t sleep the entire night. This seemed to be a mission of firsts for the both of you, including the first time you were both on a mission and slept in different rooms since you’ve been together.
The next morning, Bucky felt he made it worse. He wandered over to your room before it was time to meet everyone else, knocking on the door loud enough for you to hear it but not make himself obvious in the hallway.
You opened the door, looking right at him though Bucky felt like you were looking through him.
“Can we talk?” he pleaded softly. “I know this isn’t the best timing—”
“Then maybe we should wait until we get back, don’t you think?” you interrupted, your voice a bit raspy from the lack of communication with anyone.
“I can’t think straight on a mission knowing that you’re upset with me, baby,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. You knew he didn’t want to upset you, but you also didn’t want to direct your anger towards him. It was the one thing you had both promised to each other. “Please?”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Bucky,” you replied sternly, your use of his name feeling like a knife through his back. “Can we just do this after?”
He nodded, not wanting to prod you any further than your limit. He whispered a soft “okay” before walking back to his room.
That was the last you spoke to each other before everything happened.
Your mission started off smoothly. You were paired up with Steve, who wanted to monitor you a bit closer while on a mission to further confirm his confidence in you. He also didn’t want to pair you with Bucky when you had tension with each other, wanting the mission to go successfully and without distractions.
You and Steve would take the fifth and sixth floor of the building to locate the files you needed to extract. Natasha would take the third and fourth floor, Bucky and Sam the first and second. Tony would be eyeing the outside perimeter for extra threats and also spotting Natasha a helpful eye, though everyone knew she could handle herself well.
After fighting off a few straggling guards, you found the file you needed. The only problem was the faint beep, beep, beep you heard somewhere in your vicinity. Steve was keeping watch outside, fighting off the backup that was eventually called when they realized you were here. You couldn’t locate where the sound was coming from, but you knew it wasn’t a good one.
“Hey, Steve, you busy?” you said, the hint of fear in your voice.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, hearing your tone. You could hear his shield bouncing off the walls as he responded.
“I’m hearing a beeping noise from in here and I can’t find it at all,” you said as you kept tearing the room apart carefully, not trying to accidentally trigger anything.
“What do you think it is, Agent?” he asked, and you knew he was trying to turn this into some sort of test like your life wasn’t probably at risk.
“The only possibility is an explosive of some sort,” you responded, trying to hide the irritation in your voice from still being monitored on a mission like a child. “I can’t really make out where it’s coming from and it’s nowhere that I’ve searched in the entire room, so it’s probably hidden somewhere.” The beeping then started at a quicker pace, only making your nerves go into overdrive.
“I’ll finish up out here and then help y—”
Boom.
“Rogers? Y/L/N?” Tony spoke anxiously into comms.
“What the hell was that, Tony?” Bucky asked immediately, not liking the tone in his voice while he said both yours and Steve’s names.
“Explosion on floor five. Rogers and Y/L/N aren’t responding.”
“Y/N? Steve?” Sam tried to reach out. Nothing.
“All I’m getting is static, guys,” Natasha chimed in. “I’m headed up.”
Bucky jolted into the staircase, running faster than he could even process. He eventually caught up with Natasha, Tony and Sam both flying in from either side of the building to the fifth floor. The entire floor was filled with smoke, though the hallway was a bit clearer than the room you had been in alone.
Natasha caught a glimpse of Steve, who was thankfully conscious, as he tried to lift himself up with a a cough to expel the smoke from his lungs. Tony helped him up and Steve immediately caught Bucky’s eyes, filled with anxiety he hadn’t seen in him in a while. He then looked at the door and Bucky understood that you were in there.
He knocked the door in with no hesitation, though something was blocking his entry. Steve and Tony made their way over to help him push the door, moving the cabinet that had been flung across the room with the impact of the explosion. Bucky slipped through the door, blue eyes scattering across the room until he saw your hand sticking out from behind some debris. Using his metal arm to lift up the equipment that had fallen on top of you, he moved it over to the side before kneeling in front of you. He noticed the large piece of shrapnel sticking into your abdomen, a fairly large blood stain tainting your suit and your breaths extremely shallow.
Your eyes were half open as they landed on him, though your body desperately wanted to fall out of consciousness.
“Hey, honey, I’m here,” he said as your eyes glossed over.
You felt too weak to talk, it hurt just to breathe with the impeding metal in your stomach. The one moment you wanted to say something to him and you couldn’t.
“I’m here, okay? We’re gonna get you out of here,” he said as his eyes stayed firmly on you, his ears tuning out Steve directing Sam, Tony, and Natasha to prepare for an emergency evac back home. “You’re gonna be okay, everything’s gonna be okay.”
Bucky cupped your face lightly, running his thumbs across your cheeks carefully over a few cuts. His face and tears streaming down his cheeks was the last thing you remembered seeing before the darkness reeled you in.
It had been six days.
Six days since you all successfully evacuated the mission. Six days since they removed the metal from your stomach safely. Six days since they found out the extent of your other injuries from the blow. Six days since you had been unconscious. Six days that Bucky hadn’t left your side for a second.
He had already regretted everything he said to you the night before your mission, but now he felt like he had made the biggest mistake of his life by even upsetting you. Bucky knew you probably wanted to cool down, memorizing all of your coping mechanisms and the way you communicated your feelings. But something in his head told him to talk to you sooner, and he only wished you had let him before everything else fell apart.
He hadn’t slept in the six days you’d been unconscious. You had suffered such a serious head trauma that the doctors in the medical wing of the compound were surprised your scans came back clean. On top of the fractured ribs, the wound in your stomach, and the broken leg, everyone had already known you were a trooper.
By the sixth day, Bucky’s eyes were finally starting to get tired.
He fought sleep off as hard as he could, not wanting to take his eyes off of you for a second. Sam had come in several times throughout the week to bring him food to eat, though he could barely finish any of it. Steve had urged him to go shower every day, promising to watch you and alert him if any changes had happened, pleading with him until he finally agreed. Bucky would rush to shower and immediately ran back as he had finished and gotten dressed. Steve would just give him a pat on the shoulder and a longing look, knowing he couldn’t push any more out of his best friend who was watching intently over the love of his life.
Bucky laid his head on the small space on the side of the bed next to you, his thumb running soothing motions back and forth on your hand as his solemn, blue eyes watched you take small breaths in and out with your eyes sealed shut. His eyes then pulled him into a slumber, one he didn’t even remember falling into.
After a few hours, he felt you shuffle a bit on the bed, shooting his eyes open and seeing you rub your eyes with your free hand, his hand still intertwined in your other one.
“Y/N?” he spoke softly, your eyes redirecting to his face and a small smile creeping on yours.
“Hi,” you said groggily. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
Bucky sat up and shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, baby. I’m just glad you’re awake,” he reassured as he let go of your hand and moved his to rest on your cheek. “How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?”
“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” you joked in a tired voice. “How long have I been out?”
Bucky sighed, though he was glad you were feeling well enough to be playful. “Six days,” he answered. “You had a lot of injuries.”
You nodded slightly. “What about the mission?”
“Natasha and Tony took care of it,” he informed you. “They stayed behind while we evacuated to finish and found a copy of the file. Mission successful.”
You nodded once again, biting down on your bottom lip as you knew there was still unresolved tension between you and Bucky. He noticed it too, but he didn’t think it was the right time to talk about it. Not right after you woke up.
A few days later, you had been discharged from the medical wing and had gone back to your room. You had told Bucky you wanted to go back to his, but he had insisted it’d be better for you to rest in yours.
He stayed with you the first few days you were in recovery, though he didn’t sleep next to you. It hurt a bit, but you had at least felt comfort in knowing he was in the room with you.
One morning, you had woken up and saw Bucky sleeping peacefully on the couch chair in the corner of your room, knowing he had finally gotten rest after a few days. You stayed watching him and he met your eyes immediately when you woke up.
“Hey,” he said in the raspy morning voice you knew all too well. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” you said as you sat up a bit in bed, to which Bucky moved to your side to help you do.
“Don’t exert yourself too much, Y/N,” he warned in a light tone. “You’re still recovering and I don’t want you to prolong y—”
“Buck, I’m okay, I promise,” you cut him off, placing your hands on his face and forcing him to look you in the eyes. His normal, cerulean eyes were a bit more clouded. They looked more gray in the dim lighting of your room, but you could also make out the sting of sadness in them.
The longer he looked in your eyes, the more tears formed in his. “I could have lost you,” he said with a crack in his voice. “I almost lost you without making things right with you. I’m never gonna forgive myself for that.”
“We don’t have to talk about this right now, Bucky—”
“No,” he cut you off this time. “I can’t wait any longer. It’s eating me alive and I want to make things right with you. I need to make things right with you. Everything that went wrong on that mission only made everything worse. You could have died while being on bad terms with me and I’m never, never, going to let that happen again. Do you understand me?”
You nodded slightly, tears quickly glossing your eyes as well while a tear slid past Bucky’s. He cupped your face in his hands, wiping the tears that fell down your cheeks with his thumbs as you started to play with your fingers in your lap.
“Do you think that I care about anything in this world but you?” he said, a noticeable shake in his voice while he didn’t break eye contact with you. “There is nothing that compares to you in my world. Nothing. When I heard that explosion and Tony say your name, it felt like my heart dropped. I don’t want to experience that again. Especially if I’m not with you.”
Your eyebrows furrowed. “So you mean—”
“I said what I said because I’m too scared not to be with you, Y/n. It’s wrong and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I made you feel like I felt you weren’t ready to be on your own. You’re more than ready and I was clouded by my own fears and patronized you when you didn’t need that. I can’t lose you, I can’t picture what the rest of my life would even look like without you in it. But my fears should never come in the way of your accomplishments that you deserve and earned, honey. Never. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you and I’m sorry that it took everything that happened for me to say it to you.”
If the tears weren’t falling from your face before, they most definitely were now. You wrapped your arms around Bucky’s torso and sobbed into his chest. He was crying too, but he wrapped his arms around you and rubbed small circles in your back to soothe you the way he always did.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I didn’t want to fight with you, I just—”
“Shh,” Bucky comforted you. “It’s okay, baby, I know. I didn’t want to fight with you either, it’s on me.”
You pulled away slightly to look up at him once your sobs died down, sniffling a bit as he looked down at you with all the love and adoration he’s always had for you.
“Promise me we’ll never fight before a mission again,” you urged softly, and even though your tone was slightly playful, Bucky knew you were also half serious.
“I promise, baby,” he said, kissing your forehead twice. “Now let’s go back to sleep.”
You nodded as he made his way around the bed and slid next to you, carefully wrapping his arms around you as you both laid down and enjoyed each other’s warmth again.
thank you so much for reading! i thoroughly enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading my first piece!
The first two months of a new year. A fresh start for most people. New resolutions. New calendars.
And for Congress?
It’s when everything that was promised in speeches has to start becoming real.
Especially for someone who sits on the Armed Services Committee, the Intelligence Committee, and Veterans’ Affairs.
Which is none other than your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes.
Between mental health program expansions and military funding allocations, he’s been up to his head in paperwork and meetings. Stacks of folders on the dining room table. Red tabs and sticky notes poking out like warning flags. His laptop glowing at two in the morning while you pretend to be asleep so he won’t feel guilty.
He always knew this wouldn’t be easy.
And that’s okay.
Because he’s fighting for things he believes in.
Increased funding for active-duty mental health services. You remember the night before he had to pitch it - tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, pacing your living room while rehearsing lines under his breath. He was nervous about talking openly about his own struggles. About admitting that sometimes the bravest thing he’d done wasn’t on a battlefield - it was walking into a therapist’s office.
You remember sitting cross-legged on the couch, listening to him practice. Watching his hands shake just slightly.
He got through enough of those stoic faces in that committee room to secure a second vote. That alone felt like a small miracle.
Then there was cybersecurity funding for the Pentagon.
He’s never been that great with anything electronic. You still have to reset the Wi-Fi router. But he understands what’s at stake. He understands that wars don’t only happen in deserts and oceans anymore. They happen behind screens. And if the Pentagon needs better protection, then he’s going to fight for it.
Being a veteran himself, he’s always felt like he carries something extra. A weight. A responsibility.
Which is why he continues pushing for expanded care access for veterans transitioning home. Housing support. Job placement programs. Counseling that doesn’t have a six-month waitlist.
He says it’s policy.
You know it’s personal.
Bucky has always been hardworking - balancing missions, balancing expectations, balancing ghosts.
But he’s never really had to balance all of it with a girlfriend.
Luckily for him, you’re understanding.
So while he’s in hearings, reviewing classified briefs, and negotiating defense budgets, you’re at your own job.
As a high school history teacher, you know a thing or two about Congress. About how slow it moves. About how necessary it is. About how frustrating it can be.
You teach your students about institutions. About the structure of government. About checks and balances and civic duty.
You believe in institutions.
You believe in service.
And you believe in him.
But that doesn’t make the yearning any easier.
Because believing in something doesn’t stop you from missing it.
—
The morning sun filters through the kitchen blinds, cutting thin golden lines across the countertops. It hits Bucky’s icy blue eyes and turns them almost steel gray. He squints slightly, clearly running on only a couple hours of sleep.
He’s already dressed in his suit. Crisp white shirt. Jacket laid over the back of a chair. His hair is gelled back neatly, though a stubborn strand threatens to fall loose near his temple. A travel mug full of black coffee waits on the counter, steam curling faintly into the air.
The maroon tie hangs untied around his collar, half tucked beneath it like he started and got distracted.
You roll your eyes fondly before stepping closer, taking the fabric between your fingers. You loop it through with practiced ease, smoothing the silk down his chest.
“Good morning,” you murmur, careful not to be too loud. The apartment still feels like it’s waking up.
A small, tired smile tugs at his lips. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes fully, but it’s there. And that’s enough to make your heart speed up just a little.
Bucky’s hands slide to your hips, warm and steady. He pulls you closer, bending slightly so he’s level with you.
“Mornin’ to you too, doll.”
You lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He tastes like toothpaste and coffee and something warm and familiar that’s entirely him. It lingers for a second longer than it should for two people on a schedule.
“We’re still on for tonight, right?” you ask softly, finishing the knot and straightening it with care.
He nods immediately. There’s no hesitation.
Both of you have been waiting for this weekend away for weeks. A small hotel just outside the city. Two nights. No briefings. No grading. No early alarms.
“I’ll try to leave at seven,” he says, eyes dragging over you slowly.
You’re wearing a red blouse, buttoned high enough to be modest but fitted just enough to catch his attention. Black slacks. Heels that click softly against the tile.
The bags are already packed - placed carefully in your respective cars the night before. It had felt symbolic somehow. Planning ahead. Choosing each other in advance. So that after work, you could both drive straight to the hotel without excuses.
You nod and grab your own coffee. He reaches for your bag automatically, like he always does, and follows you out of your shared apartment just outside of D.C.
The hallway smells faintly like someone’s burnt toast. The elevator hums quietly.
You part ways in the parking lot with another quick kiss.
You drive twenty-five minutes to your school, ready to lecture about revolutions and amendments and the fragility of democracy.
He drives toward the Capitol, toward marble columns and long corridors and decisions that ripple farther than anyone ever sees.
Both of you planning to discuss history.
Or make it.
—
The school day is full of young couples gifting each other flowers, stuffed animals, and chocolate. Pink tissue paper peeks out of backpacks. Heart-shaped balloons hover awkwardly near classroom ceilings.
You’ve already had to tell three separate students to stop running in the hallway on their way to meet their significant other. One nearly crashed into you while clutching a bouquet that was far too big for a sophomore boy to be carrying.
“Walk,” you’d said, trying not to smile. “If you trip and ruin the moment, that’s on you.”
Lockers slam. Someone sprays entirely too much body mist in the hallway. The intercom crackles every fifteen minutes with a reminder about dismissal procedures.
And of course, the excuses.
“My dog ate it” has evolved into “my Wi-Fi glitched” and “Google Docs deleted it.” One student swears their little brother submitted the wrong file. Another insists they thought the assignment was due next week.
Besides all that, it’s been a good day.
The energy is light. Hopeful.
Bucky is still heavy on your mind when lunch rolls around. You sit at your desk, picking at a salad you barely taste, watching students trade chocolates like currency.
And you’re on his mind too.
Even as he stands in the House chamber, defending his position ahead of the floor votes scheduled for today.
Bucky’s days are always busy - morning briefings, staff meetings, press conferences. The rhythm of government doesn’t really slow down. It hums. Constantly.
So balancing you and the chaos inside his head?
Second nature.
He made a surprise reservation to a couples suite weeks ago, knowing he’d want this weekend with you. It overlooks the Potomac River - the water stretching wide and steady beneath winter light - tall buildings framing the skyline, streets below buzzing even after dark.
“A getaway without really getting away,” he’d said when he pitched the idea, leaning against your kitchen counter like he was presenting legislation.
And then, almost immediately, “I can cancel it if you don’t like it.”
He’d already been pulling up the hotel website on his phone, thumb hovering nervously over the cancellation policy.
You’d laughed and kissed him before he could spiral.
That was Monday.
And somehow this week has felt like the longest one imaginable. Each day stretching just a little too thin. Each night ending a little too late.
But it would be worth it.
It always is.
—
I’m here <3
The message pings Bucky’s phone just as he’s gathering his things. His coat is thrown over one shoulder, briefcase in hand, a stack of folders tucked under his arm.
The hallway outside his office is beginning to empty. Staffers wishing each other goodnight. The building settling into that strange in-between hour - not quite late, but late enough.
He smiles at your message. A real one. The kind that softens the sharp edges of the day.
He steps into the elevator and presses the button for the ground floor, already typing a reply.
Can’t wait to see you—
The doors begin to slide shut.
Then the phone rings.
Not the personal one he’s texting you from.
The one in his inside pocket.
The secure line.
The sound slices through the quiet of the elevator.
He answers immediately. “Barnes.”
There’s a pause.
His expression shifts almost instantly - confusion flickering first, then something darker. Focused. Controlled.
“Confirmed authentic?”
Another pause.
“How widespread?”
His jaw tightens, muscle feathering beneath the skin.
“Any indication adversaries have already accessed it?”
The response on the other end is not one he likes. It’s shown in the way his shoulders square. In the way the warmth from moments ago drains from his face.
“We’re holding a classified briefing in five.” They say.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open to the lobby.
He doesn’t step out.
Instead, he presses the button for the upper floor. The doors close again with a quiet finality.
With his free hand, he types quickly.
Emergency briefing. Going to SCIF. I’ll be late.
He hesitates for half a second before hitting send.
The elevator climbs.
—
You swipe the hotel room key, the light flashing green before you push the door open, luggage balanced in your other hand.
The entryway gives you a full view of the suite. Red roses sit on the coffee table in a tall glass vase, petals perfectly arranged like someone fluffed them just minutes ago. The king-sized bed is made with crisp white sheets, rose petals scattered carefully into the shape of a heart across the duvet. Two chocolates rest neatly on the pillows, centered like they were measured with a ruler.
It’s almost funny how intentional it all looks.
You step inside fully and let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing slightly in the quiet room. The carpet is plush under your heels. Warm lighting fills the space, giving everything a golden tint that makes it feel cozy instead of staged.
You set your bags down on the leather couch next to the coffee table and finally notice a small folded card tucked near the vase.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!
- Hotel Staff”
A soft smile pulls at your lips. It’s thoughtful. A little cliché. But thoughtful. You can already picture Bucky pretending to scoff at the rose petals while secretly being relieved that someone handled the romance details for him.
You wander further into the room, taking it in slowly. The windows stretch across the far wall, overlooking the Potomac River. The water reflects the late evening lights from the surrounding buildings, cars moving steadily along the streets below like lines of red and white.
“A getaway without really getting away,” he’d said.
Your chest tightens just slightly at the memory.
You turn toward the mini bar. A silver bucket of ice sits waiting on the counter, condensation beading along the metal. A bottle of white wine rests inside, already chilled. Two wine glasses stand beside it, polished and perfectly spaced.
Two glasses. Two chocolates. Two robes tucked in either the closet or in the bathroom, probably.
Your phone vibrates in your hand.
You don’t know why your stomach drops before you even look, but it does.
“Emergency briefing. Going to SCIF. I’ll be late.”
For a second, you just stare at it.
Of course.
Of course tonight.
You press your lips together and type anyway.
I understand. I love you.
It sends immediately.
Delivered.
Not read.
You know why. You’ve heard him explain it before. No phones allowed inside. Everything stays outside in a locker. Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Secure walls. No signals in or out.
Still, it doesn’t make the quiet feel any better.
There must’ve been a leak. Or a breach. Something serious enough to pull him back upstairs after he was already heading out. And you know those situations don’t get resolved quickly. They unravel. They get analyzed. They get debated.
You set your phone down on the counter and exhale slowly, glancing around the room again. The rose petals suddenly feel excessive. The wine feels premature.
You move toward the window instead, looking down at the city for a moment, letting the reality settle in.
Then you pick up the room service menu. Might as well eat while you wait.
—
Bucky hands his phone to the security officer outside the secure room without hesitation. The officer places it into a small metal locker and shuts the door.
The screen lights up briefly with your message.
Then it goes dark.
He presents his ID. It’s scanned and handed back. The heavy door buzzes and unlocks.
Inside, the room is stark and brightly lit. White walls. No windows. A long table in the center already surrounded by personnel flipping through binders and classified folders. Laptops connected to secured systems. A projector humming quietly at the front of the room.
There’s no wasted time.
An intelligence analyst stands and begins projecting the recovered messages onto the screen. Each slide change makes a sharp clicking sound, mechanical and loud in the enclosed space.
Encrypted messages pulled from a compromised channel.
Then the image changes again.
A classified U.S. military briefing document fills the screen.
Bucky feels his stomach drop as the implications settle in. If this document was exposed, even briefly, there’s a real chance foreign adversaries have already accessed it. Saved it. Shared it. Hoped they’d be able to act on it.
Defense officials begin outlining exposure windows and possible responses. Move the units immediately. Adjust timelines quietly. Advance extraction. Delay extraction to avoid tipping anyone off. Draft contingency statements in case the leak becomes public.
Every option carries risk. Move too fast and you confirm the breach. Move too slow and you gamble with lives.
His jaw tightens as he listens. His chest feels heavy, not from panic but from responsibility.
These are real people on those schedules. Real soldiers following those routes.
Extraction timelines may need to shift to keep them safe. Logistics will have to be reworked. Communications re-secured.
He signed up for this. He wanted to be in the room where decisions like this get made.
Now he has to do his job.
Even if you’re standing in a hotel suite overlooking the water, wine unopened, waiting for him to walk through a door he can’t get to yet.
—
You specifically said only one meal, since it’s just you. And Bucky can order if he’s hungry - if… no. When he gets here.
But maybe the phone line cut out. Or maybe the hotel just assumes Valentine’s means two, always two, no exceptions. Because you’re now staring at a rolling tray with two silver domes, two sets of silverware, two neatly folded napkins.
They’re presented beautifully. Almost ceremoniously.
The staff member who brought it up was warm and eager, wishing you a happy Valentine’s with a smile that made correcting them feel impossible. You almost said something. Almost explained.
But explaining would feel like admitting he might not show up at all.
So you let it go.
The second plate remains covered, the silver dome catching the warm lamplight. It sits there quietly, like it’s waiting too. Like it’s part of the room’s expectations.
It’s almost been an hour.
Bucky still isn’t here.
You exhale softly and pull your own plate closer, lifting the lid. Steam rises immediately, carrying the scent of butter and garlic and something rich.
You start with the Caesar salad. The croutons are crunchy but fresh, not the kind that shatter like rocks. The shaved parmesan melts slightly against the dressing. It’s balanced. Light. Clearly made with care.
You take a sip of the white wine you poured earlier while waiting on the food. It’s crisp, cold from the ice bucket. It pairs perfectly with the salad.
The second wine glass remains untouched beside the bucket. The ice shifts softly as it melts, a quiet clink every now and then filling the space in between your breaths.
You don’t rush. There’s no reason to. You take your time, chewing slowly, letting yourself enjoy it instead of spiraling.
When you lift the dome off the entrée, the filet mignon is cooked exactly how you ordered it. The outside seared perfectly, the inside warm and pink. It rests on a bed of truffle mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus lined neatly on the side.
You cut into it. The knife slides through effortlessly.
“It’s really good,” you murmur to the empty room, just to break the silence.
The fork clinks softly against porcelain. The potatoes are fluffy but still creamy, rich without being overwhelming. You savor each bite.
Across from you, the second plate stays covered. Untouched. Waiting.
When you finally finish, you push your plate back gently. Dessert sits between the two settings - one slice meant to be shared. You don’t uncover it.
You’ll wait.
—
“There’s going to be a floor vote tonight for emergency funding and authorization adjustments,” leadership announces.
The room hums with low conversation. Papers shuffle. Pens tap against the table.
Bucky barely hears it at first.
His mind drifts to you. Alone in the suite with two sets of slippers, the river flowing outside the window. On the night before Valentine’s, no less. The image of the rose petals flashes briefly in his mind, followed by the thought of you sitting there waiting.
They need to draft formal recommendations for the House of Representatives. The emergency authorization they can approve in SCIF allows immediate rerouting. But additional funding - reinforcements, logistical support, rapid extraction resources - that requires the House to sign off.
The next hour and a half is tense.
“If we fund this, what happens if this problem happens again?” one lawmaker asks, tone skeptical. “Are we setting a precedent for unlimited emergency expenditures?”
Bucky’s jaw tightens. The question feels clinical. Detached.
“Then we fund it then too,” he replies evenly, though there’s an edge beneath it. His eyes lock onto the man across the table. “You don’t gamble with lives because you’re afraid of the invoice.”
A few people shift in their seats.
Another voice cuts in. “Sending reinforcements could alert adversaries that we’re aware of the leak. That escalation alone could increase risk.”
Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. It falls back into his eyes almost immediately.
“So we’re just going to leave them there?” he asks. His tone isn’t raised, but it’s firm. Controlled. “I know things have changed. I know strategy evolves. But when I served, we didn’t hesitate to back up our people.”
Silence lingers for a moment.
Then someone brings up optics. Public perception. Concerns about appearing reactive. Concerns about seeming “soft.”
Bucky almost laughs at that.
“So what if they find out?” he says, leaning forward slightly. “It’s lives we’re talking about. Like anyone else wouldn’t do this for their own.”
A few heads nod. Others avoid eye contact.
Gradually, the resistance softens. The arguments become more about logistics than principle. Numbers get adjusted. Language gets tightened.
Eventually, they agree to push forward with the emergency authorization adjustments. Troops can be rerouted immediately. Contingency support can begin mobilizing.
On the digital map projected at the front of the room, small red indicators representing units begin shifting away from the compromised area.
It’s subtle. Just little movements across a grid.
But it means something.
One small victory.
They’re safer than they were an hour ago.
Bucky leans back slightly and exhales, tension easing just a fraction.
For now.
Now comes the harder part - convincing the full House to approve the additional funding for reinforcements. Getting enough votes. Making the case again, this time to a chamber that wasn’t in this room, didn’t see the slides, didn’t hear the urgency in the analysts’ voices.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the strategy and the numbers and the responsibility, there’s still the image of you.
Waiting at a table set for two.
—
The water is nice.
The huge porcelain tub, filled almost to the brim, feels like a hug. The warmth seeps into your muscles, loosening the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. You’ve been sitting here for a while, music playing softly from the speaker you connected to your phone. It was already set up near the TV, like the hotel anticipated this exact kind of night.
Soft instrumentals float through the bathroom, layering over you like another blanket of calm. It helps. A little. Even if the ache of missing your boyfriend hums quietly underneath it.
You at least wish he’d reply.
But you know how SCIF works. He’s told you enough horror stories about that windowless room, about the lockers, about the hours that disappear inside it.
You sink a little deeper into the soapy water until it brushes your shoulders, forcing your body to relax further. Steam curls along the ceiling. The brass hooks behind the bathroom door hold two plush robes.
Two pairs of slippers sit neatly beneath them.
Two of everything.
Hopefully he’ll still get to enjoy the weekend. Even if it just means catching up on sleep. Even if it’s just collapsing into the bed beside you at three in the morning.
You shake your head slightly, physically pushing away the tightening in your chest before it can grow into something heavier.
When you finally stand, the water swirls down the drain in a slow spiral. You wrap one of the heated towels around yourself immediately. The towel warmer hums softly on the wall, doing its job to shield you from the February chill that waits beyond the windows.
After drying off, you change into your pajamas and grab one of the robes, tying it securely around your waist. The slippers fit perfectly, soft under your aching feet after a long day in heels.
You pad back into the suite and sit on the couch, reaching for the remote.
The TV flickers on.
A bright message appears across the screen:
“Happy Valentine’s Day Bucky & Y/N!”
Of course it does.
—
Bucky’s shoes tap sharply against the tile as he walks toward the House Chamber, briefcase in one hand while he adjusts his tie with the other.
They finally reached a decision. Now comes the harder part - convincing everyone else.
All he needs is a majority.
That’s it.
“There’s about a hundred expected for the floor vote. Half are leaning yes,” a party whip says quietly as they walk alongside him.
He nods. Fewer people means a quicker vote.
Hopefully.
But it also means every single vote carries more weight than usual.
He thinks about the soldiers overseas. Young. The same age he was when he first deployed.
He remembers what it felt like - that uncertainty. Wondering if the people back home were making the right calls. Wondering if anyone truly understood what was at stake.
That’s why he’s staying.
Not because of politics. Not because he’d rather be anywhere else than with you.
But because it’s responsibility. Because it’s guilt. Because he knows exactly what it feels like to wait on someone else’s decision.
The doors to the House chamber open. He steps inside and finds his seat, placing his briefcase at his feet as he waits for the room to fill.
—
You finally reach for the chocolate from your pillow.
It’s shaped like a heart. Rich and smooth and just sweet enough.
The guilt hits when you swallow.
You can’t blame him. Not for being late. Not for handling something you can’t even ask about. It would be like you having to stay after school for an emergency faculty meeting.
Well. Maybe not exactly like that.
His job is a little more important than teaching high schoolers history they’ll probably forget a week after graduation.
You huff out a small laugh at that thought, red pen hovering over a test in front of you before you correct yourself.
Not red. Never red.
Red was too harsh, at least that’s what you thought.
Today you chose blue.
You glance at the ink and almost roll your eyes at yourself. It matches his eyes too closely.
“Figures,” you murmur, writing a neat 92% in the top right corner.
Your cursive is tidy but slightly looser than usual, the grip on your pen not as firm as it normally is.
Another glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The ice in the bucket has nearly melted completely. The TV plays an old romantic comedy from the seventies - soft film grain, exaggerated declarations of love.
You wonder if Bucky would know it.
You left the flower petals on the bed. The heart shape is still perfectly intact.
It feels like the bare minimum - not disturbing it. Like preserving the intention somehow makes the waiting less pathetic.
You’ve done everything. You ate. You bathed. You changed. You opened the wine. You even graded papers to pass the time.
The pen slips slightly in your fingers before you set it down entirely.
Your hands move to your hair as you lean back into the couch.
The silence presses in now. It squeezes your chest in a way that feels unfair.
Longing for someone who is already yours is a different kind of pain. It doesn’t come from absence. It comes from proximity - from knowing they want to be here just as badly as you want them to be.
It lingers at the edges until something in you threatens to crumble.
You swallow that down too.
Pick the pen back up.
Students handing each other flowers flashes through your mind. Pink carnations. Cheap bouquets from the grocery store. Awkward teenage confessions in hallways.
You smile faintly.
What you wouldn’t give for Bucky to walk through that door with flowers in his hand instead of a briefcase full of classified files.
—
“Members, earlier today we received an intelligence report that active units in Southwestern Asia may be compromised. Emergency authorization has allowed rerouting to begin, but additional funding and support are needed immediately to ensure their safety. This floor vote is to authorize those resources.”
The Chair’s voice carries across the chamber, steady and practiced as he looks out over the Representatives preparing to vote.
147.
That’s how many showed up.
Which means they need 74 yes votes.
Well - 73. Bucky already cast his.
The questions start almost immediately.
“Do they have sufficient fuel, food, and medical supplies for relocation?”
“Does this authorization apply to all units in the region, or only specific brigades?”
“How will oversight ensure the funds are used strictly for operational purposes?”
“Will additional presidential authorization be required for deployment adjustments?”
It’s procedural. Necessary.
But it’s slow.
Bucky exhales quietly, his vote already locked into the electronic panel in front of him. His fingers tap once against the desk before he stills them. He listens. Answers when directed. Clarifies language. Repeats numbers.
He checks his watch.
11:47 p.m.
If he’s lucky, they’ll close debate within the hour.
If he’s lucky, he’ll be out of the building by 12:45.
If he’s lucky, he’ll be at the hotel before two.
If he’s lucky.
He presses his lips together and forces his attention back to the chamber.
—
You’re tired.
The papers are stacked neatly, graded and organized. Lesson plans for next week are already typed and saved. You’ve exhausted every productive distraction available to you.
There’s nothing left to do.
The romantic comedies ended a while ago. The TV now cycles through late-night paid programming and the occasional rerun of George Lopez. The laughter track feels almost mocking in the quiet room.
12:39 a.m.
You glance at the clock again like maybe it’ll change faster if you look at it.
Bucky’s food is definitely cold by now. There isn’t a silver dome in the world that could’ve kept it warm this long. The untouched wine glass beside the bucket looks abandoned. The ice has melted completely.
Maybe it’s the cold plate across from you.
Maybe it’s the robe still hanging untouched on the hook.
Maybe it’s the way the rose petals are still perfectly shaped on the bed, like the room is frozen in expectation.
Whatever it is - it’s suddenly too much.
Your chest tightens without warning. Your throat follows.
You blink hard once.
Then again.
You weren’t planning on crying. That’s the frustrating part. You understand why he’s gone. You know this matters. You know he’s doing the right thing.
That doesn’t make the chair across from you feel any less empty.
Your breathing stutters slightly before you can steady it. You press the heel of your palm against your eye, annoyed when it comes away damp.
“Get it together,” you mutter softly to yourself.
But the tears come anyway - not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet. Slipping down before you can fully stop them.
It’s not anger.
It’s not even really sadness.
It’s the waiting.
The wanting.
The effort of being understanding when all you really want is him walking through the door.
Your shoulders shake once, just barely, and you cover your mouth to muffle the small sound that escapes you. The room feels too quiet for this.
You cry because you miss him.
You cry because you can’t even text him to say that.
You cry because loving someone whose job can pull them away at any second requires a strength you don’t always feel like you have at midnight.
After a few minutes, it slows. Not gone - just dulled.
You wipe your face carefully, staring at the dessert plate across from you.
And for a moment, you almost uncover it.
Just to prove you don’t need to wait.
—
It’s 1:28 am when Bucky finally leaves the Capitol.
The additional funding and support passed. Ninety-two votes.
He’s smiling - actually smiling - as he walks down the marble steps. And for the first time in a while, it’s because he’s a Congressman.
Not because of you. Not because of something private or personal. But because he did his job, and he did it well.
There’s no guarantee the vote will save anyone, and there’s no medals waiting for him. Just a decision that might help - fuel in a tank, medical supplies on a transport, reinforcements arriving in time.
And tonight that feels like enough.
So for a few fleeting seconds, he lets that feeling of accomplishment settle in his chest.
Then he checks his phone.
No new messages.
Not from you.
And that’s the only reason he looked.
The last thing sitting there is from hours ago - before SCIF swallowed him whole.
His smile fades.
He unlocks his car with a sharp beep, climbs inside, and tosses his briefcase into the passenger seat without the usual care. The garage is nearly empty now, the echo of his door shutting louder than it should be.
He types out a message.
Deletes it.
Types another.
Deletes that too.
What is he supposed to say? Sorry I disappeared? Sorry national security came first? Sorry you were alone when I promised I’d be there?
None of it sounds right over a screen.
He exhales sharply through his nose and tries again.
On my way now. I love you.
He sends it before he can overthink it, pulling out of the garage without waiting for a response.
—
Part of you wants to leave.
What’s the point of waiting in a couples suite if it’s just you?
You stare at the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Potomac stretched out below like spilled silver. The moonlight hits it just right, makes it sparkle in a way that feels almost intentional. Like it’s trying to romanticize something that doesn’t feel very romantic right now.
You rack your brain, trying to think of something you did to deserve this cosmic joke. You returned your shopping cart last week. You tipped well. You even let someone merge in front of you in traffic.
Mother Nature couldn’t possibly have beef with you.
A small, humorless laugh escaped you as you finish the last of the wine, setting the glass beside you.
The music still hums softly from your phone - some indie band you’ve loved since college. It feels younger than you do right now.
The clock reads 2:03 a.m. when there’s a knock at the door.
You startle.
Then realize that you haven’t actively checked your phone in a while. You already know who it is.
Your slippers drag across the carpet. You don’t bother with the peephole.
When you open the door, Bucky is standing there, hand half-raised to knock again. Shoulders slightly slumped. Tie loosened. Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday morning.
“Hey, doll,” he says softly.
He’s holding white tulips against his chest - different from the roses already sitting on the coffee table. Those were for Valentine’s Day.
These are for an apology.
A bottle of white wine is tucked between his fingers. Replacement for the one you just finished.
“Bucky,” you breathe. Not angry. Not relieved. Just… tired.
His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone like he needs to confirm you’re real. You stare at him for a second too long before stepping aside to let him in.
He toes off his dress shoes and lines them next to your heels. Sets the wine beside the empty bottle. Places the tulips next to the roses.
Two pairs of shoes. Two bouquets. Two glasses.
Everything in pairs.
Like the night was designed for two people and just stalled out halfway through. Only picking up again only when Bucky entered the room.
“Where were you?” you ask quietly, sitting back down on the couch that’s been yours all evening.
His eyes land on the tray first. Then the rose petals on the bed. Then back to you.
His jaw tightens.
“I—” He clears his throat. “I can’t get into it. You know that. But it had to be handled fast.”
You nod. Of course you know that.
Rules are rules. Classified is classified. It still stings.
“I understand,” you say, even though the words feel heavy in your mouth. “Hope everything’s okay.”
He misses the way your eyes flicker - not jealousy exactly, not anger. Just something closer to feeling…second.
“Me too,” he replies, shrugging off his coat.
He sits beside you and takes your hand. You don’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. The kind of sorry he doesn’t offer lightly.
“I know.”
Your tone is clipped without meaning to be.
“I love you.”
You let that sit for a moment before answering. “I know.” You swallow. “I love you too. But sometimes I hate the government.”
That earns a tired, almost amused smile from him.
He doesn’t disagree.
—
You sleep, if it can be called that. It’s not peaceful, you’re not wrapped in each other like the movies suggest.
It’s more like collapsing, your body crashing into the mattress as the rose petals scatter onto the floor like discarded confetti.
Bucky showers while you stare at the ceiling. When he comes back into the room, you close your eyes and pretend to be asleep so he won’t apologize again.
He watches you for a moment before climbing into bed beside you.
—
In the morning, steam fills the bathroom as you shower.
Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, feeling like you’re farther away than the small hotel room should allow.
He made it here, he did what he could in the early morning hour while both of you were half asleep. But still…something seems unsettled.
His phone buzzes.
He checks it immediately.
Just wanted to let you know, because I know how your brain works, they’re safe.
No additional details. No locations. No elaboration.
He knows who it’s about.
Relief washes through him slowly. No injuries. No casualties. The vote mattered.
An exhale of relief escapes his mouth, it worked.
For a moment, he considers knocking on the bathroom door and showing you the message. Letting you see that last night had a reason. That the silence wasn’t meaningless.
Proof.
But he hesitates.
Because it won’t give you back the hours you spent alone, drinking the wine meant for both of you. Or the way you looked at the door every time footsteps passed in the hallway.
It won’t erase the distance that crept in sometime between midnight and 2 a.m.
So he locks his phone and slips it into his pocket.
Maybe later.
Maybe when it doesn’t feel like he’s defending himself.
He doesn’t fully understand the weight of it. He knows you’re upset. He knows he was late.
What he doesn’t know is that you stood by the window at one point and genuinely considered leaving. Or that your feelings had grown so heavy the only way you could cope was by crying over your students’ tests.
And that hurts more than a missed reservation ever could.
Because it isn’t about one night.
It’s about the slow accumulation of small absences.
And he’s starting to feel the space they’ve built.
