being a pr assistant is hard enough without superheros, soulmates and red carpets being involved. now you're the pr assistant to james barnes, the former winter soldier who is desperate to make your job harder, whether he means to or not.
alternate universe, soulmates, red string soulmates, reader-insert (no y/n,) pr assistant! reader, client! bucky, civil war bucky, fluff, angst, found family dyanmics, age gap, a kiss in the back of a limo, possession, no smut, tooth-aching story, steve is an emotional man, feral cat bucky.
18+ only â minors dni
13k words
steve rogers brings him in on a tuesday, which is already suspicious because nothing good has ever happened to you on a tuesday, and he introduces him the way you imagine you'd introduce a feral cat you'd found and were hoping someone else would take responsibility for. with a kind of cautious optimism that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"this is bucky. he needs someone."
bucky barnes is standing in the middle of your office looking at the framed new yorker cover on your wall like it has personally offended him. he's in a dark henley with the sleeves pushed up and he is, your brain notes before your professionalism can stop it, enormous. not in a way that reads as threatening exactly, though you clock that it could, but in the way of someone built by something other than a gym, broad through the shoulder and solid in a way that takes up space without trying to. his hair is long, pushed back from his face, and his jaw has the set of someone who has already decided this meeting is going to be a waste of his time.
he doesn't look at you when steve says his name.
"mr. barnes," you say.
he looks at you then. the full weight of it, direct and assessing in a way that most people aren't, the kind of look that takes actual inventory. his eyes move over your face like he's filing information and you feel it more than you'd like to.
"hi," he says. low and flat, not unfriendly, just stripped of any performance of friendliness.
not hello. not nice to meet you. hi, like he's been dragged here against his will and has decided to be minimally polite about it.
you look at steve. steve looks at you with the expression of a man who is about to leave you alone with a problem he created and knows it. "he's been doing some public appearances," he says carefully. "it's not going great."
"it's going fine." bucky doesn't turn around when he says it, still looking at the new yorker cover with the focused displeasure of a man with a genuine grievance against editorial photography.
"the senator's press team called it a diplomatic incident," steve says to you, in the tone of someone choosing their words with care.
"the senator said something stupid." flat. matter of fact.
"you told him that."
"he needed to hear it." a pause, and then, almost as an afterthought: "i said it quietly."
you look between them. you pick up your pen. "okay," you say. "let's start from the beginning."
the beginning takes forty minutes and two cups of coffee and at one point bucky gets up without explanation and walks to your window and stands there looking down at the street with his arms crossed over his chest, the muscle of his forearm catching the afternoon light, and you look at your notepad instead.
"i don't see why any of this is necessary," he says, to the window. the afternoon light catches the line of his jaw and the fall of his hair against his neck and you write something that is not a word on your notepad and then scratch it out.
"because you told a sitting senator he said something stupid."
"he did say something stupid." he says it the way people state facts. the sky is blue. water is wet. the senator said something stupid.
"bucky." it comes out before you've decided to use his name and he turns from the window when you do, which you weren't expecting. "i'm not here to manage what you think. i'm not here to tell you to agree with people you don't agree with. i'm here to manage how it lands when you say what you think out loud in front of cameras. that's a different problem."
he looks at you for a moment. really looks, in that inventory way he has that you are going to have to get used to because it is already apparent it's not going anywhere. "is it different," he says, not combative, actually asking.
"what you think and what you say and how you say it are three separate things," you say. "i only get paid to handle the last one. the rest of it is yours."
something shifts at the corner of his mouth. not a smile but the suggestion that one exists somewhere in his vicinity. he comes back and sits down in the chair across from you, picks up the coffee cup he'd abandoned, and looks at you over the rim of it with an expression that has reclassified from closed off to something more like considering.
"fine," he says. "what do you need."
"everything," you say, and flip to a new page
the first month is the hardest.
not because he's hostile, he isn't, not exactly, but because the kind of difficult he is doesn't fit any category you've worked with before. you've handled entitled and you've handled fragile and you've handled the specific nightmare of both at once. what bucky barnes is is quieter than any of those and more structural, the kind of difficult that comes from a person who has very precise ideas about what he owes the world and is in the process of deciding whether that number needs adjusting.
he shows up on time. he does what you ask. he wears the tote bag.
the first time you hand it to him he holds it at arm's length for a moment, looks at it, looks at you, and then puts it on his shoulder with the expression of a man adding something to a list he's keeping somewhere you can't access. you make a note to revisit the tote bag conversation when you have better standing to have it.
what he doesn't do is make things easy. not in a hostile way. in the way of someone who has learned to be careful about what he gives people and has not yet decided where you fall in that system. he answers your questions with the minimum words technically required to constitute answers. he reads the talking points you send and then delivers them stripped of anything that sounds like it was written by someone else, which should be a problem and somehow never is, because the things he says in his own words are usually better, and you find this professionally irritating and personally you're not examining that right now.
he's got a way of listening, too, that you notice early and keep noticing. most people, when they listen, are doing something else underneath it, preparing their response or getting bored or cataloguing the room. bucky goes still when he listens. his eyes stay on your face and the full weight of his attention settles on whatever you're saying like it's the only thing happening, and it is, you come to understand, the same quality that makes him unsettling in press situations. he's too present. people aren't used to it.
you try not to notice how it feels when it's aimed at you.
you are not always successful.
your first week with him you sit in on a public appearance at a veterans' foundation fundraiser in midtown, stationed near the back of the room with your phone and your notepad and a clear sightline to both him and the nearest exit, which you have learned to identify at every event you attend because it is professionally useful and in this particular case feels especially relevant.
the event is fine. he shakes hands. he says the right things in the right order. he has, you note with professional satisfaction, actually read the briefing document you sent him, which not every client does, and the ones who don't tend to generate incidents. he is wearing the blue henley you'd suggested because it reads as approachable without trying too hard and his hair is pushed back and he is, standing in a room full of people, still the thing everyone's eyes go to first, not because he's performing anything but because there is a quality to him that rooms respond to involuntarily, some combination of the size of him and the stillness and the fact that when he talks to someone he talks to them like they're the only person in the building.
you're watching him talk to an elderly man in a navy blazer near the drinks table when the woman next to you leans over to her companion and says, in the quiet voice of someone not quite trying to be overheard: "no string though. interesting."
her companion makes a considering sound. "maybe he just hasn't been close enough to them yet."
"or maybe they're notâ"
"don't."
"i'm just saying what everyone's thinking."
you write something in your notepad that is not relevant to the event and shoot them both a nasty look for the insinuation.
on the car ride back he's quiet, looking out the window, and you're going over your notes when he says, without turning from the glass: "they were talking about it."
"yes," you say.
"they're always talking about it."
"yes," you say again, because there isn't a better answer and you have learned that he doesn't need you to have better answers, he needs you to not pretend that the worse ones aren't true.
he nods once, slowly, like he's filing this away next to everything else he files away, and you look back at your notes and don't ask the question that is sitting at the back of your throat, which is: does it bother you, and which you don't ask because you already know the answer and knowing the answer is not the same as being entitled to hear him say it.
the email came in at 7:43 in the morning, before you had finished your coffee, before you had fully accepted that this was your life now.
subject: incident at whole foods (columbus circle)
you put your mug down.
the body of the email was from suki in media response, who had been working at the firm for eleven years and had the tired, slightly faraway look of someone who had witnessed a great many things that could not be unseen. she had a habit of prefacing genuinely bad news with a single period, like a warning shot, so when you opened the email and saw the period sitting alone on its own line before the main body of text, you already knew you were going to need more coffee.
.
hi,
so the columbus circle whole foods has a new instagram account. they started it last month to post pictures of their prepared foods section. as of approximately twenty minutes ago, 47,000 people follow it.
footage attached.
best, suki
the footage was twelve seconds long. it had been captured by someone standing near the olive bar, phone at chest height, capturing the unmistakable blue-and-white striped tote bag that the office had specifically sourced for bucky barnes on the basis that it made him look approachable and domestic, because the internet had decided two months ago that the former winter soldier going grocery shopping was a form of national healing and your firm had leaned into this extremely hard.
in the twelve seconds of footage, he could be seen holding a paper number from the deli counter. he was looking at it with the focused stillness of a man who had survived more than one war and was currently deciding whether this small rectangle of paper had personally wronged him. then he looked up at the deli counter employee with an expression that was not quite threatening but was definitely in the general neighborhood of threatening, the way that certain weather systems were in the general neighborhood of catastrophic, and he said, clearly and calmly, into a whole foods that had gone somewhat quiet: "i've been waiting for seventeen minutes. i watched three people who came in after me get served. i want you to look me in the eye and tell me that the number system is working as intended."
the employee looked at him.
he waited.
"i can get a manager," the employee said.
"i would appreciate that," he nodded.
then the video ended.
you picked up your phone and called him. he picked up on the second ring, which was already a bad sign because when he was in a good mood he let it ring four or five times on principle, something about not being at anyone's beck and call, a policy you had tried to explain was inconvenient for your professional relationship and he had listened to with polite, focused attention before continuing to do it anyway.
"good morning," he said.
"good morning," you said. "i'm looking at a video."
"mm."
"of you."
"i know which one you mean."
"do you want to talk about it?"
there was a pause. in the background you could hear what sounded like eggs being cracked, which meant he was home and calm and had already filed this particular incident away into whatever internal architecture he used to categorize things that had not gone the way he planned. this was, you had learned, both a relief and a source of ongoing professional anxiety, because his equanimity about these situations was directly proportional to how little he felt he had done anything wrong.
"the number system," he said, "was not working as intended."
"bucky."
"i'm not saying the video misrepresents me. i'm saying it lacks context."
"the context being."
"that i had been waiting for seventeen minutes."
you set down your coffee mug with a small, careful click and opened your laptop. you had a google alert on his name. you had seven of them, actually, each with slightly different keyword combinations, because the internet had a great many creative ways to discuss james buchanan barnes and you needed to be ahead of at least some of them. the first one had already surfaced a reddit thread titled bucky barnes vs. whole foods: a reckoning with fourteen hundred upvotes and a comment section that was divided roughly sixty-forty between people who found this deeply humanizing and people who were concerned about the deli employee's wellbeing. buried somewhere in the middle of the thread, under a subthread that had gone sideways in the way reddit subthreads did, someone had posted a link to a quora quiz titled which avenger is your soulmate? with a caption that said touched grass once, still got bucky. it had forty-seven upvotes. you did not click it. you had a professional policy about clicking those.
"the comment section on reddit," you said, "is currently arguing about whether you were scary or whether you were in the right."
"both can be true."
"bucky, you can't say both can be true, that's not the answer."
"why not?"
"because i need to issue a statement and the statement can't be 'both can be true.'"
he was quiet for a moment. you could hear the eggs going into the pan, the sound of butter in a skillet, and you thought about how twelve months ago you had been managing the communications rollout for a mid-sized pharmaceutical company's rebranding and your biggest problem had been that the new logo looked slightly too much like a competitor's and how that problem, in retrospect, had the clean simple contours of a problem that could be solved by a graphic designer and a mildly strongly worded letter. you had been recruited for this position by a woman named linda who had the energy of someone who had survived multiple pr crises at a governmental level and who had explained the role to you over lunch in a way that made it sound like a fascinating challenge, and you had said yes because you had been twenty-five and ambitious and had believed that your skillset was transferable.
"the statement," he said, "could be that i was politely advocating for fair service."
"you made a whole foods go quiet."
"i spoke in a normal tone of voice."
"your normal tone of voice has a particular quality."
a beat of silence. "what quality."Â
you looked at the comment section. someone had written: he didn't even raise his voice and i am terrified. someone else had written: this is literally just a man asking a reasonable question, leave him alone. someone else had written: i need him to be patient at me next. you elected not to read that one aloud. there was a fourth comment, further down, that had been upvoted enough to sit near the top: whoever his soulmate is has the most chaotic life possible and i am so jealous. you elected not to read that one aloud either, and not only for professional reasons.
"a quality," you said carefully, "that reads as intimidating on video even when you're saying completely reasonable things."
"that's not my fault."
"it's not a matter of fault. it's a matter of optics."
"i don't like the word optics."
"i know you don't."
"it implies that what things look like matters more than what they are."
"in communications work, what things look like is literally the entire job."
there was a long pause. the eggs sounded like they were being moved around the pan with some deliberateness.
"i'll call the store," you said. "we can do a thing where you bring something. flowers or something. for the employee."
"i wasn't rude to the employee."
"i know you weren't rude. we're not correcting rudeness, we're doing gesture of goodwill, context-adding public action. we can photograph it. the tote bag reads well."
another pause. "the tote bag.." he said, in the tone of a man who had many thoughts about the tote bag and was choosing not to share them at this moment.
"the tote bag," you confirmed, "is doing a lot of heavy lifting for both of us and i need you to keep carrying it."
he made a sound that was not quite agreement and not quite disagreement, which you had learned was as close to cooperative as you were going to get on short notice. you told him you'd send logistics by noon, you told him to stay off social media until you'd drafted something, and he said "i'm not on social media.â
you made a note to check what he'd looked at.
the whole foods thing was resolved with a photograph that got picked up by three separate media outlets under headlines like bucky barnes brings flowers to whole foods: a timeline and america's redemption arc continues, apparently and, most usefully, former assassin: just like us, turns out. the employee, whose name was devon and who turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old studying film at hunter college, ended up with twenty thousand new followers and a viral clip of himself accepting the sunflowers while saying "it's all good, man" to a slightly stiff nod of acknowledgment, and the ratio on the original video shifted decisively toward deeply humanizing and away from concerning.
you had been in the job for eight months at this point. you were, by some metrics, very good at it.
the harder part was not the incidents. the incidents were, if not predictable, at least finite. something would happen, you would learn about it, you would manage the fallout, the news cycle would move on. you had a system. you had talking points. you had a laminated sheet in your desk drawer, which you had made in a moment of dark humor three months in, titled standard barnes incident response framework with categories including physical altercation (minor), physical altercation (property damage), unsolicited commentary on current events, interaction with other enhanced individuals (friendly), interaction with other enhanced individuals (unclear), and the category you revisited most often, which was simply staring.
you had also, in a small section at the bottom of the laminated sheet that you had added after the first stark foundation gala, a category called red carpet (walking out), which had its own sub-columns for time elapsed before exit, documented reason if any, and public response (scale 1-10, 10 = full crisis). you had used it four times.
the briefing for the times interview happens on a wednesday afternoon in month four, in your office, rain coming down the windows, and you've been through the likely questions and the deflections and the things to stay away from and he's been listening the way he always listens, that full and present attention that you have stopped trying to get used to and started simply accounting for, when you get to the last item on your list.
"the soulmate question," you say, keeping your voice completely even, "is going to come up. it comes up in everything."
the quality of the air in the room changes. you feel it before you can see it, the way he goes a different kind of still. not the resting stillness but the other kind, the one that costs something.
"i know," he says.
"i need to know how you want to handle it. we can prepare a deflection, something short that doesn't invite follow-up. or you can decline and we frame it as a private matter, which most outlets will respect. or we address it briefly and on your terms, which takes more preparation but gives us more control. it's your call." you keep your pen on the notepad and your eyes on him and you don't soften it or over-explain it because he doesn't need that, he needs you to treat him like a person who can look at a hard thing straight on.
he's quiet for long enough that the rain on the window becomes audible.
"i went into the ice in forty-three," he says, finally, not looking at you, looking at his own hands. "no string. came back, still no string." a pause. "you know what the logical explanations for that are."
you do know. you have worked in this industry for three years and you have absorbed the mechanics of it the way you absorb everything, thoroughly and at a professional distance, but you know. the string appears in proximity. if it hasn't appeared, either you haven't been close enough to your person yet, or your person is gone. or, and this is the one that sits in your chest in a way that the others don't, there's a third explanation, one that gets posted in reddit comments and deleted by moderators and reposted again because people can't stop pulling at it. that during seventy years of work in god knows how many countries and god knows how many rooms, he might have been close enough. might have crossed paths with his person without knowing it. might have been sent after them on a mission he didnt remember.
he's never said this out loud in front of you. he says it now with the flatness of someone who has had to make peace with a thought by saying it enough times that it stops having edges.
"the most likely explanation," he says, "is that they were born in the twenties. that they died decades ago. that it just never happened in time." he looks up at you then, and his eyes have the quality they get when he is being precise because imprecision would cost him something. "the other explanation is that it did happen in time. that i was in the right room. and iâ" the muscle in his jaw moves. "i made sure they never came out.â
the rain comes down the window.
"i'm not going to talk about it in the interview," he says. the flatness is back. "i'm not going to talk about it because there is nothing to say about it that doesn'tâ" he stops. starts again. "it doesn't have an ending that i can give people. it's not something i've worked through and come out the other side of. it's just a thing that's true and that i live next to."
"okay," you say again. and then: "we'll keep it off the table."
he nods once. he picks up the briefing document and looks at it and the conversation moves on, and you make a note that says no soulmate questions and underline it and don't look up for a while because you are a communications professional and your face is doing something that isn't professional and you need a moment.
you have a sticky note on the inside of your desk drawer that says if red string: do not speak to press. that night you open the drawer and look at it for a long time before you close it again.
the times interview is in june, in a rented room at a hotel in midtown, the journalist across the table with her recorder and her water glass and her careful professional warmth. you're in the corner with your notepad. you've been through the likely questions. you've gone over what to sidestep and how. he'd listened to all of it and said sure at the end, which you took as agreement.
forty minutes in she asks whether there are aspects of the past seventy years he hasn't made peace with.
he looks at her.
"most of them," he says.
she waits.
"the thing about peace is that people use it to mean you've stopped being affected by something. i don't think that's what it is. i think it's more like you've stopped letting it make your decisions for you. i'm working on that. i'm not done."
your hand is on your notepad. you are not writing anything down.
"are there specific things you feel you haven't processed?" she asks, carefully.
"sure. i was used as a weapon. not metaphorically. i hurt people because someone else had control of what i did. i live with that. i don't think i'll stop living with it. i just try to do something with it that isn't destructive."
"and do you feel like you're succeeding?"
he thinks about it. gives it the full weight of himself, the way he does. "on good days," he says.
the journalist shifts in her chair, the small professional movement of someone arriving at the question they've been holding. "i have to ask," she says, with the careful casualness of someone who has been building toward this for forty minutes. "the soulmate question comes up in nearly every piece written about you. you've never addressed it directly. your file with us goes back to your reintroduction to public life and there's not a single comment on record. is there anything you want people to understand about it?"
across the room, you go very still.
he doesn't answer immediately. the silence stretches in a way that a less experienced journalist would fill and she doesn't fill it, she's good, she lets it sit, and you watch him look at the table in front of him and you watch something happen behind his eyes that you recognise from your office four weeks ago on a wednesday afternoon with rain on the windows and you put your pen down.
"the assumption," he says, slowly, "is that i haven't found them yet. that it's a waiting game. that i just need to be in the right place at the right time and the string is going to show up and that'll be it." a pause. his voice has gone to a place that is very quiet and very level, the tone of someone managing the distance between themselves and what they're saying. "but i was in a lot of places. over a lot of years. in a lot of rooms with a lot of people and the string never came, and at some point the more honeâ" he stops.
the journalist is very still.
his jaw moves. his hands on the table are very still. "i'm not going to talk about it in an interview."
the last sentence comes out differently from the ones before it. the ones before it were him thinking out loud, following a thought somewhere he hadn't planned to go, and the last one is the door closing.
"i appreciate you sharingâ" the journalist starts.
"no." he says, and it's not rude, it's not even sharp, it's just the end of something. he looks at you.
you are already standing up.
you don't think about it, you don't make a professional calculation, you cross the room in the time it takes the journalist to register what's happening and he's pushing back his chair and you put your hand out and he takes it. his hand is large and warm and closes around yours with the certainty of someone who knew you were going to be there, and he stands up and you walk out of the hotel room with your hand in his and the journalist's recorder running on the table behind you and you don't look back.
in the hallway he stops. he drops his chin and he breathes and you stand next to him holding his hand in a hallway in a midtown hotel and you don't say anything because there is nothing to say that would be better than just being there.
after a while he says, without looking up: "sorry about the interview."
"don't be," you say.
"you're going to have toâ"
"i'll handle it," you say. "it's fine. she'll frame it right."
he's quiet for another moment. then he looks at you. his eyes have come back from wherever they were in that room and they're on your face now, doing the inventory thing, and his hand is still around yours and neither of you has moved to change that.
"thank you," he says. low and even and meaning it completely.
"that's the job," you say, which is true, and also not entirely what you mean, and the slight shift in his expression suggests he knows the difference.
you take the car back in a quiet that is different from other quiets. his hand rests on his thigh and the space between you in the backseat is smaller than it usually is and you watch the city go past the window and you think about his hand around yours in the hallway and the certainty of it and you don't examine it. you file it in the folder you haven't named and you look at the city and you think about what you're going to say to the journalist and none of the professional thoughts stick because underneath all of them is the feeling of his hand and the way he'd looked at you in the hallway, like you were the thing in the room that was solid.
the piece comes out two weeks later and it is the best pr you have ever been involved with because it isn't pr, it's just him telling the truth and the truth being, without any help from you, something that moves people. the section about the soulmate question is three careful paragraphs that the journalist has handled with more generosity than you had any right to expect, framed around the idea of a man who has chosen not to speculate publicly about private pain, which is accurate and which generates its own news cycle for four days, and a slate piece calls it the most honest thing a public figure has done in years, and you read it with the face of someone who is not having feelings about it and is succeeding at a rate of maybe fifty percent.
you text him: the piece is good.
after a while: you sound surprised. - b
you send: you were honest.
he leaves you on read.
the stark foundation gala is a thursday in september, the fifth major red carpet you've managed for him, and you have data. two completions, one walkout at twenty minutes, one near-walkout that you'd managed by standing at the end of the carpet and looking at him in a way that communicated, without words, that you would prefer he didn't, and which had worked in a way that you had written up in your notes afterward as unclear why and had been thinking about since.
in the week before the gala you call him three times about nothing in particular. his schedule. the coffee place on ninth you'd mentioned in july, which he'd tried, and he'd had opinions about it that were more detailed than you'd expected and the conversation had gone over twenty minutes and you'd had to manufacture a reason to end it, which you had done and then sat with the phone in your hand for a while afterward. you do this, the calling about nothing, because you've learned that the best way to get a red carpet to go smoothly is to make sure he doesn't arrive at it feeling like something being deployed. he needs to feel like a person who decided to go somewhere. the distinction matters and you can't manufacture it, which means your job in the days before a major event is less about logistics and more about being someone he has actually talked to recently. this is not in the framework document. you haven't decided what to do with the fact that it doesn't feel like work when you do it.
the gala is at the met. you're stationed at the edge of the carpet just past the arrival point, where you can see the full length of it and where he has a direct sightline to you, a logistical choice you made after the third event and which he has never commented on but which you've noticed he uses. he finds you in the first twenty seconds every single time now. some quality of his posture changes when he does. you have noticed this and you have not written it in any document.
he arrives at 7:12 in a dark suit that fits him and he stands on the pavement doing his version of gathering himself, which looks like stillness from the outside and feels, you have come to understand, like something considerably more effortful from within. the crowd notices him a beat after the press pit does and the noise goes up and he walks onto the carpet.
he is good for eleven minutes. personal best. he does the photographs. he nods at the press pit. he says three things you didn't script that are better than anything you did, consistent enough a pattern that you've stopped scripting things for him entirely and started having conversations with him in the days before that surface what he actually thinks, which he then sometimes says in public when asked variations of the same questions, and this works better than anything else you've tried and you are not going to examine why talking to him is the most effective pr tool you have. he stops to speak to someone from the foundation board and the photograph of that exchange is going to be excellent and you know it from forty feet away.
then something shifts.
you see it before you can name it, the change in the quality of his stillness. he's looking at the press pit, not at any one person in it but at the whole of it, all cameras and lights and controlled professional noise, and his jaw sets.
he turns.
the exit is to your left, which means he is walking toward you, which means you have approximately four seconds before he reaches the edge of the carpet and then he is in a car and you are managing a walkout and the night is over. you have done this before. you have the framework for it. you know the headlines it generates and the spin cycle that follows and the three days of careful repositioning it costs you both and the specific expression he gets when you debrief him afterward, not apologetic exactly, just tired in the way he gets when he has reached the end of himself and had nothing left to give the room.
you are not doing that tonight.
you step directly into his path.
not to the side of it. not near it. into it, planting yourself between him and the exit with your arm extended and your finger pointed back down the carpet, back toward the lights and the cameras and the press pit, and the look on your face says what your voice can't say across forty feet of noise, which is: turn around. right now. you are not done.
he stops walking.
he stumbles.
not a trip. not a misstep. his body lurches toward you like something has grabbed him by the sternum, one long step forward that his legs didn't decide to take, and then his knees hit the red carpet and the sound of it cuts through the noise of the press pit like a frequency change and for one suspended second the entire stark foundation gala goes quiet.
he is on one knee in front of you.
his head is down.
and then the light catches it.
thin and luminous, running from his wrist to yours, red and impossible and unmistakable, crossing the distance between you like it has always been there, like it has been waiting patiently for the two of you to end up in the same place at the same time and stop moving long enough for it to show up. the string. the thing that means one specific thing and only one specific thing and that you have had a sticky note about in your desk drawer for eight months that says if red string: do not speak to press and which, you now understand with a clarity that feels almost funny, was a note you wrote about yourself without knowing it.
the quiet lasts approximately one second.
and then the press pit explodes.
not in the professional sense, not the managed swell of cameras and questions that you have learned to navigate, but in the way that things explode when something genuinely unprecedented has just happened in front of people whose entire job is to document unprecedented things. it is a wall of sound, a wave of it, the camera shutters going off so fast they become a single continuous noise like static, like rain, like something electrical, and underneath it the crowd behind the barriers which has been politely attentive for the past eleven minutes is suddenly not politely anything, it is screaming, actually screaming, the sound of several hundred people watching something they are going to talk about for the rest of their lives and knowing it in real time.
you look at the string.
he raises his head.
he is still on one knee on the red carpet of the stark foundation gala and the cameras are going and the crowd is going and the press pit is going and he is looking up at you with an expression that you have never seen on his face before, not once in eight months of watching his face for a living, not the closed off look and not the considering look and not the look from the hotel hallway and not the careful flat look from the wednesday with rain on the windows. it is something underneath all of those. something that was there before he learned to put the other ones on top of it.
he looks, you think, like a man who just found out that the worst version of the thing was not the true version.
"hi." your voice is completely steady. this is the single greatest professional achievement of your career.
the corner of his mouth moves, just barely, and his eyes are still doing the thing that has no category, and the cameras are still going, and the crowd is still going, and the string between your wrists is thin and luminous and entirely unbothered by all of it. "hi," he says. low. a little rough. like he's had to come back from somewhere to say it.
"you were going to leave."
"i was course correcting," he says. from one knee. on the stark foundation gala red carpet. with the full gravity and composure of a man who has decided this is the version of events he's committed to.
"toward you," he says. like this is a complete and sufficient answer. like it explains something rather than being the thing that requires explaining.
the string sits between you, luminous and patient, catching the gala lights. from somewhere in the press pit someone is saying something into a phone that you can't hear over the noise. the crowd behind the barriers is a living thing, pressing forward, held back by nothing except the barriers themselves and possibly the collective understanding that something is happening that they don't want to interrupt. you are aware, in the peripheral way that you are always aware of everything, that there are somewhere between forty and sixty cameras currently on the two of you and that this is going to be on every front page in the country by morning and that the stringwatch tumblr is probably already loading a new draft and that you have no prepared statement for this, none, not one word of prepared language for the thing that is happening right now, and that this is the first time in three years of professional communications work that you have been completely without a prepared statement and it feels, strangely, like putting something down that you didn't know you were carrying.
"get up, please.â its almost a beg.
he gets up.
he unfolds to his full height right in front of you and you have to tilt your chin up to look at him properly and he is close, closer than the three feet of professional air that you have maintained for eight months, close enough that you can see the exact expression on his face without having to read it across a room, and the expression on his face is the one without a category that you are going to spend a considerable amount of time developing a category for.
he looks at the string.
then at you.
the string.
you.
"okay," he says. quiet enough that only you can hear it under the noise. not to the string and not to the situation and not to the press pit or the crowd or the forty-odd cameras. to you. just to you. like the rest of it isn't there at all.
the crowd screams again, a fresh wave of it, because one of the photographers has gotten the angle that captures both of your faces and the string between your wrists in a single frame and the image is already moving, you can feel it moving the way you can always feel the news cycle shift, except that this time you are inside it instead of standing at the edge of it with your notepad and your talking points and your professional remove.
"we need to walk back down the carpet," you say.
"okay."
"thirty seconds. you're going to be fine. i'm going to be right next to you. then we're getting in a car and dealing with the rest of this somewhere that isn'tâ" you gesture, slightly, at the entirety of it.
"okay," he says. and then: "you're always serious."
"yes," you say.
"it's one of the things," he says, for the second time in your acquaintance, with the same weight as the first time, and you still don't ask what it means because you are storing it in the folder that now very urgently needs a name.
you turn toward the carpet.
he falls into step beside you and the cameras go absolutely, completely, historically insane, and somewhere in the press pit someone is shouting a question about the string that you are not going to answer tonight or possibly ever, and the crowd behind the barriers sounds like a physical force, and the string between your wrists catches every light on the carpet and throws it back, and you walk, and he walks, and the string walks with you both, and the night air is warm and the cameras don't stop and none of it matters as much as the fact that his arm is against yours as you move and that where eight months of a working relationship and three feet of professional air used to be, there is now just the small luminous fact of the string.
the car is quiet.
you're next to each other in the back of the suv and the string is still there, running between your wrists in the dark, and your phone has forty-seven notifications and you are not looking at any of them. he hasn't moved away from the string. every time you've been near him there's been a distance to it, professional and maintained without either of you having to think about it. three feet of air that existed because it was correct. the string makes that distance theoretical. it runs between you with the ease of something that has been waiting for someone to stop pretending it isn't there, and he keeps not moving away from it and you keep noticing that he keeps not moving away from it.
"the stringwatch tumblr," you say, to the window.
"the what."
"there's a woman. she's been running a blog for eleven years documenting celebrity soulmate bonds. methodology section and everything." a pause. "she's going to have a methodology section about this by morning."
he takes this in. "what's a tumblr?"
you look at him. in the dark of the car his eyes catch the light from outside and he is looking at you the way he always looks at you, like you are the only thing in the room that requires his attention, and your professionalism is doing its level best. "it doesn't matter what it is. the point is the internet is going to be a lot for a while."
"okay."
"a real lot. there are quora quizzes. there are ao3 fics. there's a podcast, two journalists, ninety minutes on the probable emotional profile of whoever was bonded to you." a pause that you feel in your chest before you hear yourself fill it. "i listened to it on the train to dc."
a beat. "for work.." he says. not quite a question.
"for work," you say, with slightly less conviction than intended, and you feel him looking at you from the side.
"what did they say?" he asks, quietly.
you look at the city moving past the window. "that whoever it was would need a high tolerance for difficulty."
"that's not wrong."
"they said it was probably someone who didn't need you to be easy. just someone who needed you to be honest."
the car moves through an intersection. a taxi honks at something that isn't you.
"also not wrong," he says quieter.
you look at him. he's looking at you with the expression that doesn't have a category, the one from the carpet, the one from the hallway, and it is doing things to the filing system you've spent eight months constructing.
"i have one thousand and forty-seven notifications," you say.
"you can look at them." easy. unhurried.
"i know i can look at them."
"so look at them."
"i don't want to look at them," you huff, which is true, and he seems to understand that it is also not the point, because he doesn't push it.
the string catches light from a passing streetlamp and for a second it's the brightest thing in the car.
"you pointed at me like i was a dog." his voice is a low grumble, not threatening, more like a rottweiler.
"i was indicating the area of the carpet where i needed you to remain."
"you pointed at me." the warmth in it, wondering and quiet. "and i fell toward you." a pause. "didn't even mean to."
you look at his hand on his thigh. at yours in your lap. at the five or so inches between them that are the last professionally defensible distance you have.
"bucky," you hum.
"yeah."
you think about his hand around yours in the hotel hallway and the certainty of it. you think about a wednesday afternoon with rain on the windows and his voice saying the word maybe in the flat tone of someone putting distance between themselves and a thing so they can say it. you think about the sticky note and the folder without a name and forty-seven notifications and the string sitting between your wrists like it has been there longer than an hour, patient and luminous and entirely unbothered.
"the statement is going to be a nightmare," you say.
"okay."
"the internet is going to beâ"
"i know."
"for a long time," you say. "a really long time. and there are going to beâ" you stop. you start again. "it's going to change things. for the job. forâ" you stop again.
he shifts beside you, just slightly, and his hand moves from his thigh to the seat between you and he turns it over, open, not reaching, not demanding, just offering it the same way he'd taken yours in the hallway. the same certainty. the same ease. like he'd known you were going to be there and is now returning the thing you gave him.
you look at it for a moment.
then you put your hand in his.
"okay," he says. soft. like it means something underneath it. like it has been meaning something for a while and he has been waiting for the right moment to let it.
you look at the city going past and his hand is around yours and the string runs between your wrists and somewhere across the city the stringwatch tumblr is probably already loading the first draft of a methodology section, and you think: okay.
the stringwatch tumblr publishes at 2:14 in the morning.
six thousand words. methodology section. the title is bucky barnes and his pr assistant: a documentation (ongoing) and the subheading is he walked toward her.
she has footage from six angles. a breakdown of the stumble and the knee and the moment the string appears. she has a timeline of every known public interaction between the two of you going back eight months, pulled from red carpet footage and event photographs and the whole foods video, in which, she notes with what appears to be genuine excitement, you can be seen in the background near the olive bar with your phone in your hand and an expression she has labelled professionally resigned but present.Â
you werent there.
she has the photograph from the moment of the string. sourced from three photographers, different angles all resolving on the same image: him on one knee and you standing still and the string between you catching the gala lights, and both of your faces doing something uncontrolled and undeniable.
she has a subsection called prior evidence, unconfirmed.
it has more in it than you were ready for. a paparazzi photograph from four months ago outside the firm after a late meeting. you are looking at your phone. he is looking at you. just you, with an expression aimed at the back of your head that you have never personally seen, that the stringwatch tumblr has tagged with two words.
oh no.
underneath it, in her analysis, she has written: he has been looking at her like this in every piece of available footage since month two. there is a hotel hallway clip from june, thirty seconds of security camera footage that has been on youtube with four thousand views and no notes until tonight, in which she walks out first and he follows and in the hallway he stops and she stops with him and they stand there and you cannot see his face but you can see hers, and whoever is watching this for the first time tonight can see what she apparently could not, which is that she is looking at him the way people look at things they are trying very hard not to look at that way.
the comments on the stringwatch post number in the thousands before you stop reading them. someone near the top has written: she pointed at him and he fell toward her and now i need to lie down. someone else has written: the hotel hallway footage has been sitting there for six months and none of us noticed. someone else has written: he took her hand at the senator's thing. it's in the background of the c-span footage. seventeen seconds. nobody noticed because nobody was looking at the background. we were all looking at him.
you had not known that that was on camera.
you had not known that anyone had seen that.
you sit in your apartment at 2:47 in the morning with your phone in your hand and your left wrist resting in your lap and the string going through your walls and across the city to wherever he is, and you read six thousand words about yourself and about him and about the eight months between the first tuesday and tonight, and at some point you stop reading and just sit in the quiet with it.
your phone buzzes.
there's a website - b
it has a methodology section. - b
it has the hotel hallway. - b
you look at your left wrist. at the string. at the middle distance that contains, across some number of city blocks, the other end of it and the person attached to it who has apparently been looking at you since month two in a way that is now documented and timestamped and being discussed by several thousand people.
the three dots appear. disappear. appear again.
i've been looking at you for longer than four months. - b
before you can respond, before you can even work out what your hands are doing.
i used to think there wasn't going to be a string. i'd made a kind of peace with it.- b
that's not what i was thinking about when i was looking at you.- b
you leave him on read for the night.
he knocks on your door at 7 in the morning.
you know it's him before you open it because nobody else knocks like that, three times, evenly spaced, like he's considered the appropriate volume and committed to it. you are in your pyjamas with your hair doing something that is not professional and your left wrist still glowing faintly with the string and you have had approximately four hours of sleep and you open the door anyway because it is him and you have, at 2:47 in the morning with your phone in your hand, stopped pretending that you wouldn't.
he's in a dark henley and his hair is pushed back and he has two coffees from the place on ninth and he holds one out to you with the expression of a man who has made a decision and is not going to explain the decision but is also not going to pretend he hasn't made it.
you take the coffee.
he looks at you. at your pyjamas and your hair and your left wrist and your face, which is doing things you are too tired to manage.
"hi," he says.
âhello barnes.â
and he comes in.
he sits on your sofa the way he sits in the chair in your office, the chair that has become his chair, like his body knows where it belongs in a room and takes it without making a production of it. he wraps both hands around his coffee cup and looks at your apartment with the quiet attention he gives everything and you sit in the chair across from him with your legs tucked under you and you drink your coffee and outside the city is waking up and somewhere across that city the stringwatch tumblr has seven thousand comments and climbing and neither of you mentions it.
"i didn't sleep." you say, eventually.
"i know. me either."
"my notifications are at four thousand and something."
"i know." he looks at you over his coffee cup. "i wasn't looking at the notifications."
you look at your wrist. the string runs from it across your living room to his, thin and luminous in the morning light coming through the window, and it is, you think, the most surreal thing you have ever seen in your own home, which is a high bar given that bucky barnes is also in your home, sitting on your sofa at 7 in the morning, and you have been in this industry long enough to know that surreal is a relative category.
"the statementâ" you breathe out a heavy sigh before he cuts u off.
"later." he says.
"bucky, the statement needs toâ"
"later," he says again, not sharply, just with the quiet certainty of a man who has decided what is and isn't happening right now. "drink your coffee."
you drink your coffee.
it's good. it is, objectively, the best coffee you have had in months, from the place on ninth that you mentioned in july and that he tried and had twenty minutes of opinions about, and you think about that phone call and about manufacturing a reason to end it and about the photograph on the stringwatch tumblr of his face looking at the back of your head, and you say: "how long."
he looks at you.
"how long were you looking at me like that," you say. "the photograph. the one from four months ago."
he is quiet for a moment. his thumb moves around the rim of the coffee cup, a slow deliberate circle. "longer than four months," he says, which is what he texted, which is not an answer, and he seems to know it's not an answer because he takes a breath and tries again. "i noticed you," he says, carefully, "in the first meeting. not likeâ" he stops. "i noticed you because you were direct. you didn't make your face do anything when i was difficult. most people's faces do something."
"i have a professional face."
"i know. i noticed that it was professional. and then i noticedâ" he stops again, the way he stops when he's being precise, choosing. "i noticed that it was also something else. underneath."
you look at your coffee.
"i told myself it was because you were good at the job," he says. "and you are good at the job. but that's not why i was looking."
the morning light comes through the window and falls across the string between your wrists and you think about eight months of three feet of professional air and the folder without a name and the podcast on the train and all the manufactured reasons to end phone calls, and you think: okay. okay. we are doing this.
"i listened to the podcast," you say, "in october. on the train. i told myself it was research."
something in his expression shifts, warm and quiet. "was it?"
"no," you huff. "not really."
he looks at you for a long moment. then he puts his coffee cup down on your table and he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on your face and the string between your wrists and he says: "i used to think there was something wrong with me. that the string didn't come. every room i walked into, for months after i got back, i wasâ" a breath. "i was checking. without meaning to. just looking at my wrist. and it was never there, and i made a story about why, the ones i told you on the wednesday, and i believed the story because it was the most logical thing and because believing it meant i could stop waiting." he looks at the string. "i wasn't thinking about the string when i was looking at you. i want you to know that. i wasn't looking at you because i was hoping. i was looking at you because you wereâ" he looks up. "you're the most interesting person in any room you're in and you don't seem to know it and that's part of it. and you'reâ" the corner of his mouth. "you pointed at me. in front of about fifty cameras and the entire assembled press of the stark foundation gala. you just pointed at me and expected it to work."
"it did work." you say.
"yeah," he says, soft. "it did."
you look at him. at the distance between you, which is less than three feet, which is less than you have allowed it to be for eight months, which is close enough that you can see exactly what his expression is doing and what it is doing is something that reorganises things.
"this is going to be very complicated," you say, "professionally."
"i know."
"there are protocols. conflict of interest considerations. i'm going to have to talk to the firm."
"i know."
"and the press isn't going to leave this alone. you understand that. this is going to be the story for months and every event, every appearance, everything we do is going toâ"
"i know all of that," he says, steadily. "i'm not asking you to figure all of that out right now. i'm asking you to drink your coffee."
you look at him.
"and maybe," he says, with the careful casualness of a man who is not being casual at all, "sit over here."
you look at the sofa. at the space next to him, which is not professionally defensible and which you have been not looking at since he sat down. you look at the string between your wrists. you look at his face, which is doing the thing without a category, patient and intent and warm in a way that you have been filing under other headings for longer than you should have.
you get up from the chair.
you sit next to him on the sofa.
his arm moves, just slightly, and then you are against his side, and he is warm and solid in the way that he takes up space in every room, and his hand finds yours in your lap with the same certainty he had in the hotel hallway, easy and inevitable, and you sit in the morning light with your coffee going cold and the string between your wrists and the city outside and four hundred and something notifications that are going to have to wait.
the logistics of it unfold the way logistics unfold when bucky barnes is involved, which is to say: slowly, on his terms, and not without incident.
the firm meeting happens on a monday. your supervisor, a woman named claire who has been in this industry for twenty years and has the particular equanimity of someone who has managed crises at a level that makes yours look like scheduling conflicts, looks at you across her desk and then looks at the string going from your wrist through the wall in the approximate direction of brooklyn and says, with great professionalism: "well."
"i know," you say.
"the conflict of interestâ"
"i know."
"we'll need to restructure the arrangement. you can stay on as lead but we bring in a secondary, someone who handles the pieces you can't be objective about." she pauses. "you haven't been objective about him for some time, based on the stringwatch analysis, but that's a separate conversation."
you look at the wall. "the stringwatch tumblr," your voice is an annoyed grumble, "is not a professional source."
"it has a methodology section," claire says, and moves on.
the restructure happens. the secondary is a man named joel who is competent and professional and who bucky takes one look at in the first joint meeting and then looks at you with an expression that says, clearly and without words: i don't like this. and joel, to his credit, pretends not to notice any of this and asks a question about the upcoming schedule and the meeting continues.
afterward, in the hallway, bucky falls into step beside you and says: "i don't like him."
"you don't have to like him."
"he kept looking at you."
"he was looking at both of us. it was a meeting."
"he was looking at you," he says, with the flat certainty of a man who has been making assessments of rooms and the people in them since 1930 and has not once been wrong, "specifically."
you look at him. he looks back, untroubled, steady, like this is a completely reasonable position to hold. "bucky."Â
"i'm not going to do anything," he says. "i'm just telling you what i saw."
"what you observed," you say, "was a professional colleague conducting a professional meeting."
"what i observed," he says, "was a professional colleague who was very interested in your opinion on the q4 calendar."
"he was being thorough!â.
bucky says nothing. he holds the elevator door open for you and you get in and he gets in and the elevator closes and he says, at the wall: "i'm just saying."
"i know you're just saying," you say. "stop just saying."
the corner of his mouth. not quite a smile. "okay," he says.
it changes in increments, the way most things change with him, not in declarations but in accumulations, small decisions that add up to something larger without announcing themselves.
the first time he takes your hand in public that isn't a crisis or a hallway or a car in the dark, it's outside the firm on a tuesday afternoon, no cameras, just the street, and he reaches down and takes your hand the way he does everything, without making a production of it, and you look at your joined hands and then up at him and he is looking ahead, at the street, perfectly calm.
you walk to the coffee place on ninth and he orders without asking what you want and gets it right, which shouldn't be a thing but is, because you didn't know he'd been paying that much attention and you don't know what to do with the fact that he has, so you put it in the folder that now has a label, the label being something you haven't said out loud yet but which is becoming increasingly difficult not to.
the first time he touches your face it's not romantic, exactly, it's practical, you have something on your cheek from lunch, a meeting that ran long and you'd eaten at your desk, and he reaches over without asking and brushes it away with his thumb and it is a three second interaction that your nervous system treats as considerably longer. he doesn't comment on it. he goes back to looking at the briefing document in his other hand.
you look at the middle distance.
"okay?" he says, without looking up.
"fine," you say. "totally fine."
the corner of his mouth.
the first time he kisses you is after a press event in october, a small thing, a foundation announcement, nothing that required the full apparatus, and it had gone well, and you're in the car afterward going over what worked and what didn't and he is listening to you the way he always listens, that full and present attention, and at some point you stop talking because he is looking at you and the way he is looking at you is not the way someone looks at a person they are listening to about press event logistics.
"what?â
he reaches over and tucks a piece of your hair back, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing your jaw, and then his hand stays there, his thumb at your cheekbone, and he looks at you for a moment with the expression that still doesn't have a complete category but that you are building one for, brick by brick, day by day.
"i've been thinking about doing that," he says, meaning the hair, meaning the hand, meaning the looking, meaning all of it, "for a long time."
"how long," you ask, and he just tilts your chin up and kisses you, soft and certain and unhurried, like it's something he has thought through and decided and is not going to do halfway, and your hand finds the front of his henley and you think: this is what the folder was for.
when he pulls back he is still close, his forehead almost against yours, and he is looking at you with something that is warm and certain and a little wondering, the look he had on the carpet on one knee, the look that you are beginning to understand is the look he saves for things that have surprised him in a way he's glad about.
"is this okay?" he almost sounds insecure, and you answer him with another soft kiss..
the driver, who has been professionally pretending to be interested in the middle lane for the past forty seconds, says nothing.
the interviews start some time after. not the solo ones, those have been happening since the times piece, but the joint ones, the ones where you are both in the frame, where the string between your wrists is visible and the journalist across the table has questions for both of you and the world has decided that bucky barnes and his pr assistant is a story it wants to keep telling.
the first one is with a woman from the atlantic, who is sharp and warm and asks good questions, and she sits across from both of you and looks between you with the professional assessment of a journalist who has been told to get the definitive interview and has shown up prepared to get it.
"i want to ask about the nature of the working relationship," she says, "before and after. because you were working together for eight months before the gala, and from the outside looking in, that's a significant amount of time to beâ" she chooses her word carefully. "in proximity."
you open your mouth.
"it was significant," bucky says, before you get there, and you close your mouth. "i don't think either of us would say it wasn't."
the journalist looks at him. "can you say more about that?"
he looks at you, just for a second, and then he looks back at the journalist and says: "she's very good at her job. she doesn't tell me what to think. she argues with me when i'm wrong and she doesn't pretend i'm right when i'm not and sheâ" a pause. "she shows up. that's the thing. whatever room i'm in, she's thought about how i'm going to be in it. not in a managing way. in aâ" he stops. finds it. "in the way that you think about someone when you're paying attention to them."
the journalist is writing something down. you are looking at the table in humiliation.
"and from your side," the journalist says to you, with the precision of someone who knows she's got something and is handling it carefully, "what does it look like, managing someone's public image when the relationship has becomeâ"
"the job didn't change," you say. and then, because it's him and because the journalist is good and because the string is there on the table between your wrists and there's no version of this where you are fully professional about it: "not until the gala, anyway.â
the journalist smiles. writes something down. bucky, next to you, doesn't say anything, but his hand finds yours under the table and his thumb moves once across your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and you think: the folder has a name now. you've known the name for a while. you've just been waiting until it wasn't terrifying to say it, and it is still a little terrifying, and that's okay, because some things are supposed to feel like something when they arrive.
the museum updates their exhibit in december.
you find out from an alert, except this time the alert is from the smithsonian's press office and it reads: update to the captain america permanent exhibition: new panel added to the james buchanan barnes section, and you click the link and there is the panel, installed between the one about the howling commandos and the one about the fall from the train, and it has his photograph and a paragraph of new text, and at the bottom of the paragraph, in the careful neutral language of institutional documentation, it says: barnes returned to public life in 2024 and has been an active participant in veteran advocacy work. he currently resides in brooklyn. and then, in the last sentence, which someone at the smithsonian has either added with great intentionality or with no understanding of what it would do to the internet: the string connecting him to his soulmate appeared publicly in september 2025, at a foundation event in new york.
that's all it says. the string connecting him to his soulmate.
you read it three times.
you send him the link.
he texts back after a while: they spelled my name right. - b
you roll your eyes at his play at stupidity, bucky read often and he was almost as annoying as steve when it came to reading the fine print.
does it feel weird seeing it in there?
a longer pause than usual.Â
no, its about my history, youâre apart of that now - b
you sit with that.
why, do you mind? if you do, i'll remove it myself. - b
you smile down at your phone, huffing as you try and smother your smile and type back.
youâre apart of my history now too, james.
steve comes to find you in january, at a team event at the compound, directly and with the expression of a man who has something to say and has decided to say it.
"can i tell you something?" he says.
"you're going to tell me something either way," you say into your wine glass.
the corner of his mouth quirks up and he nods towards you, "fair."Â
he looks across the room, where bucky is standing with a cup of coffee talking to sam, and there is something in the way steve looks at him that is not complicated at all, just straightforward and glad. "i grew up with him," steve says. "i've known him since we were kids too small to get into a fight without getting flattened, and i watched himâ" he stops. "i watched what happened to him. all of it. before and after. and i've been watching him since he came back, every day, trying to find his way back to himself." he looks at you. "i want you to know that he's getting there. he laughs now. not often, but he laughs. he has opinions about coffee and he argues about things that don't matter and last week he told sam he was wrong about something for twenty minutes and didn't apologise once." a pause. "he's getting back to himself. and i think," he says, carefully, "that you're part of why."
you look at bucky across the room. he says something to sam and sam throws his head back laughing and bucky's mouth does the thing, the not quite smile that is better than most people's full ones, and he glances over and finds you the way he always finds you in a room, in the first twenty seconds, and the look he gives you is the one without a complete category that you are still building, brick by brick, and which is getting easier to look at without having to file it somewhere else first.
"he's doing the work," you say to steve. "i just handle the press."
"you do more than that," steve says. not pushing. just accurate.
you look at the string on your wrist.
"yeah," you say. "i know."
steve is quiet for a moment. then: "he used to think there wasn't going to be one. the string. he never said it outright but i knew. i'd watch him in rooms sometimes, not looking for anything, justâ" he shakes his head. "he'd made peace with it. put it away somewhere. and i'd think, god, bucky, you of all people." he sniffs before he holds his knuckle to his nose for a moment to collect himself, "it's like having my best friend back," he smiles. "i don't know how else to put it. it's like having him back."
you look at bucky across the room. he is arguing with sam about something, his coffee cup in one hand and his other hand doing the thing where he makes a point with it, and sam is shaking his head and grinning and bucky looks, you think, like someone who has returned from somewhere very far away and is still learning what it feels like to be back, and is learning it, day by day, in a brooklyn apartment and a coffee place on ninth and a car on the way home from events and a sofa in the morning with the string between their wrists and the city outside, and is not, you think, learning it alone.
"yeah," you say, to steve. "i think i'm getting him back too."
bucky looks over again. finds you and he tips his head slightly, the smallest possible gesture, and it says: come here.
you cross the room in an instant.
he moves his arm and you fit against his side the way you've learned you fit there, and he doesn't make a thing of it, he just keeps talking to sam, his arm settling around you with the ease of something practiced, something decided, and sam looks at you and then at the string and then at bucky with the expression of a man who is choosing not to say the many things he could say and settling for a grin.
"anyway," bucky says, to sam, as if nothing has happened, "i'm telling you, you're wrong about the coffee."
"i'm not wrong about the coffee," sam says.
"you're catastrophically wrong about the coffee," bucky says. "ask her." he means you. he says it with the casual certainty of a man who has already decided you are going to agree with him, which you are, because he is right about the coffee, and also because it is december and the string is there and steve rogers is across the room looking at his best friend like he got something back he'd stopped expecting to get back, and you are against bucky's side with his arm around you and he is arguing about coffee like it is the most important thing in the room and maybe, you think, for right now, it is. maybe that's the point. maybe that's what getting back to yourself looks like. the small things. the coffee. the arguing. the twenty minutes with sam and the not apologising and the finding someone in the first twenty seconds of every room and the hand offered open on the seat of a car in the dark.
"she's going to say you're wrong," you tell him.
"she's going to say i'm right," he says, without looking at you, to sam, and his arm tightens slightly around you, just briefly, just enough.
"i'm going to say," you say, "that you're both wrong and the place on ninth is better than either of you deserve."
sam laughs. bucky looks down at you with the expression, the warm and wondering one, and his mouth does the thing that is better than most people's full smiles.
"whatever, iâm definitely right, doll.â
and across the room steve rogers watches his best friend and says nothing, and looks, for the first time in a very long time, like a man who is not worried anymore.
pairing: war vet!mechanic!bucky barnes x fem!reader | au
w.c: 15k+
summary: you were a bit nervous when your roommate invited you to the beach with her friends, but after meeting them you realize you had no reason to be. after meeting the recovering war veteran and mechanic of the group, your whole world shifts. he's sweet, utterly handsome, and seems to be fond of you, too. things move quickly and after an encounter on the beach, you begin to worry you imagined everything. but some things are worth fighting for, aren't they?
warnings: fluff, meet cute, love at first sight maybe, beach setting, angst, descriptions of bucky's past, eventual smut (in second installment)
a/n: if this flops, my feelings will be so hurt but life shall go on. also, I know the story moves quickly, but itâs supposed to bc itâs a summer fling and summer isnât that long. I also envision Bucky after FATWS specifically for the basis of his au character. Heâs done the work to help himself, but it still haunts him at times
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
masterlist | read on AO3 | moodboard for story
The grass, trees, and the occasional house passed by quickly. The summer air coming through the cracked windows filled your lungs and restored you from the inside out. There were no gasoline, garbage, sewage, or other odors fighting to take up space inside of your chest. Your shoulders lost the tension they normally carried the further away you got from the hell hole you called the city. There were no skyscrapers, advertisements, blinking lights, or honking cars vying for your attention; just the vivid green of nature, the empty backroad you were traveling on, and the clear blue sky above. Your mind felt quiet for the first time since you can remember moving to the city.
You leaned closer to the window and propped your chin on your arm as you gazed out at the rural area you were driving through. The wind wiped in your face and you suddenly understood why dogs stuck their heads out of the car; it was euphoric and free. Euphoric and free werenât words you would use to describe how you felt in your daily life. Sure, you had moved to the city after college like most fresh graduates would dream of doing, but the job you secured wasnât as fun as you were led to believe in the interview and you were suddenly drained of energy since joining the real world. During your first year of work, your boss slowly piled more and more work upon your shoulders. You didnât want to look like you were slacking, so you picked up the extra work with no complaint.
That was your first mistake.
As soon as you proved you could handle the bigger workload, your boss started asking you to spend more time at the office and even called you on weekends occasionally to ask you to draft a contract or schedule a meeting, or whatever other bullshit assistants had to deal with all the time. You grumbled under your breath whenever you had to put in the extra hours but turned on the smile when your boss was around.
Your second mistake was giving too much of your time to work so that you barely had a social life. While you moved to the city knowing no one, you lucked out on finding an incredible roommate â Natasha Romanov. She quickly became a great friend and helped you navigate the city whenever it seemed to bog you down. Natasha had lived in the city since she was ten and knew almost every borough inside and out. During your first year, she made it her mission to take you out every weekend to see one of the sights or to go dancing or whatever she claimed was a âmustâ for a newbie. It was easy to handle your work life and small but budding social life that first year.
After that, you slowly started to become increasingly burnt out and, being the introvert you were, you started to decline invitations to go out. Natasha hadnât said anything at first, but over the years she started to drop comments here and there about you missing out on life by giving it all to work.
That was easy for her to say. She had a job that aligned perfectly with her interests and was flexible on hours. The more you got to know Natasha, the more you were sure she was destined to be a private investigator. She was eerily good at picking up on peopleâs insecurities and emotions. She always watched more than she talked and she always asked the right questions just the right way. Natasha radiated confidence and everyone she encountered knew not to get on her bad side.
She seemed to have her life figured out while you still felt like you were drowning most days. The drowning sensation had lessened once you quit your assistant job six months ago and started to bartend, but you still had no clue what the next few years of your life would entail. It was exciting and nerve wracking all at the same time.
Since making the career jump to being a bartender, you got to spend more time with Natasha, as she frequented the bar when she knew you were on the schedule. To be fair, you would too if the roles were reversed. Having a decent bar just across the street from your apartment was a blessing. You were saving so much money by not using the subways or buses and the tips were nothing short of amazing.
Natasha had even brought two of her close friends by the bar â Sam and Wanda. This was a big deal since she was a private person and tended to keep her loved ones close to her chest. Sam was perhaps the most boisterous person you had ever met, and his charisma always amazed you. When he came to the bar, he would have strangers eating out of the palm of his hand within an hour. Wanda, on the other hand, was more similar to you: introverted, kind, and happy to stick with her small group of people.
Having a somewhat healthy savings account, an understanding boss, and more energy for life had landed you here: stretched out in the back seat of Samâs truck with Wanda riding shot gun and playing DJ while you headed for a beach down the coast. One of Natashaâs more lucrative clients had offered their beach house as a bonus for successfully getting pictures of her husband cheating on her with not one, but five other women. Needless to say, she had swept the field when it came to dividing their assets and you were able to enjoy one of said assets.
Natasha was already at the house with her other two friends she invited along: Steve and Bucky. You had heard her talk about them in passing but you had yet to meet the two elusive men. From what you gathered, the two served in the military along side Sam and when they were discharged, the two moved back to their old neighborhood in Brooklyn and invited him to join. Steve had become an artist and had just recently had a gallery exhibit that explored the traumas that soldiers face coming home from the battlefield. Bucky was a mechanic at a small repair shop in Brooklyn. He preferred the quieter lifestyle after coming home from their last tour.
You were a bit anxious to meet the two men, but you were more excited that Natasha was showing you her closest friends who she considered family. If they were anything like Sam and Wanda, you were sure that you would have a great time with everyone.
Within an hour, the three of you in Samâs truck were pulling into the driveway of the beach house and various sounds of disbelief filled the truckâs cab.
âHow rich were these people?â Sam asked as he peered up at the house.
âFor a three-story house at the beach? Iâd say very,â Wanda added as she gazed out the windshield in awe.
âAnd we have this house â no, mansion for three weeks?â you added.
âRemind me to give Natasha a bottle of wine or something,â Sam said as he pulled up to the car port where another car and a motorcycle were parked.
âRemind me to name my first born after her,â you chuckled as you all started to gather your things that had been spread across the truck during your road trip down to the coast. Wanda laughed and Sam shook his head with a smile as they shoved their belongings in their bags and pockets before opening the truck doors and sliding out.
You put your phone in your back pocket and grabbed the water bottle you had finished before jumping out and going to the back of the truck to grab your suitcase. As Sam was opening the bed, the front door of the house opened and Natasha stepped out, followed by unfamiliar, large figures. Nat walked over to you and pulled you into a quick hug before pulling back and doing the same with Wanda.
âHow was the drive? I see you made it all in one piece,â she quipped as she nudged Sam with her elbow.
âHey, I drive very well for your information,â he defended as he pulled all three suitcases to the edge.
âMore like you drive like a roadrunner,â Wanda joked. âHe was going at least ten over the speed limit the entire time.â
âSue me for wanting to get my vacation started as soon as possible. Plus, weâre all safe, thatâs what really matters,â Sam said as he puffed out his chest slightly.
You laughed and shook your head.
âWell, câmon,â Nat said as she gestured towards the house. âSteve went out and got lunch for us and Iâm starving.â
Grabbing your bag, you put it down on the ground before Sam closed the bed and started towards the house with Wanda. You looked up at the house for one moment and took it in before moving to follow everyone. You pulled the handle up from your suitcase and started tugging it behind you when suddenly, the handle slid out from its spot and a wheel fell off of the bottom at the same time. Your cheeks warmed in embarrassment and a bit of frustration, but before you could move, you heard someone jogging over to you.
âHey, no worries, Iâll bring it in,â a deep voice said behind you.
You turned around and saw the darker haired one of the two men right in front of you. He had beautiful blue eyes that you swore you could drown in. They looked over you as you stared at the man they belonged to. He had short hair that looked so soft and moved with the sea breeze. The lower half of his face was covered with a beard that looked like it had been trimmed recently. The next thing you noticed were his broad shoulders and strong arms. You noticed that one arm was flesh while the other was a very sophisticated, black and gold prosthetic.
He grabbed your suitcase and picked it up like it weighed no more than a feather. Heat spread through you upon seeing his muscles flex with his movements.
âOh, thank you,â you said as you bent to pick up the stray wheel and broken handle. You turned back to him and slowly started walking to the house beside him, offering your name as an introduction.
A small, but crooked smile spread across his pink lips and he repeated your name, as if testing how it would feel on his lips. âIâm Bucky,â he replied. âIâve heard a lot about you from Nat.â
âAll good things, I hope,â you nervously smiled.
âAll good things,â he confirmed.
You looked at him once more and bit your bottom lip to keep your nerves at bay. You were always nervous around men you found attractive and it was safe to say that Bucky was the most attractive man you had ever seen with your own eyes.
When you both reached the front door, he stood back to let you enter first before following and closing the door. He set your suitcase down by the stairs, next to Wandaâs oversized tote bag and Samâs duffle bag. You dropped your broken suitcase parts on top of your luggage and looked around the foyer that opened to the whole first floor.
âWow, this house looks like it should be in an architecture or design magazine,â you commented as your eyes scanned all the matching furniture and accent pieces that probably cost more than you made in a month.
"I think Nat said that the owner has had a few design firms take pictures of the interior,â Bucky said.
You turned back to meet his gaze and felt a slow heat creep up the back of your neck when you noticed he was already looking at you. If you were going to be here for three weeks with this beautiful man, you needed to pull yourself together â quickly.
âThat tracks,â you laughed. âMost of the things in this house probably cost more than my paycheck.â
âI thought bartenders made good money,â Bucky said with a furrow in his brow.
âHow did you know I was a bartender?â
âOh, uh⊠Nat kind of talks about you a lot,â he added with a shy smile. Your eyes immediately fell to his lips and watched as his smile grew a bit bigger upon noticing you staring at his mouth.
âShe does?â you questioned, glancing back up at his eyes. He nodded his head and watched as you bit your lip to try and suppress a goofy grin from taking over your face.
âShe normally doesnât have much to say about people, but you seemed to have made an impression on her,â Bucky told you.
âWell, Iâm just honored just getting to meet you all,â you said. âShe really loves you guys and I can see why. Youâre all very nice and welcoming.â
âI donât hang around people who arenât worth my time,â Natashaâs familiar voice came from behind you. You spun on your heel to see the redhead behind you, leaning on the banister of the stairs with a sly smirk on her face as she looked between you and Bucky. âNow, câmon. You still need to meet Steve.â
With that, she hooked her arm in one of yours and pulled you further into the house. As you both walked towards the kitchen, you chanced a peek behind you and saw Bucky standing where you were, looking down at his shoes and shaking his head. Your heart skipped three beats before settling back into a normal rhythm.
âYou must be the famous roommate!â
You turned around and found another figure standing in front of you. The genuine smile on his face matched the warm timbre of his voice. The blonde haired, blue-green eyed, over six-foot tall man had the energy of a golden retriever, and it felt easy to return his welcoming energy.
âYou must be Steve,â you replied. Before you could take another step forward, he swooped in to give you a quick but comforting hug. You returned the embrace at the last second, shocked that he was so outwardly friendly with even his affections. âItâs nice to finally meet you.â
âI could say the same,â he said. âNatasha talks about you enough that I feel like we already know each other.â
You glanced over at your friend who was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you two interact with a small smile on her face. Your heart swelled, knowing you were now a part of her inner circle.
âWell, I hear nothing but great things about your art. Nat even said she thought about buying a piece or two.â
At that, Steveâs head turned to Natasha and a teasing smile took over his face. âOh, really? I thought they were âjust alrightâ.â
She rolled her eyes and pushed off the counter before putting her chin on your shoulder. âRemind me to not compliment people around you. Youâre liable to spill my secrets.â She gave your side a squeeze before sauntering off to where Wanda and Sam were sitting at the kitchen table with their plates full of food.
You turned to the spread that Steve had gotten for everyone and started to pile a plate with food. As you were debating how much food to get, Steve and Bucky joined you in filling their plates.
âSo, which one of you has the motorcycle?â you asked, trying to make small talk.
âThatâs all Buck,â Steve said, clapping his friend on the back of his shoulder. âHe actually built the engine himself.â
You looked up in awe at the man who had helped you earlier. âIâm sorry, you built the engine yourself? I might not know much about cars and bikes, but I know that must have been a challenge,â you said. A faint blush crept up his neck at your attention, and you felt a giddiness spread through your veins knowing that you could get a reaction out of him.
âItâs really not that hard,â he deflected. âThe hardest part was finding all the parts I needed, but building the actual engine took about two days.â
You nodded, impressed that he was very gracious about his engineering feat.
âWell, congratulations,â you said. âIt looks really good.â
He met your gaze and gave you a shy smile. âThanks.â
Next to him, Steve was fighting off a smile and shook his head as if he was fighting to keep his thoughts to himself. He left the counter with a plate piled high and sat down next to Wanda. You noticed that the only two seats left were right next to each other, meaning you and Bucky would be sitting near each other.
The two of you walked over to the table after assembling your lunches, sat down, and joined the conversation. The table was made from nice oak wood, but it wasnât very big; Sam and Wanda were practically smushed together and Steve and Natasha sat at the heads of the tables. During the meal, you noticed that Buckyâs knee kept knocking into yours every so often and you found yourself moving your knee closer to his every time he would pull away slightly. You felt like a schoolgirl with her first crush, and it felt like the feelings were reciprocated, but you werenât sure if you were reading into it too much.
The next few days were full of exploring the island that you all were staying on. There were a few local museums about the native inhabitants, two art galleries filled with colorful pieces made of sea glass and oil paints, and a handful of Mom-and-Pop shops that had everything from fishing poles to surf boards to Christmas ornaments. You also went to every beach access that you could find, relishing in the soft sand, warm sun, and cool ocean spray.
You had a lot of fun getting to know everyone better. Wanda was very artistic and signed up for an art class held at one of the galleries; Steve ended up joining the class also. Natasha seemed to be immersed in the history of the island and bought a book about the local history at a small book shop. You found out that Sam had a knack for fishing after telling you about how he grew up on a fishing boat with his dad and sister. Bucky had ended up enjoying the beach nearly as much as you did, finding the sound of the waves lulling and comforting.
Getting to know Bucky had been your favorite part of the trip so far, though. You learned about his affinity with machines and science. He told you about his collection of Tolkienâs books and mentioned heâd lost count of how many times he reread The Hobbit.
He asked questions about you and seemed genuinely interested in knowing the answers, unlike most guys you dated. It was refreshing to have your interest reciprocated for once.
You also noticed that the two of you seemed to always be close to one another or touching in some way. He always sat near you during meals and your knees or feet would be touching. When you all explored the museums and shops, he held the door open for you and would guide you out with a hand on the small of your back if it was particularly crowded. At night when everyone would pile up on the furniture in the living room, he always opted to sit next to you. If you were sitting on the floor, he would sit on the couch behind you and guard your personal space like it was his job.
A few days after arriving, you all decided to spend the day at the beach. Sam was surf fishing, Steve and Wanda were sketching, Natasha was reading under an umbrella, and you and Bucky were walking along the shoreline. You were looking through all the shells you came across, and Bucky was content to hold the shells you deemed good enough to keep.
âSo,â Bucky started as he watched you bend down to comb through a section of small shells, âwhat makes a shell good enough to keep?â
You paused in your search and looked up at Bucky, shielding your eyes from the afternoon sun. Standing in front of the ocean in his linen button up that was unbuttoned halfway and his hair moving with the wind, Bucky looked like he could be in a perfume commercial or one of the men on the cover of a steamy romance novel. His sunglasses obstructed his eyes from your view, but you could feel his gaze on your face.
âI guess itâs up to the person collecting,â you said.
âWhatâs your criteria then?â
âFor me, I like shells that look like theyâve traveled through the ocean a long time. They arenât perfect, but they still have a beautiful color or pattern on them,â you explained, looking back down at the shells in front of you. One that matched your description laid in front of you. You grabbed it and stood up to show Bucky. Holding your hand out, he moved closer, observing the shell in your hand. âSee this one? Its edges are a little jagged, but it still has a bright color and feels smooth in my hand. It feels like it has lived a life of its own.â
Bucky reached out and slowly traced his finger down the middle of the shell before trailing his finger over your palm for a second. A shiver ran down your spine, and you had to fight the gasp that threatened to leave your lips. Bucky looked up at you and tilted his head to the side a bit.
âJagged edges donât bother you?â he asked. His tone of voice suggested that he wasnât just asking about the shellâs jagged edges.
You gave him a gentle smile and shook your head. âNo, they donât bother me. Should they?â
âSome edges are sharper than others,â he explained cryptically.
You knew that he served in the military and had suffered many injuries. You had a suspicion he was talking about his jagged edges and not the shellâs. There were so many words swarming your brain, but none of them seemed adequate to quell his nerves. Nonetheless, you still had to try.
âWell, lucky for the shell, time and sand smooth the sharp edges. They never go away, but they become more manageable,â you said.
His mouth opened slightly upon hearing your explanation and you could tell that the words had landed in his chest with impact; you just didnât know if it was something he needed to hear or something he didnât want to acknowledge. Instead of thinking about it too much and second guessing yourself, you placed the shell in the front pocket of his button up and left your hand on his chest to cover the shell. He looked down at your hand on his pec before looking up to you.
âThis one is for you,â you said, moving one finger in a soothing motion over the skin just beneath the thin material of linen. âThe pattern on it reminds me of the bands of gold on your arm.â
You couldnât tell if what you said hit a nerve or if it landed as softly as you meant it to, but you noticed him go still for a few moments before lifting his hand to cover yours that remained over the shell in his pocket. His fingers wrapped around your palm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
âThank you,â he murmured under his breath. If the sea breeze hadnât paused during that moment, you wouldnât have heard his thanks and you wouldnât have felt a tightness behind your ribs in response.
âOf course,â you said, slowly pulling your hand away from his chest so you could resume your search for shells. âPretty people deserve pretty things.â
A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. âOh, so now Iâm pretty?â
âUm, have you ever looked in a mirror, sir?â you laughed. âYour face could make anyone, man or woman, fall headfirst before realizing. Itâs quite unfair.â
âAnyone, huh?â
Realizing you might have just been too forthcoming with your attraction to Bucky, you crouched down once more to the sand and looked down so he wouldnât notice your flustered expression.
âUh, yeah. I mean when Sam gets buzzed, he talks about the pretty boy and the golden retriever, and after meeting Steve, I know heâs the golden retriever,â you explained, hoping he would just leave it at that.
âI donât care about what Sam thinks,â he said, his voice getting closer to your ear. You turned your head to the side to see him crouching next to you, sunglasses now pushed up so you could see his eyes. The blue of his irises were mesmerizing and more enchanting than the literal ocean at your back. You found yourself unable to look away from him.
âDonât tell Sam that,â you tried to joke, as a deflection. âI bet he would throw a fit.â
âHeâll get over it.â
After a couple of seconds, you pulled your gaze from his and returned to looking through the shells at your feet. Your fingers combed through the shards and fully formed shells, trying to distract yourself so you wouldnât make the mistake of throwing yourself at him.
How was it possible for someone to look so perfect in the harsh afternoon sun? It was clear that if God was real, Bucky was his favorite creation.
You picked up a pale pink shell and turned it over in your hand, inspecting it, before handing it to Bucky. When he didnât take the shell you were extending between you, you turned your head to look at him once more just to find that he was still looking at you. The only difference was the soft, gentle look in his eyes as he took in your features. You could feel your internal organs melting together to form one big cartoon heart that threatened to beat out of your chest.
After a second, he took the shell from your fingers before looking down at the object. He flipped it over and ran his thumb over the bumpy ridges before putting it in his other hand with the rest of the shells you wanted to keep.
âJust for the record,â he started as he looked over all the various shells in his hand. âI think youâre pretty, too.â
As if you were on the set of a romance movie, the sea breeze picked up and your hair flew back in the wind as his comment hit your ears. He slowly turned his gaze back to you and you swore that the air between you thickened with something you couldnât put your finger on.
This beautiful man had just called you pretty.
Was this real life?
Before you could say anything in response, he stood back up and held out his hand for you to take. You slipped your hand into his grasp and let him pull you up, so you were standing right in front of him.
It would be so easy to reach out and pull your faces closer together, but his comment kept you rooted in place, still trying to process the moment.
With a wry, boyish grin taking over his face, he nodded his head in the direction of the shoreline you had yet to reach. âCâmon, letâs go see if there are any other worthy shells. I have my pretty shell, now we have to find one thatâs as pretty as you are.â
As he started to walk, you expected him to drop your hand, but you were pleasantly surprised when he kept his hand wrapped around yours. The warmth from his palm seemed to transfer to your skin and soaked into your bloodstream. You felt as if you were walking on clouds and you were so sure that there was no moment in your life that could possibly top this one.
The next day, everyone seemed content to laze around the house, but you wanted to go out and explore the tidal pools you had seen the day before.
âIâm headed out to the tidal pools,â you announced to the group. Sam was asleep on one of the couches, Wanda was attempting to finish her painting from yesterday, Steve was eating something while watching a football game on the television, and Natasha was spread out on a large recliner, nose stuck in her book. Bucky had been missing the better part of the late morning and afternoon.
âEnjoy,â your roommate said without peeling her eyes from the text in front of her. Steve waved his free hand and Wanda gave you a wink.
You turned and walked over to the front door, sliding your sandals on and grabbing your bag which had your sunblock, sunglasses, and camera inside. Just as you were about to wrap your hand around the front doorâs knob, the door was thrown open with a gust of wind that blew in along with the man who had been taking up real estate in your head.
His form took up most of the space in the door frame. He was panting and sweating as he stopped when he saw you. A bead of sweat slid from his temple, down the side of his face, and down his neck and you found yourself momentarily envious of the drop of perspiration. His grey shirt looked almost black with all the sweat soaking in the material. His face was a bit red, but you couldnât tell if it was from the sun or from overexertion, or if it was from both.
âHey,â he greeted, in a flat tone. The smile that you came to associate with him was missing from his features and his eyes seemed to lack that sparkle you had grown to admire. You offered a shy smile and a quick greeting in return.
âUm, Iâm going to the tidal pools, but everyone else is in the living room,â you explained when you noticed his gaze land on your bag and your sandals. He nodded his head and looked over your shoulder to see everyone spread out, doing their own thing. You wanted to ask him where he had been for most of the afternoon, but you didnât want to push any buttons as he was clearly not feeling like himself, from what you could tell. âYouâre welcome to join, if you want. No pressure, though.â
Bucky brought his flesh hand up to scratch at the back of his neck while he contemplated the offer. You couldnât tell which way he was leaning since he was doing such a good job of keeping to himself. You stood there in the foyer for a while, waiting for his answer. The moment felt like it lasted for five days rather than five seconds.Â
His hand fell into his pocket and he looked up at you with a stormy expression in his eyes. The feeling of rejection spread through your chest, which was silly, since he clearly needed space and you were offering too much social interaction. You went to open your mouth and retract the offer, but he cut you off with a nod of his head.
âIâll come with you,â he said. âI just need to shower and change, then Iâll be ready.â
âYeah, of course. Take your time,â you said quickly, surprised that he was accepting your invitation after all. âIâll just be outside by the cars.â
He gave another stiff nod before slipping past you and dashing up the stairs. When he disappeared from your sight, you went to head out the front door but caught Natasha looking at you over her book with a mischievous glint in her eyes. You awkwardly cleared your throat and left the house, not wanting to feel her stare probe you for information she probably had already gathered.
You and Bucky had been orbiting each other since you met earlier in the week and everyone had seemed to make something of it, while you were trying to figure out why you felt so out of your depth around him. The only one who had said anything was Steve after he pulled you to the side one night once Bucky had gone to the bathroom following dinner.
He started by asking you how the trip was going so far and if you were having fun. When you mentioned that you were having more fun than you expected, he quickly mentioned that Bucky seemed to be having more fun than anyone thought he would. You looked up at him curiously when he said that and he quickly satiated your need for information.
âBuck had the hardest time out of all of us when we were touring. His story isnât mine to tell you, but he came back with a lot of baggage. After seeing him this week though, itâs like seeing my friend from college all over again,â he had explained. âYou know, it takes a lot from us to get him to smile and break behind his gruff exterior, but you seem like a natural at it.â
âOh,â you said, looking down to hide the embarrassment on your cheeks.
âItâs nothing to be shy about,â he quickly remedied. âI guess I just wanted to tell you that he seems really happy around you.â
You met his gaze at that and found a heartfelt smile on his face. You returned the gesture with a shy smile of your own and he left you on the porch overlooking the water. You had stayed out there for a while that night, thinking about all that Steve had said and all the pieces of information Natasha had dropped about Bucky over the years.
âIf you donât mind,â Buckyâs gravely voice started, breaking you out of your thoughts, âI thought we could take my bike.â
You turned to look at him and the second your eyes met his, your throat seemed to go dry. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, but he was wearing a white compression shirt that looked like it was straining against his muscles. When your eyes roamed to his face, you could see some of the light had returned to his eyes. A small smile broke across your face at the sight.
âOkay,â you conceded. âI will warn you, Iâve never ridden a motorcycle before, though.â
He grinned and motioned for you to come over to his bike while he swung a leg over the body of the machine. He put his helmet on before digging around in his side bag for another. He produced the helmet and gave it to you. You fumbled to put it on, but eventually got it secured around your head.
Bucky held his hand out for you, and you took it, cautiously climbing on to the motorcycle behind him. Once you were seated, you placed your hands on your thighs, not knowing where else to put them. A rumbling chuckle emanated from his chest before he grabbed your leg and moved you closer to him.
Your chest was pressed against his back and your legs bracketed his. The feeling of his leg hair brushing against your skin made your brain short circuit and you let him manipulate your hands to wrap around his torso.
âYouâre going to want to hold on, sweetheart,â he said before bringing the bike to life. The loud sound of the engine was enough to have you plaster yourself to his back and squeeze your arms around his abdomen. You felt his laughter this time but couldnât hear it over the sound of the idling engine. He lifted his feet off the ground and the bike slowly pulled itself down the driveway. Once the coast was clear, Bucky turned on to the road and thatâs when you truly felt the power of the motorcycle.
As the machine quickly picked up speed, you tried to move even closer to his body. Your thighs squeezed around his solid ones and you couldnât help the giggle that slipped out of your mouth when you let yourself relax a little and enjoy the wind surrounding your bodies.
As he drove, you looked around as nature flew by. You were starting to understand the appeal of a motorcycle, especially since it let you press your body closely to Buckyâs frame. The heat from the sun and his body lulled you into a tranquil state. You leaned your head on to his shoulder and closed your eyes, letting the warmth fill every cell in your body. You had never felt this content to be close to someone before and it was a thrilling feeling. All the love songs, poems, romance books, and cinema you watched about finding solace in another person made complete sense if they felt half as content as you did.
The motorcycle slowed down as Bucky pulled off the main road and came to a standstill in a parking spot on the side of the road. After shutting off the bikeâs engine, his slipped his hand down your arm and gave your hands a squeeze while they were still clasped around his body. You dropped your hands reluctantly when you felt his body move to dismount. He took his helmet off as he turned around to face you as you also got down from the machineâs back. You offered him the helmet and he put both away before you started walking towards the shoreline and the tidal pools.
Bucky walked by your side but remained quiet on your trek. You didnât want to intrude on his thoughts, so you remained quiet as well. The silence wasnât awkward; instead, it was comfortable. You sneaked peeks at his side profile every few steps, noticing how his brows furrowed occasionally, and how his lips were pursed, but in a tight line. What you wouldnât give to see inside his mind.
After the five minute walk to the tidal pools, you set your bag down on a big rock and pulled out your camera, ready to shoot some wildlife portraits. The clear waters allowed for you to see sea stars, urchins, barnacles, and tiny, colorful fish feeding in the pools. You looked over your shoulder at Bucky and saw him looking at you already. You gave him a small smile before turning back to the tidal pool and crouching down to get a closer shot.
âI didnât know you were into photography,â Bucky observed from behind you.
You nodded your head and took another photo before turning to face him. âMy parents gave it to me when I left for the city,â you explained. âI never ended up using it. It sat on my bookshelf collecting dust for years, but Nat encouraged me to take it on this trip and finally start using it.â
âToo busy galivanting around the city to use your camera?â he jested.
âI wish. More like I was drowning in work and didnât realize I was selling my soul to the corporate world,â you said with a laugh at the end. âI would use all my energy at work, trying to prove to my boss and everyone else how good I was with completing tasks. Why? Iâm not sure, but it seemed like something I was supposed to do. By the time I would get home, I would barely have enough energy to cook for myself or even shower some days,â you confessed, trying your best to gloss over the harder bits of your life in the first few years after college.
âI understand,â he said after a moment. âSometimes life takes more from you than you thought you would give.â
You nodded your head in agreement. âSwitching careers helped get my life back, I guess.
Or at least it made me realize that some things are more important than my professional life.â
 âWhat have you found thatâs more important?â he asked.
âI found out how much I enjoy hanging out with people and that I didnât need to work all day, every day just to make a living,â you answered. âBeing a bartender isnât exactly the glamourous life, but it pays the bills and lets me have free time outside of work. And thatâs where I found that life happens; in those moments you get every day. I was just wasting my life by working and coming home and crashing out from my lack of energy.â
There was a pause in the conversation as he seemed to think over your words.
âPlus, if I was still at my shitty corporate job, I wouldnât have been able to come to the beach and finally meet you and Steve,â you added with a small smile.
âWell, then I guess Iâm grateful for your career change, too,â he muttered. You werenât sure if he meant for you to hear his words, but you were glad that you did. Your heartbeat picked up its pace momentarily and you could feel the back of your neck flush.
You turned back to the tidal pool and put your camera down, opting for touching the creatures in the water. The fish scattered as soon as your hand reached into the pool. You traced your fingertip over the sea star, feeling its ridges and appreciating its color.
The sound of your cameraâs shutter opening and closing stole your attention and you looked over to see Bucky holding the camera in your direction. The surprise on your face must have been another great moment to capture in Buckyâs mind since you heard the camera take two more pictures. A goofy grin took over your face and he snapped another photo before pulling the camera down from his eye.
âToo good to not document,â he said with a shrug as he put the camera back down beside you.
âWell, now itâs your turn, mister,â you chided as you picked up the camera and pointed it in his direction.
His features changed from appreciative to mild discomfort as he started to lift his hand to block his face. Your fingers were faster, though, and you caught a candid of him that you were sure was going to turn out beautifully.
âI donât think you need to take pictures of me,â he said, as if trying to play off his importance. âSave your film for the beach.â
âBut youâre a part of this trip and I want to remember you,â you explained.
The discomfort disappeared as a shy acceptance took over and you quickly snapped more pictures, hoping you could capture the expression on his face. You wanted to remember him in this moment for the rest of your life. His gentle appreciation and surprise were sure to make your stomach flutter when you got the photos developed.
âWhat? Are you going to be done with me after this trip?â he goaded.
A giggle slipped out of your lips and you tilted your head to the side before you answered.
âI donât think Iâll ever be done with you, Bucky.â
His blue eyes were almost swallowed by his pupils as they enlarged. The small smile disappeared from his lips and he looked at you with a stunned expression briefly before it morphed into a playful one.
âGood, because Iâm nowhere near done with you,â he replied.
When his words graced your ears, you felt your lungs stop breathing and your pulse stop briefly. You had never had someone express their interest in you so clearly and to say it was wreaking havoc on your nervous system would be an understatement.
The two of you were walking back to his motorcycle when you passed an elderly couple going for a walk on the beach. An idea popped into your head and you rushed up to them, asking politely if they could take a couple of pictures of you two. After they agreed happily, you skipped back to Bucky who looked confused.
âSmile, pretty boy,â you joked. âI want some pictures of us.â
A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he accepted the circumstances. When you were side by side, he slipped his flesh arm around your waist and tugged you closer in to his side. A surprised squeal came from you as you regained your footing from the surprise movement. You looked over at the couple and gave them a big smile, excited that you would be able to have documentation of his arm wrapped around you.
After the couple took a few photos, they walked over to you and handed you back your camera.
âYou two are just adorable,â the woman gushed. âIâve never seen a better looking couple.â
Bucky stiffened a little beside you before dropping his hand from your waist as if he had been burned and you gave an awkward chuckle.
âWeâre notâŠâ you trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. You werenât a couple, but the way you felt spending time with him was what you assumed partners would feel about each other.
âSorry, about her,â the man jumped in. âShe just loves love and sees it everywhere she goes.â
âItâs no problem,â you quickly said. âThank you for the photos! Enjoy the rest of your evening.â
They wished you the same as they resumed their stroll along the beach. You put your camera back in your bag and looked up at Bucky. He was looking at you with an emotion you couldnât quite pinpoint but tried to cover it up when you met each otherâs gaze. He nodded his head towards the road and you followed along after him.
As you walked behind him, you couldnât stop yourself from overthinking. Did the implication of you being a couple make him that uncomfortable? Was it you or just the idea of being in a relationship? Had you been reading too far into your time together and all the smiles you shared? He said he would never be done with you just a few moments ago, but did he mean it in a different way than you had?
You had to stop yourself from going down the catastrophizing route or you would ruin the rest of your day. As much as you wanted to think about all the possibilities, you didnât want Bucky to see you spiraling since he already seemed to be on edge before you even left for the tidal pools.
When you reached the motorcycle, Bucky handed you the helmet once more and sat down before offering you his hand. Instead of taking his hand, you placed your palm on his shoulder as you swung your leg over the body of the bike. You secured your helmet and placed your arms on his side, waiting for him to start the bike. After a moment, he started the engine and slowly backed out onto the road before taking off towards the house. You wrapped your arms around him but tried not to press yourself too close.
With your feelings and emotions being all jumbled right now, the last thing you needed to do was confuse yourself further by sinking into his warmth. You felt him stiffen after a minute. Could he feel you holding back or was he just adjusting his posture?
You shook the thought off and focused on the dunes and sparse patches of grass instead, reminding yourself not to spiral. All it would do is make the situation more uncomfortable and awkward and that was the last thing you wanted.
When Bucky pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, you took a moment to gather yourself before slipping off the bike and unlatching your helmetâs strap. As you handed the helmet back to Bucky, you glanced over him briefly and mustered up a smile.
âThanks for the ride and coming with me,â you said.
âYeah, no problem,â he said after coughing to clear his throat. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but no words came out of Buckyâs mouth afterwards.
With that, you turned and headed for the house, needing a little space to sort out your thoughts and feelings. You could hear Bucky walking behind you, but his footsteps werenât as close as they had been in the previous days. Itâs like he knew you needed space and was granting it to you. You didnât know if that hurt more or if you were glad for it.
The rest of the day passed by quickly with dinner and a small game of poker before everyone went to bed. Bucky had been the first to call it a night, followed by Sam, Wanda, and Steve.
You and Natasha were cleaning up the poker chips, drinks, and cards when she turned to you and examined your body posture.
âWhat happened?â she asked. âYou werenât as smitten when you got back from the tidal pools.â
âItâs nothing,â you deflected. âJust tired from the sun.â
She narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow. You prayed she would let it go for now, because you didnât even know how to voice what was going on in your head. As if she could sense you pulling into yourself, she let out a sigh before she continued to clean up after everyone.
Natasha retreated to her room for the night after giving you a much needed hug, leaving you all alone in the living room. You werenât tired, but you didnât want to make too much noise and disturb anyoneâs sleep, so you grabbed a light blanket and walked out onto the deck. You sat down in one of the chairs closest to the railing and draped the blanket around you.
You sat with your knees pulled into your chest and rested your chin on top of your knees. Above you, the moon was in the process of waning and the stars twinkled around it as if they were talking to each other. The sight was beautiful and it helped to calm the storm brewing in your head.
Just as you were starting to truly relax, the back door slid open and you heard footsteps approach you from behind. You kept your head forward, refusing to tear your gaze from the cosmos in front of you until you heard the chair next to you scrape against the deck as someone took a seat next to you.
You looked over and saw a familiar pair of blue eyes looking at you with something akin to regret in their eyes. You didnât say anything as you turned your head back to the stars. If you continued to look into Buckyâs eyes, you were sure you would crumble or burst apart.
âMy real name is James,â came a quiet murmur from the man next to you. You looked at him out of the corner of your eyes and saw him fidgeting with his hands, entranced with the sight of his own fingers moving around. Your head remained on your knees, but you tilted it in his direction instead of the starsâ. âBucky comes from my middle name, Buchanan. My mom had an affinity with names from the early nineteen hundreds.â
âYou kind of look like a James,â you chimed in.
He huffed out a laugh and shook his head before looking up to meet your gaze.
âMy sister used to call me Jimmy,â he added, earning a small smile from you. âI remember Steve tried to call me Jimmy once.â
âWhat happened?â
âI chewed him out and he never said it again,â he admitted with an embarrassed grin presenting itself on his face. âI let him get away with a lot of other things, though. He was practically my brother.â He paused and turned his gaze out to the stars you were admiring earlier. You didnât know where this conversation was going, but you were content to let him think through his words before sharing them with you. âWe first met in kindergarten. He was this small kid who could have disappeared with the wind if it was strong enough. There was another kid on the playground, Connor, who used to tease him and push him around. I didnât do anything to stop it the first week of kindergarten, but once he started to talk about his mom, I could see that Steve was ready to fight. I couldnât let him fight when one punch would have sent him to his early grave. So, I stepped in and gave Connor a pretty good beating. I got in a lot of trouble for it and had to spend the rest of the weekâs recesses in the classroom instead of on the playground. But Steve stayed back with me. The first few days, he didnât say anything to me, then one day he came over and sat at my table and started talking about some cartoon he saw on the television and ever since then, weâve been best friends.â
You had no problem conjuring a small Bucky and even smaller Steve in your mind. It was heartwarming to know that Bucky was a defender of those who needed help.
âWe went through school together, got our driverâs license together, pulled pranks on my sister, Rebecca, and the other neighborhood kids, and talked about everything we wanted to do. We were best friends and I canât imagine growing up a different way. Right after we finished college, we went into the army. My old man had served and Steve was hellbent on protecting others any way that he could. I wasnât going to let him go by himself, so I joined with him. My parents were proud. My sister was mad that I wasnât going to be able to drive her and her friends around anymore, but also proud.â
As he told his story, you watched him intently, watching his thoughts and emotions play out in real time across his face. By the way he kept fiddling his fingers and the way his brows pulled together tightly, you could tell that this was taking a lot of effort on his part.
âSteve got drafted into this government program for soldiers and disappeared for about a month before coming back a completely different person. Before, he was so thin and lean and when he came back, he seemed to grow almost a foot and gained muscles that should have taken years to build. He couldnât tell me about what happened, but the changes spoke for themselves. The kid that used to wheeze when spring would come around was suddenly running laps with me without breaking a sweat.â
âThat must have been jarring for you,â you noted.
He nodded his head. âYeah, it took a while for me to get used to. After another month of training, we got assigned our divisions. I was a sergeant in the one-oh-seventh and Steve was going to be returning to whatever program made him what he is today. I shipped out pretty soon after that and I was thrust into the middle of war. Everything we learned in basic training was miles away from what was happening on the ground. There was one night when we were resting in the barracks when the power cut out. At first, we thought nothing of it, but then we started hearing gun fire. Turns out, we were being ambushed in our sleep. I remember stepping out with my gun held in front of me before being hit in the head with something hard. I blacked out and when I came to, I couldnât tell where I was.â
Bucky took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists before continuing.
âI was strapped to a table, hooked up to an IV and something else that was a bright blue. I didnât know it at the time, but whoever took me was using their own version of whatever the government gave Steve. They were building biologically enhanced soldiers. I canât remember much of my time being held captive, but I just remember a searing pain running through my veins and people talking above me in a different language.â
His knuckles were white from how tightly he was clenching his hands and you could feel your heart break into pieces from watching the pain he was going through just to retell the story to you. You didnât want to invade his space or push him too far, so you reached a hand out and placed it on the arm of his chair. Your index finger extended and you gently traced circles in the side of his sweatpants. The touch seemed to help him as he relaxed his hands a bit and took another deep, steady breath.
âEventually, Steveâs division found me and saved me and a few of my other men. When we came back to the base, I was brought to a room with Steve and the head of the government program he had been a part of. They explained everything in detail and before I could process everything, I was thrust into the same division as Steve. There were only a handful of us that had survived the biological experiments. After a week of rest, I was back in the field running operations with Steve and the others. Everything was fine for the first month. Our missions always ran smoothly and we could handle the loose ends that came up every now and then,â he said in a somber tone. âBut one mission came and before we knew we had been compromised, we were separated by a blast. I was knocked back so hard that I couldnât stay fully conscious. I couldnât hear anything through the ringing in my ears and my arm felt like it was being pulled from my body. Someone dragged my body somewhere and the same foreign language filled my ears from my first time being captured.â
âBucky, you donât have toââ you tried to reassure him.
âI know, but I want to,â he said, grabbing your hand that was resting on his chairâs armrest. His gaze turned down to your hands clasped together before he continued. âI remember bits and pieces of what happened, but itâs all a blur. I remember waking up and feeling a heavy weight on my left shoulder and when I looked down, my left arm looked like it belonged to a cyborg, not me. Looking around, all I could see was blood everywhere and people talking around me. I couldnât understand what they were saying and I ended up passing out from the pain. The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital in the States with a commanding officer in front of me telling me how I was being honorably discharged for my service.â
Tears pooled in your eyes as you imagined a young and distraught soldier who had already been altered without his consent waking up to find that he had lost a limb. You squeezed his palm and brushed your thumb over the back of his hand. All you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him and keep him safe for the rest of his life, but you knew that wasnât possible.
âMy parents came and took me home. I remember my mom nearly falling down when she saw me for the first time in the hospital room. My dad had gone ghost white and sat in silence. When I got home, Rebecca was there and I remember her falling apart when we first saw each other.â Bucky took a deep breath and finally looked over at you after telling his story. You could see the devastation in his eyes and the quiver of his bottom lip. âIt was a long road to recovery, and honestly, Iâm still living with the ghosts of my past every time I close my eyes. I donât think Iâll ever be normal again.â
You moved your body closer to his chair and nodded your head. âI donât think anyone expects you to be, Bucky.â
âI just â itâs hard for me to imagine anything normal in my life,â he nearly sobbed. âToday was the anniversary of me coming home and it all piled up as soon as I woke up this morning. I ran myself ragged trying to literally run from my past this afternoon, but then you offered me an escape that wasnât a form of punishment. Going to the tidal pool with you was a momentary breath of fresh air and I could feel myself letting all my thoughts go. But then that woman made that comment about being a couple and it just tore the wound open again.â His eyes became glassy with unshed tears. âAfter everything, itâs hard for me to want to open up and see myself sharing a life with someone because that means they have to hold my baggage and thatâs not fair. But then, meeting youâŠâ
He trailed off and brought your hands to his lips, gently brushing them over your knuckles. At the gentle touch of his skin to yours, the tears you were holding back escaped from your eyes. After hearing his story, your heart swelled ten times its normal size. To know he had been through hell and back, twice, and still chose to continue living his life to the best of his ability was more than admirable. It was awe inspiring.
âThe day we met, I felt like a young boy again, seeing a beautiful woman for the first time. For the first time since I returned home, my first thought wasnât to run away, but to stay and get to know you,â he explained. âIt was like opening the window after a long, harsh winter and feeling the first warm breeze of spring.â
You didnât know what to say. There were so many thoughts and affirmations you wanted to shower upon him, but you knew this wasnât the moment to overwhelm him. This was a moment to comfort him and just be here.
âThank you for telling me, Bucky,â you whispered, hesitant to break the silence that followed his past. âIâm so sorry that you had to experience what you did, but I think you are still worthy of everything you wanted before life dealt its hand to you.â
He looked at you and held on to your hand as if it was anchoring him to the earth. In a rare moment of vulnerability, you felt him pull your arm closer to his body and you followed, getting out of your chair and standing in front of him as he pulled you closer, between his knees.
âItâs hard for me to believe Iâm worthy of normalcy, but I think I want to try when itâs you saying it,â he said, gazing up at you with his turbulent blue eyes. âIâve never felt this way with someone before and I know itâs selfish, but I want it.â
Your hand that wasnât encased in Buckyâs reached up and threaded itself through the soft locks of his hair. âItâs not selfish,â you stated, leaving little room for disagreement. âItâs human.â
The tears that made his eyes glassy finally spilled over his lids, streaming down his face as he pulled you closer to bury his face in your stomach. His hand let go of yours in favor of winding around your waist to bring himself that much closer to you. Your now free hand joined the other one and you gently swept your fingers through his hair, comforting him during his moment of emotional turmoil. You could feel his tears soak through your shirt and his hold tighten around you, but you remained still, giving him just a fraction of the comfort he deserved.
After a few moments, he pulled away and looked down at his feet. You could feel the awkwardness trying to worm its way between you two, and you would be damned if you let it. You gently cupped his chin and tilted his head up to meet your gaze. âI want this, too,â you admitted, earning a small but genuine smile from him. âAnd just so weâre clear, Iâm not stuck carrying your baggage. I want to help you carry it.â
You could see the moment the words landed with Bucky. The weight of his shoulders lessened, the sorrow left his eyes, and his eyes sparkled with warmth instead of tears. His metal hand slid up your waist, slipping under your shirt to land on the warm skin of your lower back. The sensation of the cool metal sent shivers down your spine. Your fingernails scratched his scalp and you watched as his eyes fluttered shut in contentment.
Everything that happened today made perfect sense after hearing him out and you wanted to kick yourself for selfishly thinking that you were the root of his unusual demeanor. People were nuanced and knowing what heâd been through had ripped your heart open, but hearing him admit that he still wanted whatever was happening between you â even if it scared him â had mended your broken heart and fortified your admiration for the man in front of you.
His piercing blue eyes opened after a moment and you could practically feel the heat emanating from them. Bucky guided you to sit in his lap, sealing the remaining distance between your bodies. You were nose to nose and seeing him this close had your stomach churning in anticipation. Your eyes traced his features from the crowâs feet by his eyes, the slope of his nose, to the dark pink of his plush lips. His lips were less than an inch away and you couldnât bring yourself to look away from them.
They looked so soft and inviting and you knew that if you had a taste, you would be addicted for life. It was taking all of your willpower to stop yourself from leaning in and sealing your lips over his mouth. You knew you shouldnât especially after the day he had gone through. Revisiting the past was never fun, but in Buckyâs case, it was probably one of the seven layers of hell. You didnât want to overwhelm him or take advantage, so you settled for brushing the tips of your noses together.
You could feel his body relax further underneath yours and it brought you a sense of comfort that you could relieve him of whatever plagued his mind, even if for a moment. One hand rose to bury itself in his hair once again while the other came up to rest on his jaw. His beard was surprisingly softer than you thought facial hair could be. You lightly scratched your nail through the hair and you swore you could hear him purring.
A soft, but crisp breeze blew across your forms and you couldnât help but shiver. The light blanket you had draped over your shoulders had fell the moment you moved closer to him and while the heat from his body was entrancing, you knew that you should move inside.
As if sensing that you were about to move, Buckyâs metal arm wound tightly around your waist and his flesh hand gripped your thigh tightly. âDonât go,â he said in the softest whisper.
âIâm not going anywhere except for inside,â you said with a smile. âItâs a bit too cold out here for my liking.â
âMm,â he hummed while clutching you even tighter.
âCâmon,â you gently urged. âLetâs just move this moment into a warmer place, like the living room.â
 After a little more coaxing, Bucky relinquished his hold on you while the two of you moved indoors. When your bodies reclined on the couch, you gravitated towards each other and found your limbs intertwined once again with Buckyâs head resting on your sternum and your fingers working their way through his hair. It didnât take long for him to drift off and you were content to remain his pillow for the rest of the night.
As you slowly woke from the grips of your slumber, you felt a heavy weight on your chest and a warmth against your left side. Before you could process the sensations you felt, you heard the click of a camera shutter and the whispering of multiple voices around you. You opened your eyes slowly to see Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Wanda standing above you, all with different expressions on their faces ranging from shock to pride to feigning disgust; the latter obviously being Sam.
You looked down at your chest to see Bucky slowly waking up from the noise and you wanted to chide the adults in front of you as if you were a mother hen protecting her own. As he woke from sleep, Bucky sat up slowly and rubbed his shoulder before opening his eyes. He froze in his movements and stared at your friends who were still standing above you both. When he noticed the camera in Natashaâs hands, he turned to look at you and you could see the recollection of last night catch up to him as he saw you still laid out next to him.
A flush quickly spread across his cheeks and the back of his neck as he realized you were caught cuddled up on the couch together. You stifled a laugh and sat up as well.
âSleep well?â Natasha coyly asked as she looked between you two.
You grabbed a pillow from beside you and threw it at her playfully, getting everyone to give you both some space. Once they dispersed, you turned to Bucky only to see him already looking at you.
âI guess we should get ready for the day,â he said in a gravelly voice due to not using it for hours.
You nodded your head and let him pull you from the couch and up the stairs towards your bedrooms and bathrooms. The two of you separated to get showered and dressed. Once you finish putting your bathing suit on and pulling your coverup on, you descend the stairs and head to the kitchen to get some food. There, you find Bucky sipping coffee from a mug, scrambling eggs on a pan over the stove. As you walk over to stand beside him and make your own coffee, Natasha and Wanda slide up beside you.
âWeâve decided that we are all spending the day at the beach again,â Wanda said with a kind smile on her face.
âYep, and youâre going to hang with us and not Barnes today,â Natasha added.
Next to you, Buckyâs shoulders slouched hearing the girls demand your presence. You had to admit you were also sad that you wouldnât be able to spend the whole day with him. After last night, the connection you felt to Bucky had strengthened and you wanted to explore all the other ways you guys could deepen the budding feeling between you. But you also wanted to spend time with your ladies.
âYeah, and Barnes, youâre going to spend the day with us,â Sam mocked as he walked over to put his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Bucky flipped him off without turning around from the stove and you suppressed a giggle. âDamn, I thought you loved me,â Sam continued to tease. âIâm wounded.â
âFine,â you said to Natasha and Wanda. âBut I just want to lay on the beach today.â
âDeal!â Wanda squealed. âIâve been needing to work on my tan.â
With that, the two women left to get dressed for the day and you and Bucky sat down at the table to eat your breakfast. Sam and Steve had left the room quickly after Bucky shot them a glare that was meant to wither. The two of you ate in a comfortable silence.
âSo, what are you going to do today?â you asked Bucky after drinking the last bit of your coffee.
âIâm not sure,â he said, pushing his plate and cup away before turning to face you. His eyes were twinkling with a hint of mischief. âMaybe Iâll work on my tan.â
You laughed, throwing your head back as you imagined you, Wanda, and Natasha laying on the beach, under the hot sun, with Bucky next to you, doing the same.
âMm, you are looking rather pale,â you played along. âPlus, weâd still be able to spend the day together.â
âThatâs the idea, sweetheart,â he said with a wink before collecting your dishes and cleaning them up. You were practically beaming as you watched him clean up around the kitchen, admiring him as his large frame carried him around the kitchen gracefully. You watched the way the muscles in his arms contracted as he scrubbed the pan and put it on the drying rack. And with his back to you, you were free to ogle the rippling muscles on his back. It was a lovely sight to behold.
A simmering heat appeared in your stomach and you could feel it spreading further south, making you clench your thighs together. You tried to regain your composure. This man had just told you about his horrific past and here you were less than twelve hours later, lusting over him while he did something so domestic and normal.
Bucky turned towards you when he was done and leaned against the counter. You slid out of your seat and slowly walked over towards him. When you were within armâs reach, he wrapped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you against his body. You put your hands on his chest, steadying yourself from the sudden movement.
âGood morning,â he muttered as he brought his nose to the crown of your head. Your body melted into his and returned his sentiment.
âGood morning, pretty boy.â
He grunted and pulled back to look down at you once more.
âSorry we were woken up by those idiots,â he apologized while rubbing small circles into your hip as his cool hand slipped lower. His flesh hand brushed a few strands of hair out of your face and lingered on your cheek.
âItâs okay,â you said. âIâm just hoping I donât look like a mess in the picture they took.â
âIâve never seen you look like a mess,â he reassured.
âThatâs what youâre supposed to say,â you brushed off.
âWhether Iâm supposed to say it or not, the statement still stands,â he said as he brushed his lips against your forehead. At the sensation of the soft sign of affection, you gripped his shirt and tipped your head up to look into his cerulean eyes.
âThank you,â you said, not knowing if you meant it about the compliment or if it was for sharing a part of his soul last night. Regardless of whatever the reason was, you didnât know what other words could sum up the circus that was going on in your heart.
The look on his face changed to one that was similar to awe and you wished he could look at you like that all of the time. You leaned forward on your toes as he began to lean down and you both paused when you were close enough to brush your lips against one anotherâs. You looked into his eyes and swore you could swim in them and never tire of it. How could someone have eyes this marvelous?
Just when you were about to close the distance and finally fuse your lips together, you heard Natasha call your name in a teasing tone. You both deflated a bit upon having the moment disappear. Your limbs slowly detangled from each other and you took a step apart before exchanging shy smiles and turning to see everyone standing at the door, looking like they had been waiting on you for minutes.
You walked over, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment on your cheeks, and Bucky followed. Once everything was gathered, you all piled into Samâs pickup truck. The boys sat in the cab of the truck while you, Nat, and Wanda sat in the bed of the truck. The weather was perfect and the wind was soothing as you closed your eyes and leaned your head back, enjoying the wind blowing through your hair. Natasha was grumbling about the wind messing up her hair and you could hear Wanda laughing at her. When you opened one of your eyes, you saw a miffed looking Natasha, Wanda was moving her hands through the air in childlike joy, and a pair of brilliant eyes staring at you through the back windows of the truck.
Bucky didnât avert his gaze when you opened your other eye and peered at him in curiosity. Instead, he just smirked and continued to look at you. While you enjoyed his attention, you didnât know what to do with it in this moment, so you settled on an instinct youâve had since you were four.
You stuck your tongue out at him and watched as he broke into a fit of laughter. Smiling, you looked down and shook your head. It was amazing to you how Bucky brought out this side of you that you had thought was lost to time. You werenât scared to be yourself around him and to be goofy or affectionate. Other relationships in the past had felt like learning experiences compared to this. This felt freeing and exhilarating and you couldnât wait to see where this summer trip would lead you two.
About five minutes later, Sam pulled up to the beach access and everyone piled out of the vehicle, gathering their towels, sunblock, and whatever else they brought. You pulled your sunscreen out of your bag and started to lather the protective balm over your skin. You were able to get it everywhere except for your back. When you turned to ask Wanda or Nat if they could help you, you saw that they were already helping each other.
âI can help,â Buckyâs voice said from behind you.
You turned around and saw him standing in front of you without his shirt, already slick with sunscreen. He extended his hand and you put your lotion bottle in his hand and turned around, gathering your hair into your hands so it doesnât get in the way of the sunblock.
You thought you had mentally prepared yourself for having his hands on your skin, but when his hand made contact with your shoulders, you could feel yourself turning boneless under his strong touch. His touch spanned from your shoulders and the back of your neck, down your arms, and over the expanse of your back. His calloused hands felt like magic as they rubbed the sunscreen into your skin. His touch left a trail of tingles in their wake and you had to fight a whimper that tried to escape from your throat as he pulled his hand away.
Spinning around, you took the bottle and put it back in your bag before gazing up at the man in front of you. âThank you,â you said.
âIt was my pleasure,â he said while his eyes trailed over your skin before meeting your eyes.
âAlright lovebirds,â Sam yelled to get your attention. The two of you looked over and saw everyone holding their belongings, ready to head to the beach. âIf youâre done, the rest of us would like to hit the beach.â
âNothingâs stopping you,â Bucky shouted back, waving his friend off playfully before taking your hand in his. The two of you followed the group and walked over the dunes to the beach. After a short walk down the shoreline, you all found the perfect space. It wasnât too close to other beach goers and it gave the boys enough room to throw the various balls that Sam and Steve had brought with them. You dropped Buckyâs hand as you were pulled over to the tanning area where Natasha already had her towel set up. You set up your towel next to Wandaâs and sat down as Natsha laid down, propping her hands over her eyes for protection. You looked over at the men as they threw a football back and forth. Bucky was facing you and sent you a playful wink when you shot him a smile.
âYeah,â you agreed. âI wasnât expecting it, but thereâs something about him that makes me feelâŠâ
âSeen? Smitten? Lovey-dovey?â Natasha filled in as you trailed off in thought.
You rolled your eyes and laid down on the towel, covering your eyes as Natasha had done. The warm rays of sunshine and the soft sand and towel under you had you slipping into a very agreeable mood that you normally wouldnât have in a situation like this.
âHonestly, yes,â you answered. âI havenât felt like this since I was eleven and had a crush on Zac Efron.â
Wanda broke into a fit of giggles and Natasha remained silent, but you had no doubt she had a victorious smirk on her face.
âYou laugh, but the second I laid eyes on him in High School Musical, I was done for,â you replied with a small laugh of your own.
âWell, I think itâs cute,â Wanda said. âAnd Iâve never seen Bucky open up like this to anyone, let alone this quickly.â
You hummed, not knowing what to add as your thoughts turned to the soldier who had occupied your thoughts over the last week.
You remember Natasha telling you about Bucky before you met him; about how he was gruff, grumpy, and dealing with an intense load of PTSD from the service. Apparently, he was still able to go through the motions of life, but Nat said it often felt like he was waiting to make his departure when they would hang out.
Reconciling that version of Bucky with the warm, thoughtful, and deeply feeling man you had come to know wasnât as hard as you thought it might be. After he opened himself up last night, you knew that if you continued chasing whatever feeling was blooming between you there would come a moment when you would have to deal with his âbaggageâ as he put it.
There wasnât a moment of hesitation when you jumped in last night and there was no feeling of dread hanging over you now. You knew that your relationship wouldnât remain in this rose-tinted affection stage, but after seeing just a few parts of him, you knew you werenât going to leave him unless he wanted you to. You wanted to stick around for the hard nights and days, you wanted to be there when he was feeling grumpy, and you wanted to be there for whatever came next.
You lifted one of your arms off of your eyes and looked around, seeing the boys continue to toss the football at one another, trying to make the others fall or fumble in the process of diving for the ball. Bucky had a relaxed air about him and Steve and Sam were all smiles. The sight made you feel warm and content on the inside.
âHe told me about what happened to him while he was serving,â you said after a moment. A gasp was heard next to you and you turned your head to see Wanda looking at you with surprise and Natasha lifting an eyebrow. âI canât begin to understand what he went through, but I know that itâs not something that will make me turn away from this. Heâs been so strong by himself for so long and last night I could see just how tired he was.â
Wandaâs eyes began to water and Natashaâs lips slowly curved into a smile.
âIt almost felt like he was trying to scare me off, but he seemed like he needed me to understand more than anything,â you continued. âI told him I wasnât going anywhere and that I wanted to help carry the weight of his past. I think that really put things in perspective for him and after that, we committed to seeing where this thing goes.â
âThatâs so beautiful,â Wanda said, her Sokovian accent seeping into her words as she was overcome with emotion for her friend. âItâs like something out of a romance novel.â
It did sound like something out of a romance, but it was really happening to you. Life was funny like that sometimes. Less than six months ago, you were stuck at a dead-end job, withering away, and wishing for a change. Now, you had a savings account that was growing slowly but surely, you were on vacation with your friends, and you had met someone who fit so naturally into your life.
âI think itâs better than a romance novel,â Natasha chimed in before turning over to tan her back. Wanda smiled in agreement before doing the same.
You stayed on your back, feeling the sun beat down on your face and body while you tried to remain in the present. You didnât need to think about the future with Bucky because that would just put you in your head and you wanted to be here, in the present, where you could enjoy every moment for what it truly was.
After a few minutes, you flipped over and reached behind you to untie your top so your back could tan evenly. You floated off into a light slumber as the sun warmed you. There were no thoughts on your mind other than the sound of the ocean waves and the sound of other beach goers a little further down the beach from you.
You had lost track of how long you were on your tummy when you were woken by cold water dripping on your back. Your head shot up and you looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. As you went to turn on your back, a pair of hands, one cold and one warm, halted your movements.
âYouâre going to flash the whole beach if you move, sweetheart,â a familiar voice cooed as you felt deft fingers grab the strings of your top and tie them together. âAnd Iâd prefer if you kept the sight just for me.â
You turned over and saw Bucky hovering above you. His hair was dripping sea water on you and running down his neck and torso, making him look irresistible. His smile revealed his white teeth and you briefly wondered what it would feel like to have them sink into your flesh.
âAre you assuming you are going to see me topless sometime soon?â you playfully questioned.
âIf I play my cards right, Iâm betting on it,â he answered as he looked down at you. His eyes strayed from yours and wandered down to your chest before coming back up to stop at your lips.
âWhy are you wet?â you asked, knowing it had something to do with the ocean in front of you.
âShouldnât I be asking you that?â
The smirk that took over his features was devastating for your heart. You pushed at his shoulder and he moved back, sitting up at the end of your towel. You followed suit and sat up, looking at him as you waited for an answer.
âSam threw the football into the water and Steve pushed me in to go get it,â he said.
You laughed before thinking of his arm. âWait, can your prosthetic get wet?â
He gave you a shy smile before nodding his head. âYeah, itâs waterproof which is really nice.â His eyebrows wiggled on his forehead and you rolled your eyes at the implication. âYou going to join me in the water?â
You shook your head. âI donât think so. Thatâs the fish and sharkâs home, I donât need to invite myself in.â
Bucky threw his head back in laughter and you could see the look of boyish joy temporarily take over his features before he controlled himself and looked back down at you.
âThat is the weirdest thing Iâve ever heard someone say about the ocean,â he commented. âBut donât worry, Iâll be there to defend you even if itâs in their house.â
âThink about it! I hate seeing bugs in my apartment. Their house is outside, where they belong, so the same goes for ocean life. I donât need to go inside their house to appreciate it,â you said.
Bucky shook his head and stood up, pulling you up with him. Once you were both standing, he started to walk backwards towards the ocean, tugging your hand so you would follow him. âBut the water is so nice, I want you to come in with me.â
âYou just want an excuse to feel me cling to you in the water,â you said as you stared at him with a knowing look.
âGuilty,â he said before bending down and throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed and pounded your fists on his back, laughing even though you wanted to be put down. âDonât worry, Iâve got you. The fish told me you were invited.â
The moment the water hit your feet and legs, you shivered, getting used to the colder temperature. Bucky continued to wade out into the ocean with you over his shoulder, only pulling you down his body once the water was up to his waist. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands clung to his shoulder. His hands wound around your body, one under your bottom and the other around your back as he continued to walk further into the waves.
He came to a stop once the water was almost over your shoulders. You could feel his hands squeezing your body in reassurance which caused you to relax a bit in his hold. You looked over his shoulder to see the rest of your friends also in the water, but a little further down the shoreline. They were playing chicken and from the looks of it, Sam and Wanda were winning.
âYou know,â Bucky started, drawing your attention back to him. âWe were rudely interrupted this morning.â
You tried to keep your face neutral, fighting the smile that wanted to spread across your face. âOh, really? I canât seem to remember what it was we were doingâŠâ you trailed off, pretending you were forgetful of the almost kiss between you two.
With a pinch to your bottom, you squealed and pushed your body closer to his body and further from his hands.
âIâd be more than happy to remind you,â he teased as he leaned into your space. Your noses brushed as you rested your foreheads against each other. After a moment, he angled his head so he could better reach your lips with his. At the slight brush of his lips to yours, you tensed in anticipation. Bucky searched your eyes with his for any signs you didnât want him to be in your space, but he found none.
Finally, after dreaming of this moment since you met him, your lips met in a tender kiss and your body surrendered to the affection. His lips were slightly chapped, but the kiss was no less sensational because of it. He pulled away, but the distance was short lived as you surged forward to capture his lips once again.
This kiss was less tender, but still just as sweet. Your lips molded to the shape of his bottom lip and he groaned as he felt the scrape of your teeth against the soft flesh. You used the opportunity to sneak the wet muscle of your tongue into his mouth, much to his surprise. Just as the kiss began to intensify, so did the grip that you had on each other. Your legs clenched around him, pulling his hips to yours as his arm around your back pulled you flush to his chest and his fingers spanned the expanse of your skin.
Shortly after your tongue made its way into his mouth, his barged into your mouth and stroked itself against yours, eliciting a moan from the back of your throat. Your hands slid from the tops of his shoulders into the hair at the nape of his neck, manipulating the angle of his head so you could deepen the kiss. Buckyâs hips bucked into yours roughly at the feeling of your fingers and your control.
You pulled apart with a gasp, glancing between his features as his eyes remained closed in bliss. The smile on your face couldnât be wiped away as you remained in his arms and brushed the tips of your noses together.
âWoah,â he said after a minute, opening his eyes to look at you.
You giggled and nodded your head in agreement. âThat was...â
âAmazing,â he filled in.
You leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss before pulling back just to see your friends frozen in the water, staring at the two of you with mixed expressions of entertainment and disgust.
âDonât look now, but we have an audience,â you said.
Bucky groaned in embarrassment and hid his face in the crook of your neck. You laughed and buried your head in his neck, too, enjoying the closeness of your embrace. The two of you remained like that, wrapped around each other and sharing kisses every now and then, for a while before you convinced Bucky to take you back to the sand.
As the two of you stepped out of the waves and headed for the towels still stretched out on the sand, you saw the rest of your group throwing a frisbee back and forth, enjoying themselves.
When you reached the towel, you stopped in your tracks, causing Bucky to bump into your back and halt his movements.
âWhat is it?â he asked, concerned when you had stopped and remained silent.
You pointed down to the sand where a giant heart was drawn with your initials and Buckyâs inside with â4everâ written under them. You knew this had to be the work of Natasha or Sam, but you couldnât help but feel your heart soar at the elementary display of feelings.
âHow childish,â Bucky muttered. When you looked back at him, he had a smile on his face, betraying how he truly felt about the sand art. You gave him a smile and a peck to his cheek before you laid down on your towel once more, letting the sun dry the water from your body. Bucky flopped down on Wandaâs towel next to yours and propped himself up on his elbows to look at you.
You extended your hand and trailed your fingertips over his bicep, watching as goosebumps rose in the wake of your touch. You were content to sit in the silence with him as you soaked up the sun once again.
For the first time in a long time, you felt truly happy.
You never wanted this feeling to end.
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Can request a Clark Kent x fem!kryptonian!reader where her escape pod that she was in crash lands on earth so clark has to help her and he teaches her how to get accustomed to earth culture but they end up falling in love and have sex because this man is very pent up and deserves to let loose on some pussy that can handle him haha
It had happened so fast that he almost missed it. The sky above Metropolis cracking open like it was tearing in two. Luckily, he just so happened to be doing his daily patrols when he heard the deafening sound of something fast whizzing through the atmosphere.
Wasting no time, Superman shot after it, a blue and red streak against the deepening dusk, catching up just as it plunged into an open field just outside the city. What he originally thought to be some type of meteor or asteroid, turned out to be neither.
It was a pod. And it had carved a deep, smoking trench into the earth.
Superman eyed it suspiciously, not knowing if it was some type of threat to be wary of. Using his X-ray vision, he peered through the hull. His breath caught. Inside, curled in a protective, fetal position, was a woman. You.
You were clad in a simple, grey suit of some flexible material, skin pale under a layer of crystalline dust. And you were alive. A heartbeat, slow and strong, echoed in his ears.
Being ever so careful, he pried the hatch open. A hiss of equalizing pressure, a waft of sterile, recycled air, and then silence.
Your eyes fluttered open instantly. They were large and doe-eyed and they fixed on him with a confused daze.
A man?
It was the last thing you were expecting to see peering into your pod right as it opened.
He was an interesting man too. He was large and muscled, but was wearing odd garments.
A blue and red one piece? With an S? And was that a cape?
You glanced him up and down once more.
Strange.
You searched past him though, taking in the surroundings of the environment. Your pod was meant to take you back to your home planet, Krypton.
But this looked nothing like it. Nothing like how you imagined it from the stories you were told. Where were you?
Deciding to get answers, you push out of the pod. Your limbs are slightly weak from their cramped positioning for so long and your knees buckled the second you placed both feet on the ground.
âWoah, hey, hey take it easy,â the man says to you, catching you before you fall completely.Â
Okay, clearly not a threat, he deduces. What was a random woman doing being sent here like this?
You cocked your head to the side at his unfamiliar words, still gripping onto his forearms for stability. Once you regained balance, you took a few steps back away from the man and his scrutinizing gaze.
You turned from him and started to walk away, hoping to search for answers, for Kryptonians, or for normal looking people who could help you figure out where you were and why your escape pod didnât take you back to your planet.Â
You didnât make it very far when the man appeared by your side again.
âHi, Iâm sorry if I scared you earlier. I didnât mean to. Ar-are you hurt? Do you need help?â
You stopped, and turned to face him again.
His dialect was different. You could not understand much at all. You stared at him in silence. Your mind was working overtime, trying to sort meaning from sound. You understood piecesâtone & emotionâbut the words themselves felt slippery, like trying to hold water in your hands.
You decide to speak for the first time, and tell him your name.
His eyes widen and he nods in understanding, then points to himself. âIâm⊠Superman. No, no- just Clark. You can call me Clark.â
Clark. You repeat the name over in your head until you think you can mimic him perfectly. âCl-ark. Clark.â
âYes, exactly,â Clark nods triumphantly. âDo you need help? Where are you coming from?â
You scrunched your brows in confusion, and shook your head. Clark mustâve sensed that you didnât understand a word of what he was saying.Â
âGosh, um. This is Earth. Planet Earth. Is this where you are supposed to be?â
Clark scolds himself again. Obviously you wouldnât understand that either. He was wracking his brain now. He knew most languages from Earth, but not many from different planets.
But a flicker of recognition flashed in your eyes. Planet Earth. Planet? That sounded familiar. Did he mean Plenetia? But Earth was wrong. You were supposed to be on Plenetia Krypton. Not Plenetia Earth.
You shake your head again and say instead, âKrypton.â
Clark freezes instantly and his eyes widen. Krypton. You were from Krypton? That was impossible. Him and his cousin Kara were the only survivors he knew of.Â
âKrypton? You are Kryptonian?â Clark speaks back to you in Kryptonian.
Your eyes light up, and you nod rapidly. He understands you!Â
âYes! I am from Planet Krypton. My pod was sent to another planet to keep me safe when I was a baby. That planet has gotten destroyed, so I was sent back to my home planet, hoping that the threat was gone and it was safe for my return.â You recite in perfect Kryptonian.
Now it was Clarkâs turn to be confused. He didnât know that much Kryptonian truth be told.
Only enough to pick up bits and pieces, and from his understanding, you thought that thatâs where your pod was headed. To Krypton. Which no longer exists.
Which meant you didnât know that Krypton had been destroyed.
Clarkâs breath caught painfully in his chest.
For a moment, he didnât speak. He just stared at you, standing there in the grass beneath an Earth sky that had once felt just as foreign to him. Your words echoed in his mind, each one heavier than the last.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. How was he supposed to tell you?
How was he supposed to tell this woman he just met, a Kryptonian like him, that you had no home to go back to.Â
It had taken time for Clark to come to terms with the fact that there was no one like him here, and that was with the recordings salvaged from his own pod. You had nothing.Â
Or at least he didn't think so.Â
He glanced between your damaged pod and then back to you.
Deciding to check for you, Clark quickly dashes off to search your pod for a recording, or anything from anyone that mightâve been sent along with you that could help him understand more about you. He almost came up short until he found a small recording plug in the side compartment.
Eyeing it for a moment, Clark took it, and pocketed it. Maybe once he gets you settled in, he can take it to the fortress and play it for you.Â
As he rushed back to where you stood, baffled at his sudden departure and lack of response, Clark came to a decision.
He wouldnât tell you about Krypton. At least not yet.
âSorry,â Clark said, a little breathless, forcing a small smile onto his face. âI justâI needed to check something.â
You studied him carefully. His expression was calm, but his eyes werenât. There was something there. Something familiar. Loss, maybe. You didnât have the words for it yet, but you recognized the feeling.
âYou understand me,â you said again in Kryptonian, needing reassurance. âYou are Kryptonian.â
Clark nodded. âYes. I am.â
That fact alone steadied you. You werenât alone on this planet. Not completely. Maybe he could help you find your family and get back to your planet.Â
âYouâve been through a lot,â he said, switching back to English, then catching himself. He slowed, gestured gently with his hands, and tried again. âYou⊠are safe. Here.â
You didnât fully understand the words, but you understood him. His voice was soft and sweet. You wrapped your arms around yourself for comfort. The air felt different here. The sun was setting, painting the sky in colors youâd never seen before, and its warmth made you feel oddly good.
âI can take you with me. Give you a place to stay, while we figure out some answers and fix your pod for you to go back to Krypton.â
You tilted your head.
âShoot right,â Clark mumbles, then switches to his poor Kryptonian, âI'll take you with me, to my home. I'll help you get home, to Krypton.â
You nod in understanding, grateful that you had found this Clark, who was willing to give you shelter and assistance back to Krypton.
Clark watched your face light up as you pieced together his words.
Gosh, he suddenly felt like a total jerk. He is a total jerk. Giving you false hope like this, knowing you had no home to go back to.
But what else could he do?Â
He barely knew Kryptonian himself and didnât know whatever other languages you spoke. You also just endured a long journey, no doubt. Telling you this news right now would be nothing but cruel.
You were oblivious to his inner turmoil and took his outstretched hand to follow him, trusting that Clark would guide the way.
âââââââ
The first few days on Earth were⊠unusual.
Clark took you to his apartment in Metropolis. He figured it was safer than the Fortress, at least until you were more stable. Less overwhelmed.
Also, selfishly, he didnât want you to get any answers just yet.Â
Not when it could help you leave him in search of another planet. Not when you were another Kryptonian that literally fell right from the sky that he still had the chance to get to know.Â
You sat on his couch hesitantly.
Everything in his apartment fascinated you. The lights. The windows. The way the refrigerator hummed softly like it was alive. You followed him everywhere with wide eyes, silent as a shadow.
Clark noticed.
âYou can sit wherever you want,â he said gently, gesturing to the living room. âYou live here now.â
You tilted your head, and mimicked his English words. âLive⊠here?â
âYes,â he said in Kryptonian, smiling. âWith me.âÂ
Your chest warmed at that.Â
You had so many questions, but language was still hard. Earth language came easily to him, but not to you. And Kryptonian came easily to you, but not to him.
But Clark was patient.
Very patient.
He started with the basics, pointing to objects and saying their names.Â
âTable,â he'd say, tapping the dark wood.Â
âSpoon.âÂ
âWindow.âÂ
You repeated them, your accent thick but your determination clear. He would smile, a soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes that made you want to learn faster, just to see it again.
One afternoon, he brought home a small, flat device. âThis is a tablet,â he explained. âIt can show you⊠pictures. Stories. It can help you learn.â
He pulled up a children's programâsimple animations with bright colors and slow, clear speech. You were mesmerized by the technology. You pointed at the screen. âBird?â
âYes, bird,â Clark said, delighted. âAnd tree. And sky.â
You watched for hours, absorbing the language in a way that felt more natural. You began to string English sentences together.
âClark is making food?â you'd ask, peering into the kitchen.
âYes, I am making food,â he'd answer, grinning at your language improvement. âAre you hungry?â
âYes. I am hungry.â
You learned that things here were fragile. You broke a glass simply by picking it up, your fingers closing with a strength meant for a different gravity. You froze, staring at the sparkling pieces on the floor, a hot shame rising in your chest.
Clark didn't scold you though. He didn't even look surprised. He simply fetched a broom and dustpan.Â
âIt's okay,â he said, kneeling. âYou have to be⊠gentle. Like this.â He demonstrated, picking up a surviving glass with exaggerated care. âJust a little pressure.â
You practiced on everythingâdoorknobs, light switches, the pages of the books he gave you. You learned to move through his world with more softness than you were used to, a constant mental effort that was exhausting but necessary.
The sun here was your greatest surprise. On your planet, Caelis, the light had been a cool, blue-white. Earthâs yellow sun poured energy into your cells like a floodgate opening. You felt stronger, faster, your senses stretching out further every day, strengthening you by the second.Â
It was an adjustment though. Getting so many senses back at once.Â
It was overwhelming, and you often found yourself retreating to the quietest corner of the couch, hands pressed over your ears, until Clark would sit beside you and talk in a low, steady voice, pulling your focus back to him.
He taught you how to wear human clothes, carefully explaining each piece. You stared at jeans like they were a trash bag.
âTheyâre⊠squeezing me,â you said unsure, but it seemed like the right word.Â
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. âYeah, or tight. Humans like them that way. Youâll get used to it.â
You frowned.
Clark also taught you how to eat human food, with a fork and a knife. You actually liked the ritual. Sitting at the table. With Clark. Holding a mug of something warm and sharing a meal.
âThis is tea,â Clark said, sliding the cup toward you.
You sniffed it suspiciously. âLeaves.â
âIt is leaves.â
ââŠWhy?â you asked.
He smiled. âYou ask that a lot.â
You thought about it. âWhy is a good question.â
Clark laughed, full and warm, and something inside you fluttered.
At night however, you couldnât sleep. The sky reminded you the most of Caelis at that time. You didnât wanna miss it, even for something as necessary as sleep. You wondered if your foster family there survived. If they managed to escape like you. You hoped that they did, they were lovely people.
Not to mention, the other questions you couldn't yet ask that would swirl in your mind. You'd stare out the window at the unfamiliar constellations.Â
When will my pod be fixed? When can I go home?Â
You trusted Clark.Â
He was helping you. But a deep, restless ache for Krypton, for the family you only knew from stories stirred constantly.Â
You noticed he never mentioned it.Â
When you tentatively brought up âKryptonâ or âpod,â his warm expression would become carefully neutral, and he'd gently steer the conversation to something else like a new Earth food to try, or word to learn, or a park he thought you might like to see.
One evening, you had a breakthrough though. You were helping him dry dishes, and you gathered your courage. âClark⊠you are Kryptonian. Yes?â
He stilled, the dish towel in his hands. âYes.â
âWhy⊠you are here? On Earth?â
He was quiet for a long moment, looking out the window at the city lights. âMy pod came here, too. A long time ago. I was a baby.â
âYou did not go back?â you asked, confusion knitting your brow.
He turned to you, and in his blue eyes, you saw that same heavy look from the field. The look of loss. âNo,â he said softly. âI did not go back.â
You noticed the change in his emotion. âYou are sad?â
âNo, I am not sad. Iâm okay.â Clark said simply enough for you to understand.
You still had more questions though. âWhy do humans lie?â
Clark froze, suddenly worried he was caught somehow. âLie how?â
âThey say they are âfine,â but they are not fine. They say they are ânot sadâ but they are.â
He sighed. You were a fast learner, heâll give you that. âYeah⊠we do that a lot.â
âWhy?â
âBecause weâre scared,â Clark said honestly.
You processed that quietly. You thought about what could possibly be making Clark scared enough to lie and say he was ok and not sad when he clearly wasnât.
You brushed it off for now.
You started to follow Clark on walks, learning how to exist in public society once you knew a decent amount of English. How to cross streets and what money was and why people stared when you tried to lift cars without thinking.
âTry not to do that,â he said gently after you accidentally started to pick up a parked taxi.
âIt was in my way,â you said, confused.
âI know. But humans canât do that. They arenât strong like we are, remember?â
You nodded solemnly. At least back on Caelis you could use your abilities with no shame or hiding. You also missed flying, but Clark said it was not safe to do, especially because you arenât a âsuperheroâ like him. People would be âsuspiciousâ he said.
The weeks continued to pass.
You learned how to smile at strangers. How to order food. How to say âthank youâ and âsorryâ at appropriate times. You learned that Earth had many holidays, most of which made no sense.
âWhy is there a day for thanks?â you asked.
âItâs about gratitude,â Clark said.
You paused, thinking hard. âI am grateful for you.â
He froze.
âOh,â he said softly, heart pounding. âIâm⊠grateful for you too.â
You didnât understand why his ears turned red.
After three months of living with Clark, you could say that you were accustomed to Earth. Learning everything about his planet was fascinating.
You had routines now. Mornings where Clark made tea you didnât drink but liked to smell. Afternoons where you practiced English while he worked. You would voice out challenging words for him to correct you on.
âRuh-ral?â
âRural.â Clark corrected back, âIt means the countryside.â
You nodded and pressed next on your tablet. âNaw-zee-us.â
âNauseous. Like when you are sick.â
âEnglish is hard,â you huffed.
âYou are getting much better. Keep practicing.â
Evenings where you sat together on the couch, close but not touching, watching whatever humans watched on the glowing screen.
But there was something that never left you. This was not where you were supposed to be. Clark might enjoy Earth, but to you, this was simply a stop through.
The questions came back stronger the more you learned. The more stable you felt, the harder it became to ignore the ache.
âClark,â you said quietly. âWhen⊠will we fix my pod?â
His page stilled. âSoon,â he said automatically.
You frowned. âYou said soon before.â
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw itâthat fear again.
âYou promised,â you added, âYou said you help me go to Krypton.â
Clark closed the book slowly. âYouâre right,â he said. âI did.â
âSo when is soon? 1 day? 1 year? 5 years?â
âSoon is very soon.â And then he got up and walked away, leaving you frustrated and anxious.Â
Luckily, soon indeed meant very, very soon and the next day, he took you somewhere new. He even let you fly with him (at night) to the place he called, âThe Fortress of Solitude.â
When you arrived, ice rose in sharp, crystalline towers, revealing the breathtaking structure. The robots inside greeted you warmly, voices calm and reassuring. They spoke Kryptonian fluentlyâbetter than Clark ever could. You felt a rush of relief and began to speak to them.
âThey help me fix my pod?â you asked hopefully, turning back to Clark.
Clark hesitated. Then nodded. âYes, they will help you.â
The robots examined the pod schematics, projected glowing symbols into the air, and spoke gently.
âThe pod can be repaired,â one said to you in Kryptonian. âHowever, reconstruction will take time.â
âHow long?â you asked.
âOne Earth year.â
You blinked. That was⊠short. Only 365 days.
âA year?â you repeated, surprised but pleased. âThat is not long.â
Clark exhaled quietly beside you. To him, a year felt enormous.
But to you, a Caelian year had been nearly three times as long. A year here felt manageable. Almost comforting.
âI can wait,â you said, turning to Clark with a small smile. âI will stay with you.â
Clarkâs chest tightened.
What you didnât knowâwhat you couldnât knowâwas that he had already been here. Already spoken to the robots. Already asked them to delay. To lie. To let you believe that there was still hope.
To give him time. Time to figure out how to break the news to you.
Clark ushered you to one side of the fortress, where there was a big screen. âI want to show you something. Itâs from my parents. They sent it along with me when I was a baby.â
You nodded eagerly.
You watched the screen come alive and saw two beautiful figures. They spoke in Kryptonian of how much they loved and missed Clark until it glitched out and finished. You didnât see much more.
âWhereâs the rest of it?â you asked in Kryptonian.
Clark scratched the back of his head sheepishly.Â
âIt got ruined when I landed.â Not a total lie.Â
But Clark did ask the robots to stop the recording shorter than the true length. The part where they mentioned how their home was destroyed was completely cut out.Â
Not that you knew that.
âOh that was beautiful, though Clark. They are beautiful people. Maybe when my pod is fixed you can come with me and visit them sometime. Iâm sure theyâd love that.â
You spoke fast again, Clark not quite keeping up with all of the words, but if you said what he thinks you did, then yeah, he really is the biggest jerk in the entire universe.
Because now you thought his parents were alive too. Clark faltered for just a fraction of a second before he forced a smile onto his face.
âYeah, yeah,â Clark swallowed deeply, âYou ready to go?â
âYes.â You said your goodbyes to Clarkâs friendly robots, making sure they knew how grateful you were for them helping you get back home. Clark waited up at the front for you, and you basically jumped into his arms.
Your excitement only made him feel worse about the whole thing.
He would tell you.
Soon.
Very soon. Once he could figure out the right way.
When you both landed back at his apartment, you were already eagerly bouncing. âWhen can we go back? I like your robots, they speak Kryptonian well.â
Clark pretended not to understand you since you spoke in Kryptonian. But you couldnât help it, you were too excited and did not want to struggle through forming English words at the moment. You pouted.
âClark,â you dragged.
He didnât budge. Partly because he really did want you to practice your English, but mainly because he hated himself for what he was doing to you. And speaking about it made him want to fly and bury himself in a mountain for years.
âFine,â you rolled your eyes and switched back to English. âWhen will we go back to your Fortress? Good?â
âYes, very good, and weâll go back soon.â Clark noticed your raised brow and then added, âNext week?â
You beamed, then threw yourself in his arms for an embrace. When you finally let go, you told him goodnight, then retired to the spare room youâve been staying in.
Clark sighed deeply and sat on the couch, rubbing his eyelids harshly. He knew that everything would change from this point on.Â
One year.Â
Thatâs all he had. So he would have to make the most of it.
âââââââ
The days had started to slip into weeks. Weeks into months. The year-long countdown was in full effect.
With the pod being repaired by the robots, a new strange peace settled over you. The constant ache for home had disappeared. You had 365 days to experience Earth, to learn from Clark, to prepare for your journey.Â
It made you bold.
You started at the library as a volunteer.Â
After days of begging Clark to let you get a real job like him, he finally gave in. He was very against the idea as a whole. Heâd rather you stay in the apartment, where your abilities and your speech wouldnât raise any alarm bells in passerbys.
But you argued that you grew restless of the same walls and wanted to make the most of your last year on Earth. So you compromised, and Clark let you volunteer at a place of your choosing.
You didnât really know many places to begin with, but the library was a word from your English programs on your tablet, and you enjoyed reading (or trying to read) the books Clark gave you.
Thus, the library.
Plus, your super-speed made re-shelving a breeze, though you had to consciously slow your movements to a human pace, like Clark said. Your co-workers found you charming, with your intense focus and strange speech. They adored you.
You learned things even faster by interacting with others in public too. Like certain thoughts shouldnât be said out loud, things you would normally say to Clark.
Your speech improved because in your downtime you would read through the dictionaries to learn at least three new words to share with Clark.
That was also one of your new favorite parts of the day.
Because you saw Clark less than you normally did, sharing your day with him felt extra special. At dinner, you would tell him about the people at the library and your new words, and he would listen enthusiastically with a warm face that made your stomach stir.
Today, you two were eating breakfast for dinner. Clark said it was basically Earth tradition for humans to have breakfast foods for dinner at least once a week.
âSo, how was the library today?â Clark asked.
âIt was okay. Very littleâ I mean, very few people came. I had lots of time to read,â you said proudly. âDo you want to know the new words I learned?â
Clark smiled around a mouthful of eggs. âAlways.â
You straightened in your chair like this was a presentation. âOkay. First: nostalgia. It means missing something that is gone, but in a⊠warm way. Not painful. â
Clarkâs smile faltered, just a touch. âThatâs a good one.â
âSecond,â you continued. âSubtext. It means what people mean, but do not say.â
Clark nearly choked on his coffee. âYeah. That oneâs⊠important.â
âAnd third,â you finished, pleased, âIntimacy.â
Clark went very still.
You frowned slightly. âThe book said it is closeness. Emotional closeness. Sometimes physical closeness. It said it can be built over time.â
You tilted your head. âClark, I think we have that.â
The air shifted. Clark set his mug down slowly.Â
You added on, âWe are closer because you saved me. And we are both from Krypton, of course.â
âRight, yes. Those are really good words.â
âAnd you? How was the Daily Planet.â
Clark smiled at how you always referred to his work as the Daily Planet. âIt was okay. Both Jimmy and Lois were gone, chasing a lead. Perry yelled at me. But Cat brought doughnuts for everyone.â
âThose are the circles right? With the hole in the center?â you asked for clarification.
âYes.â
You nodded. âI like those.â
Clark chuckled, âYeah they are pretty good.â The sound was warm and easy, and something inside your chest fluttered. You noticed that feeling more these days.
Little things would set it offâthe way he leaned his elbows on the table, the way he listened like nothing you said was ever unimportant, the way his eyes softened whenever they landed on you.
You finished your food and carried your plate to the sink, carefully.Â
Clark watched you from the table, his heart doing something stupid and fast. A year, he reminded himself. Donât forget that.
But it was hard to remember when nights like this felt so normal. When all he could think about most days was you.Â
Clark's friends at the Daily Planet began to notice the change in him, too. The perpetual worry that often furrowed his brow had softened. He laughed more easily at Jimmyâs jokes. He didn't work quite as late.
Lois was the first to pounce. She cornered him at his desk, leaning in with that reporter's glint in her eye. "Okay, Smallville. Spill. You're humming. You, Clark Kent, are humming. Is it the 'friend from Switzerland'? The new mysterious roommate?"
Clark adjusted his glasses, a faint blush creeping up his neck. âYes, ⊠she's adjusting well. She's⊠amazing, actually.â
âAmazing,â Lois repeated, drawing out the word. âAs in 'amazing cook' or 'amazing to come home to'?â
âLois,â Â he sighed, but he was smiling. A real, unreserved smile that told her everything she needed to know.
âAlright, alright, just donât screw it up.â Lois put her hands up.
Clark's mouth went dry. He didnât answer.
Because he already had.
He screws up everyday that he continues to let the lie drag on. And he tried. He really honestly tried to tell you, but something always came up, whether that be work or Superman responsibilities.
So rather than just confessing, Clark did the opposite and tried to make up for his ongoing lies by easing his own conscience and essentially spoiling you.
He would bring you a new fresh batch of flowers every week, since you said that they reminded you of the ones that grew back on Caelis. He would shower you in attention, giving you everything you wanted and more.Â
It helped, but in a way, also made it worse.
His feelings for you only deepened with each passing day.
And with them came the touches.
They were accidental at first. Easy to dismiss.
His hand brushing yours when he passed you a tea mug. Fingers lingering just a second too long before pulling away, like heâd been burned. Your shoulder bumping into his when you sat together on the couch, neither of you moving to correct it. The way heâd guide you through crowded sidewalks with a gentle palm at the small of your back, touch feather-light but steady.
You noticed all of it.
You noticed how his heartbeat changed when you were close. How his breath hitched when you leaned in to show him a new word on your tablet. How he always, always, waited for you to move first.
So you did.
One evening, while he was helping you with pronunciation, you leaned closer than necessary.
âCom-fort,â you said slowly.
âComfort,â he corrected, voice low.
You tried again. âComfort.â
âPerfect.â
You smiled, pleased, and without thinking, rested your hand on his forearm. It felt solid. Warm. Safe. Good. His muscles tensed beneath your fingers, but he didnât pull away.
Instead, he looked at you, deep into those beautiful eyes that he found captivating the moment he met you.
The room felt quieter suddenly.Â
âIs this⊠okay?â you asked, echoing a question youâd learned was important here.
Clark swallowed. âYeah,â he said softly. âItâs okay.â
So you kept doing it.Â
Youâd sit closer on the couch, your knee touching his. Sometimes your head would tilt toward his shoulder when you were tired, just barely brushing. The first time you fell asleep there, curled into his side without realizing it, Clark didnât move for over an hour. He just sat there, heart pounding, afraid that if he breathed too hard youâd disappear.
He started tucking blankets around you when you slept. Adjusting pillows. Letting his thumb brush your knuckles when he thought you were already dreaming.
You were not.
You learned what his touch meant before you learned the word for it. And you liked it. Touching Clark. Feeling his warmth. It felt as though you two were made for each other in those moments.
âââââââ
Time passed like this. Soft and domestic.
The closer you grew, the harder it became for Clark to remember the end date hanging over everything. Less than a year now. Less than a year until the truth shattered this fragile, beautiful thing he was selfishly letting exist.
One evening, you stood by the window, watching rain streak down the glass. You liked rain. Clark said it made humans nostalgic.
âThat word again,â you said thoughtfully. âI think⊠I feel that.â
âFor what?â he asked, coming to stand beside you.
You turned to him. âFor things that are happening now. Is that weird?â
Clarkâs chest tightened. âNo, itâs not weird at all. A lot of people feel that.â
âHumans are strange,â you decided.
He smiled. âYeah. We are.â
âBut I'm starting to really like them,â you added with a soft smile to Clark.
Thunder rumbled softly outside. You startled. There was no rain or thunder back on Caelis, so you hadnât expected that. Clark reached out without thinking, resting a hand on your arm.
You didnât pull away. Instead, you turned fully toward him.
âYou do that,â you said quietly.
âDo what?â
âYou touch me,â you said, not accusing. âWhen I am scared. Or tired. Or quiet.â
Clark froze, then slowly lowered his hand, like he thought heâd crossed a line. âIâm sorry, Iââ
âI like it,â you said quickly.
He looked at you, eyes searching. âYouâre sure?â
âIt feels like⊠comfort.â You said with a glint in your eye, knowing you used the word correctly.
His hand rose again, hesitant, and this time you covered it with your own. The contact sent a shock through both of you. Clarkâs breath caught. Yours did too.
You stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him and the way his presence filled the space.
âThis,â you said softly, âis intimacy, yes?â
Clark laughed under his breath, a little shaky. âYeah. This is definitely intimacy.â
You tilted your head, studying his face. His eyes. His mouth. His lips.
âHumans kiss,â you said slowly, carefully. âWhen they feel this.â
Clarkâs heart slammed into his ribs. âThey do,â he said, voice barely above a whisper. âBut only if they both want to.â
You didnât answer with words.
You leaned inâslow, giving him time to stop you. Your forehead brushed his. Your breath mingled with his. You paused there, waiting.
Clark closed the distance, one hand cupping the side of your face softly as he did so. The kiss was gentle. Passionate. Everything you imagined it would be. His lips were warm, soft, lingering just long enough to make your head spin.
He pulled back for just a second, checking to make sure you were okay, the smile stretching on your face giving him all the confirmation he needed to continue. His hands gently slid down the side of your face to your neck as he leaned back in again.
After what felt like a lifetime, you pulled back, your eyes wide as you caught your breath.
âOh,â you breathed.
Clark smiled, breathless. âYeah.â
You touched your fingers to your lips, then to his, curious. âThat is⊠very intimate.â
He laughed quietly. âIt is.â
You leaned into him after that, resting your head against his chest. Clark wrapped his arms around you slowly, carefully, like he was holding his entire universe together.
Outside, the rain kept falling, but inside Clark held you and wondered how much longer he could let himself pretend this wasnât already loveâand how badly it was going to hurt when the truth finally came out.
âââââââ
âDate.â Clark tells you, as he secures his work tie âThatâs your word for the day.â
âClark, I learned what a date is. It's the day, the month, and theââ
âNo, no, that is only one of the meanings. There is another.â
âWhat is the other?â
âThat is for you to figure out today while Iâm gone. And when you find out what it is, I want you to know that we have one. Tonight at 8 PM sharp, so be ready.â
âOkay but what isââ
Clark shuts you up with a kiss. You melt into it before you realize that he distracted you. Ever since your first kiss with him, it seems like it's something that you canât stop doing.
You kiss him before he leaves for work, he kisses you when you come back from the library. You kiss him before bed. You simply canât get enough.
âIâll see you tonight,â he says, interrupting your thoughts and already halfway out the door, before it slams shut.
You stand there for a moment, stunned, fingers pressed to your mouth where he kissed you. Then you smile wide and bright in a daze.
âA date,â you murmur to yourself curiously.
You take your tablet with you to the couch, curiosity buzzing. You type the word in, careful with the spelling. You read the first definition that pops up.
 Date (noun):
A social or romantic appointment.
An outing between two people who are interested in each other.
You blink.
Interested in each other. Romantic appointment.
You scroll.
Dinner. Dressing nicely. Conversation. Laughter. Holding hands. Sometimes kissing. Sometimes Sex. Sex? You were unfamiliar with that last word.
But you disregard it for the moment. Because thisâthis is what Clark meant.
A date.
You spend the rest of the day preparing for the date. You watch videos on everything âfirst dateâ related.Â
You search your closet for something perfect to wear. Seeing as most of your clothes were picked out by Clark, you hope that he will like whatever you decide on. Which happens to be a never before worn black dress in the back of your closet.
Secretly, you wonder if he bought this dress with the hope of taking you out on a date in the future in mind. But you brush that silly thought off after a few moments.
By exactly 7:58 PM, youâre seated on the couch, posture perfect, heart racing.
At 8:00 PM sharp, the door opens.
Clark steps inside and stops.
For a moment, he just stares. You stand giving him a twirl so he can see the dress you chose.
âIs this acceptable for a⊠date?â
He swallows. Hard. âYeah,â he manages. âItâs⊠more than acceptable. You look beautiful.â
You blush at the compliment and walk over to him. A part of you wonders if it's too soon to kiss him, but you decide that you really, really want to kiss him, so you do it anyway.
He meets you halfway, his arms coming around your waist as your lips find his. When you pull back, youâre both breathing a little harder.
âThat was a good start to the date,â you say, a little breathless.
Clark laughs, a warm, rich sound that vibrates through you. âA very good start. Ready to go?â
Clark takes you to a small, quiet Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street. Itâs nothing like the loud, bright places youâve seen on his screen. Itâs all warm wood, soft candlelight, and the smell of garlic and baking bread. A man in a black apron greets Clark by name and leads you to a secluded corner booth.
âHow do you know this place?â you whisper as you slide in.
âI saved the ownerâs son from a car accident a few years back,â Clark murmurs back, his voice low. âHe insists I come by. The food is incredible.â
You trust him. He orders for both of you, speaking in smooth, confident Italian that surprises you. Perfect Italian but terrible Kryptonian.
The food arrives shortly after. Plates of steaming pasta, glistening with sauce, a salad with vibrant colors, bread thatâs crusty on the outside and impossibly soft within.
You watch Clark, mimicking which fork he uses, how he twines the pasta. The flavors are rich and tasty, and you make a small, delighted noise with your first bite.
Clarkâs eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. âGood?â
âIncredible,â you say, and you mean it in every senseâthe food, the candlelight, the way heâs looking at you.
While you eat, he tells you stories about growing up in Kansas, about his parents, about his Kryptonian cousin, Kara, who is on different planets right now.
In return, you tell him more about Caelis. How beautiful it was, how there was no society like here on Earth. How everything was natural, no technology. Everyone was simply friendly and could do as they pleased, so long as it was safe.
When the plates are cleared and a decadent slice of tiramisu is placed between you, you feel another flutter inside.Â
âThis is my first ever date,â you tell him shyly, grabbing a dessert spoon.
âYeah?â
âYeah,â you repeat, âPeople donât really date on Caelis. They just find a partner, and they coexist like that until they die. I wonder how it is on Krypton. How your parents found each other? How did mine?â
Clark goes stiff at that.Â
He manages to muster a weak smile, then changes the subject, âI have one more surprise.â
He pays the bill despite the ownerâs protests, and then youâre walking back through the cool Metropolis night, his hand finding yours, fingers lacing together.
Clark leads you to a rooftop garden youâve never seen, high above the city. Itâs set up beautifully with twinkling fairy lights strung between potted flowers that remind you of Caelis, a blanket laid out, and a breathtaking view of the skyline.
âClark,â you breathe, turning to him, struggling to find the right words. âThis is⊠beautiful.â
âI come here sometimes. To think.â He guides you to the blanket, sitting beside you. âI wanted to share it with you.â
You look at him, the city lights reflecting in his blue eyes. Everything that lead you here suddenly all seems worth it. There is only this moment, this man, this feeling swelling in your chest and you think you might burst with it.
âClark,â you say, your voice barely a whisper, but holding lots of truth. âI think I am falling in love with you.â
Clark doesnât answer right away.
For a terrifying second, you think youâve said something wrong. A word you misused. A feeling you werenât supposed to name yet.
Then he exhales, slow and shaky, like heâs been holding his breath for months.
He reaches for you, carefully, as if you might disappear if he moves too fast. His large hands frame your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks.
âYou donâtâyou shouldnât say words like that unless you mean them,â he murmurs.
You nod. âI mean it.â
His forehead presses to yours, giving him the strength to say his next words. Â
âIâve been in love with you,â he admits quietly, voice rough, âfor a very long time now.â
Your chest tightens. âThen why do you look so sad?â
Because Iâm lying to you, he thinks. Because Iâm going to lose you and its all going to be my fault.
But he doesnât say any of that. Instead, he kisses you.
It tastes like tiramisu, and love confessions and feels like a desperate, aching hope. Itâs deep and slow, a silent apology and a prayer all at once. When he finally pulls back, he doesn't let go.
âBecause,â he whispers into the tiny space between you, âloving someone this much is terrifying. Especially because you never, ever want to hurt them.â
You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. âYou donât hurt me, Clark. You could never hurt me, you saved me, remember?âÂ
Clark closes his eyes, wincing as a shadow of pain flickers across his face before he masks it with another tender kiss. âCome on,â he says, his voice husky. âLet's go home.â
âââââââ
Back at the apartment, the night settles softly around you. Clark hangs up your coat, and before either of you can say anything else, youâre back in each otherâs arms on the couchâkissing, touching, breathing each other in like youâre afraid the moment will vanish if you stop.
Eventually, your eyes drift closed as you are cuddled up against his chest, but youâre not asleep. Not tired. Your mind is busy, circling back to the things you read earlier. The words. The meanings.
Thereâs still one you donât fully understand.
âClark?â you murmur.
âHm?â he whispers, arms tightening around you. âYou okay?â
âYes,â you say. âBut there is a word Iâm still confused on. From when I was looking up what dates are.â
âOkay. What word?â
You hesitate, then say it carefully. âSex.â
Clark stiffens immediately. You feel it, every muscle going tense beneath you.
He doesnât pull away, though. Instead, he takes a slow breath, steadying himself. âGosh, thatâs⊠umm.â
âOnline it said that many people do it after dates,â This was your first date and you didnât want to leave out any important parts, âDid we do sex?â
âNo, sweetheart. We di-didnât. Thatâs⊠thatâs something different.â
âBut the internet said itâs part of a relationship,â you persist, your voice muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt. âAnd we are in a relationship now, arenât we?â
âWe are,â he says, the words thick with conviction. âOf course we are. But sex, itâs umâŠâ
Clark trailed off unsure how to explain this to you. He wishes that it would click, that you would be able to piece together the word in your own Caelian or Kryptonian language without him having to explain to you.
And after watching Clark struggle for a few minutes it seems you do. âOh. Lira.â
âLira?â Clark repeats.
âBack on Caelis, it is what describes the act that joins two people who have chosen each other,â you finish softly, and add. âIntimacy. That is what sex is right? Lira.â
âYeah. That⊠that sounds about right.â
The two of you are quiet for a long moment after that. You break the silence first.
âClark?â
âYes.â He gulps because he already knows what you will say next.
âI um, I want lira.â You clear your throat, âI want to have sex with you.â
He is silent for so long that you wonder if youâve made another terrible mistake, misapplied another word.
âSweetheartâŠâ he finally says, his voice a scrape of sound. He shifts, gently urging you to sit up so he can look at you. His eyes are wide, pools of blue and he holds your face steady in his hand.
âYouâre saying that because you think itâs what comes next. Because you read it.â
âNo,â you insist, reaching for his other hand, holding it tightly. âIâm saying it because I want to. I like when you kiss me and when you hold me. And I want⊠more of that. All of that. All of you.â
Clarkâs breath shudders out of him.
He would be absolutely lying if he said, he didnât want this with you right now. In fact just the conversation is already working him up, making him feel hotter under your touch.Â
But this would be crossing a line you couldn't come back from.
If he lets this happenâif he crosses this lineâhe is responsible. For everything. For the imbalance between you. For the truth he is still hiding. But gosh, your sweet eyes staring back at him makes it difficult to think of anything else.
So he brings your joined hands up, pressing them gently to his chest, right over his heart so you can feel how hard itâs racing. âI need you to understand something first,â he says quietly. âMore than anything.â
You nod, eyes never leaving his.
âI want you,â he admits. âIâve wanted you. But wanting isnât enough. I need to know that you understand what youâre choosing. That youâre choosing it because you want it, not because you think you owe me. Not because the internet said itâs what people do.â
âI know,â you say immediately. âOn Caelis, Lira is never owed. It is only given.â You squeeze his hand. âI am giving it. I choose you.â
That does something to him. You feel the way his shoulders sag, the way his eyes shine, the way something heavy finally loosens in his chest.
âOkay,â he whispers. âOkay.â Definitely going to hell, Clark thinks as he leans forward, his forehead against yours, breathing you in.
His hand cups your cheek again, the same familiar touch that started all of thisâcomfort first, always. He kisses you passionately.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes under your eye. âStill want this?â
You donât hesitate. âYes.â
âThen,â he murmurs, pressing one last gentle kiss to your lips, âCome here.â
Clark pulls you onto his lap in one fluid motion, positioning you perfectly to feel the growing bulge between his legs. He presses you down onto it, moving your hips so you can grind down on him.
The friction makes you gasp, never having felt anything like it. But it feels so good so you rock against him, chasing the sensation, and he makes a choked sound. His lips find yours again hungry and open-mouthed.
"You feel that?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick. "That's what you do to me sweetheart. Every time you look at me. Every time you say my name."
The words went straight to your core, causing a strong pulsing sensation that startles you. You whimper, grinding down harder, needing to soothe the new, delicious ache.
âFeel good?â Clark asks at your reaction, bucking up to meet your hips.
You nod quickly. Youâve heard people talk about Lira back on Caelis, describing it as one of the best sensations ever. You were starting to see what they meant. This was the best feeling.
Deep in your thoughts, you donât feel Clarkâs hand moving from your waist down to between your legs, cupping your clothed cunt under your now ruched dress. His large palm over your dampening center has you instinctively wanting to shut your legs.
But Clark doesnât withdraw. Instead he squeezes tighter, while holding deep eye contact.Â
âHave you ever been touched here before, sweetheart?â
You stare back into his blue eyes as you give him a weak shake of your head. âNo.â
Clark hums, satisfied at that and applies more pressure. You grind down into his palm needing more.
Clark, ever so in-tune with your body, notices. Wrapping his free arm around your waist, and leaving the other hand between your legs, he uses his super speed to move you both from the couch to the bedroom.
Wasting no further time, he removed his own shirt and hiked your dress up, revealing your bra-less chest.Â
The air in the room felt cool against your now exposed skin, but the heat from his gaze was enough to warm you up again.
For a moment, Clark just looked. Soaking in your body. Then slowly he lowered his head and kissed the space between your breasts. His lips were soft and warm. He kissed his way to one breast, taking his time. He circled your hardened nipple with his tongue before finally taking it into his mouth.
You gasped, arching off the bed. The sensation was incredible. A sharp, sweet pleasure that had you getting more and more soaked.
Clark suckled gently, his tongue flicking over the peak, while his other hand came up to cradle your other breast, his thumb rubbing over that nipple in slow, steady circles, squeezing it tight occasionally.
The dual sensation had you overwhelmed. You tangle your hands in his curls, holding him to you. When he was satisfied, he switched sides, giving the same attention to your other breast.
While his mouth worked, his hand began to wander again. It slid down your stomach, tracing the lines of your muscles. He paused at the waistband of your panties, his fingers dipping just beneath the fabric.
He pulled his mouth away from your breast, his breathing ragged.
âCan I?â he asked, his voice rough.
âYes,â you whispered. âPlease.â
He hooked his fingers in your panties and drew them down your legs, tossing them aside and removed your dress over your head. Now you were completely bare before him. His eyes darkened, roaming over every inch of you. The intensity of his gaze made you feel both exposed and cherished.
Clark settled between your legs, but instead of moving forward, he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh. His lips were plush, his stubble a gentle scratch. He kissed his way up, slowly, maddeningly slowly, until his breath was warm against your most intimate place.
You held your breath, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. You felt him look up at you from between your legs and give you a lustful smile.
He didnât use his tongue right away. First, he just nuzzled you, his nose brushing against your sensitive folds. He inhaled deeply, and the sound he made was one of pure hunger. Your scent was particularly enticing, and he wondered if it had to do with your Kryptonian nature calling you to him.
âClark,â you whined, your hips lifting off the bed of their own accord.
âShh,â he soothed, placing a firm hand on your hip to still you and push you back down.Â
Only once you stopped squirming did he finally taste you. The first swipe of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from bottom to top. It was so much, so intense, that you cried out. Your back arched, and your fingers clenched in the sheets.
He did it again, and again, establishing a slow, languid rhythm. He explored you with his tongue, learning what made you gasp, what made you writhe. He circled your clit, then sucked it gently into his mouth.
âClark, please,â you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.
But Clark knew, and she shoved his tongue deep into your hole, flicking it expertly inside you.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you. Then he added his fingers. One finger, slick with your arousal, pressed against your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, giving you time to adjust.Â
You were very tight, definitely needing to be stretched out, but so wet, and he slid in knuckle deep with a groan.
He began to move his finger in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the strokes of his tongue. The pressure inside you, the flicking of his tongue on your clit, it was too much and not enough all at once.
âMore,â you pleaded, your voice broken. âPlease, Clark, I need more.â
He added a second finger, stretching you further. The burn was brief, quickly swallowed by a deep, filling pleasure. He moved with care, gentle and patient as he worked your body.
Still, you werenât satisfied, and he could tell. Clark paused thoughtfully. Most women could hardly take two of his fingers without feeling overly worked. But you, you still couldnât get enough.Â
Clearly able to handle more than regular humans, Clark inserts two more fingers, stretching you out beautifully. He watched as your face scrunched up into a pretty moan, eyes rolled back.
âGosh, yes Clark,â you whimper, âMuch better. Move, please.â
He curled all four of his large fingers inside you, searching, and when he found that spot, you saw stars.
A moan tore from your throat. Your entire body seizing in pleasure. Clark fingered you through it, your first orgasm of the night, his tongue and fingers relentless, until you were sobbing, completely overwhelmed by the sensation.
He gentled his touch, his movements becoming softer, letting you come down slowly. He kissed your inner thighs, your stomach, as you trembled beneath him.
When you could breathe again, you looked at him. His lips were glistening, his eyes blown black with desire. He looked wrecked, and you had done that to him.
âClark,â you whispered, reaching for him. âThat was good. Iâm enjoying this. Having sex with you.â
âOh hon, we havenât even really started,â Clark chuckled, his tone somewhat condescending.
He withdrew his fingers, making you gasp at the sudden emptiness, and brought them to his mouth, tasting you with a groan of pure appreciation. The sight made you flush and your pussy throb even harder.
Clark shifted his weight, settling fully between your trembling thighs. The length of him, still confined in his pants, pressed insistently against your slick heat, promising so much more. You could feel the size of him, even through the fabric, and a fresh pulse of desire, mixed with a flicker of nervous awe, shot through you.
âStill with me?â he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He brushed the damp hair from your forehead, his touch infinitely tender.
âYes,â you breathed. âI just⊠youâre soâŠâ
âI know,â he said, understanding instantly. He kissed you, a hot sweaty kiss that tasted of you and him. Clark rocked his hips, a grinding motion that had you seeing stars again.Â
âYou think youâre ready for it?â He asks you.
âYes, gosh, yes!â
Clark shakes his head, and scoots back releasing the friction he had on your body. âNo, I don't think you are sweetheart.â
âClark,â you cry out, upset.Â
You found yourself growing frustrated. Why is he not giving you what you want? He always gives you what you want. Your eyes start to well. He was being mean.
âYes, sweetheart?â
âPlease.â Your bottom lip wobbled, and for a moment, Clark almost gave in. âStop teasing me.â
But he didnât.
Instead, he shoved his whole hand back into your pussy. Deeper than before and harder.
Your eyes flew wide, a sharp cry tearing from your throat that was equal parts shock and overwhelming, sudden pleasure. The sensation of being filled so completely, so abruptly, stole the breath from your lungs.
Your body twisted, your hands flying to his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold on as the world dissolved into a white-hot point of sensation.
âThere,â he breathed, his own chest heaving as he watched you come utterly undone around his hand. âThatâs what you need first. You have to be ready, sweetheart. Really ready. For me.â
He began to move his hand, a fast, deliberate pistoning that stretched you to a breathtaking, almost impossible degree. The friction was exquisite, a deep, internal massage that had your toes curling and your vision spotting. You were so sensitive from your first climax, and this was pushing you swiftly, mercilessly toward another.
âSee?â he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive awe. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your desperate moans. âYou take me so well. But youâre still so tight.â He curled his fingers inside you, pressing ruthlessly against that magical spot, and you shattered.
You sobbed his name, your walls clenching rhythmically around his embedded hand.
He gentled his movements, letting you ride the wave, soothing you with whispered praises against your sweat-damp skin. âGood job, hon. Just like that.â
When the last tremors subsided, he carefully withdrew his hand. You felt utterly open, utterly spent, and yet thrumming with a need that felt bottomless.
Clark stared down at your glistening face, his eyes never leaving yours as he unfastened his pants. He pushed them and his boxers down to free himself.
You couldnât help but stare. He was⊠magnificent. Thick and long and flushed with need. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. You reached out, driven by a sudden, curious need to touch.
Your fingers barely grazed the velvety skin when his hand shot out, wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. He guided your hand away, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm.
You understand what it meant. He was to be doing all the touches tonight.
He positioned himself over you, the thick head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. For a moment, he just stayed there, letting you feel the size of him, the heat. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. You could see the strain in his neck, the corded muscles of his arms as he held himself back.
You felt a sudden spike of nervousness. It looked... like a lot and you've never done this before. He saw it flash in your eyes.
"I'll be gentleâ" he started, but you stopped him. No. You wanted this.Â
âClark,â you say, âI am Kryptonian, just like you. I can handle it.â You pulled his head down, your lips brushing his ear. âI need it.â
A shudder wracked his entire frame.
Clark swore that nothing in his life could amount to this. To those words. He finally found his perfect person. Someone who could withstand his strength and speed because you were the same.
All those years of holding back, of being so pent upâ well they were about to be unleashed into your poor pussy.
He pushed in, burying himself inside you in one long, deep stroke.
âMmph,â you whined, feeling him all the way to the hilt, his balls rubbing on your clit perfectly.
âOh... gosh,â he choked out, his hips stuttering. âYou... youâre perfect. So tight, so soft. Sweetheart, youâre made for me.â
And he wasn't wrong. Your Kryptonian anatomies aligned with an impossible precision. He filled you completely, a stretching, filling pressure that showed with an outline of him in your stomach.Â
Clark began to move. Slowly at first, shallow pulls that made you both whimper. He was watching your face, checking, always checking. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted on a silent cry, your nails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders.
âMore,â you demanded, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking him to you. âClark, more.â
You knew that he was trying his best to be careful with you, but you were not a fragile human, and you needed to be fucked like the Kryptonian you are.
He didnât need to be told twice.
He pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, a hard, driving thrust that knocked a sharp cry from your lungs and lifted you up the bed. The headboard cracked against the wall.
âYes,â he hissed, the sound vicious with relief. âTake it. Take all of me.â
He set a punishing rhythm, his hips pistoning, driving into you with a force that would have shattered a human pelvis.Â
The bedframe groaned in protest with every impact. Each thrust sending you into a fucked-out state of pure bliss.
Clark leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, biting kiss. His hands were everywhereâgripping your hips hard enough to leave faint, blooming bruises that would fade in minutes, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples, rubbing your clit. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, groaning into your skin.
âGosh sweetheart,â he mumbled, licking a stripe up your throat. âYou smell so good. Driving me insane. Makes me want to⊠want toâŠâ
Clark didnât finish the thought, but his thrusts became more erratic, more possessive. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next deep drive, he hit a spot that made you see stars. You screamed, your hips lifting away.
âThere she is,â he growled, finding your spot. He hit it again. And again. And again. âLet me feel you. Show me how good I make you feel.â
The command, the filthy praise, the rough poundingâit was perfect. Exactly what you needed. Your climax tore through you and you clenched around him, milking his length, and his rhythm stuttered as he let go of his release.
When the waves of pleasure finally receded, you felt boneless, gasping. But Clark was far from done.Â
Besides, you had the stamina to keep up. Just as quickly as that orgasm came, it went. And you needed another.
âWeâre not even close to being finished hon,â he promised you. You wanted some sex. He'll give it to you. Anything you asked for.
In one swift motion, he flipped you over onto your stomach. He pulled your hips up, arching your back, pressing your face into the pillows. He draped himself over your back, his chest hot against your spine, and sank into you from behind.Â
The angle allowed him to drill into you with even more power, pounding you deeper into the bed. The sound of skin on skin, of his groans and your muffled cries, filled the room. The bedâs protests grew louder.
You couldnât form words to speak even if you wanted to. All you could do was sob into the pillow and push back against him, meeting his thrusts.
He fucked you like that for what felt like an eternity, in that raw, vulnerable position, until your thighs were shaking and your pleas were a broken, continuous stream. Just when you thought you couldnât take another second, he pulled out, letting your release and wetness drip down your legs.
You made a sound at the sudden loss, but before it could fully form, his arms were around you, lifting you from the bed.
âHold on,â he whispered, and then the world tipped.
You were flying? Or he was. He held you cradled against his chest, your legs still wrapped around him, and he was inside you as he rose into the air.
âClark!â you shrieked, clinging to him, not expecting that.
âIâve got you,â he murmured, kissing you hungrily as he hovered. He began to move again, shallow, grinding thrusts made possible by the gravity. It was intimate and impossibly erotic, your bodies joined in the air like such.
He floated you both back down, not to the bed, but pressing you against the nearest wall. The cool plaster was a shock against your heated back. He pinned you there, using the wall for leverage, lifting one of your legs, and slammed back into you with renewed frenzy.
The wall cracked underneath the pressure of your two strong bodies. But Clarkâs rough pace didnât falter for a second. Clark reached up, brushing your damp hair out of your face.
He tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. Those gorgeous eyes that he loved so much were filled to the brim with tears that kept spilling down with each hard hit of his cock in your body.
Clark groaned at the sight, fucking you even harder if that was possible.
âOh Clark,â your eyes roll.
âYeah,â He moaned, âGonna fill you up so good, sweetheart. Youâre gonna be all mine. You want that?â
You nod rapidly. You would want nothing more honestly.Â
âNeed words, princess.â
âYes, Clark, please.â
At that confirmation, Clark switched your position back to the bed. He pulled your legs up and over his shoulder, then shoved your knees to your chest to have you in the perfect mating press.
He rammed into you hard, the position forcing you to look directly at his handsome face as he ruined you. All you could feel was his cock splitting you open, thick and veiny and so long it felt like heaven every time he bottomed out.Â
Clark let his teeth graze your calf as the wet, sloppy sounds of your pussy squelching obscenely fill his ears.
You carried on like that for so long, the bedframe finally groaned and splintered beneath you, unable to withstand the force of two Kryptonians joined in passion.
Neither of you notice. Or care.
The longer you two went at, the more it seemed that his scent would fill your senses. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply, groaning as your own scent enveloped him.
You both felt it building simultaneously, a sensation different from the many orgasms released through the night.
No this was something new altogether.
A need to be claimed, to be marked, to be so utterly his that nothing could ever separate you. You tightened around him, clenching down so hard that he couldnât pull out if he wanted to.
Clark leans down, right onto the sensitive point where your neck meets your collarbone.
His lips are hot, his breath ragged over it, raising goosebumps. A possessiveness surges inside him that has him practically growling against your skin. You mewl under his touch, begging for him to touch the warm area.
Clark's teeth graze over the spot. Then he latches onto it - kissing, sucking, biting, whatever feels right.
For you, the feeling is everything.Â
Pure ecstasy shoots from that point, down your spine, and explodes in your core. Your back arches off the ruined bed, a scream ripping from your throat. A flood gushes from you, soaking him, the sheets, and leaves you shaking, your vision spotting.
For Clark, the sensation of your body convulsing around him, the scent of your climax mixed with the faint, coppery taste of your blood on his lips, is his undoing.
Clark buries himself as deep as he can and lets go. His release shoots out in endless hot ropes of cum. He collapses over you, his body heavy and warm.
For a long time, there is only the sound of ragged breathing and the frantic beating of two hearts slowly finding their rhythm again.
Gently, Clark pulls out and rolls to the side, gathering you immediately against his chest. Youâre both slick and spent, but he doesnât seem to mind. He just holds you, one hand stroking your hair, the other splayed possessively over the small of your back.
After a few minutes, he presses a kiss to your forehead. âStay here.â
He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. Softly, with a tenderness that contrasts wildly with the roughness of the minutes prior, he cleans you. He wipes the sweat from your brow and hairline and the evidence of your combined release on your thighs.
He stops for a second to examine your pussy before coming up, spreading your swollen lips apart. You squirm a bit at the unintentional overstimulation. âM'sorry sweetheart, just taking a quick look.â
Clark looks inside you and can see his release coating your walls, a sight that make him swell. Then using his x-ray vision, he takes a closer look at your muscles and walls. He can see exactly where he broke you in. âOh yeah, perfect. She's nice and open f'me.â
His crudeness has you breathing harder. Clark plants a soft kiss to your puffy folds and comes back up to your face. He peppers your cheeks and neck with soft kisses and then brings the cloth up to finish cleaning you up.
When the cloth passes over the tender mark on your collarbone, you flinch. Clark stills.
âDid I hurt you?â His voice is raw with instant regret.
âNo, you could never hurt me,â you whisper, your own voice hoarse. You reach up, your fingers finding the raised, slightly heated skin. It feels⊠different. You didnât know how to explain.
Clarkâs expression softens. He finishes cleaning you, then disposes of the cloth and returns to bed, pulling the less-damaged comforter over you both. He wraps himself around you, tucking your head under his chin.
âTalk to me,â he murmurs into your hair.
âThat was a lot,â you say truthfully, now that it was all over.
âToo much,â Clark asks fearfully.
âNo, no. I enjoyed it. Iâd like to do it again sometime.â you admit shyly.
Clark chuckles at that. âYeah we can do that again sweetheart. Letâs move to the spare room, okay? This bed is broken, I donât want you to get hurt.â
Now it was your time to chuckle, also looking at the broken wall and torn pillows. You two destroyed his bedroom. âOkay.â
You follow him out of his room and into your spare room, both of you climbing into the cool, clean sheets. Clark pulls you back into his arms, and you melt against him. You trace the lines of his chest and arms absentmindedly. A comfortable silence stretches when suddenly you remember something.
âClark?â
âHmm?â
You tilt your head back to see his face in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. âOn Caelis, it is customary to say this phrase to someone you love. Saelâka varin.â
âSaelâka varin.â Clark repeats, âWhat does it mean?â
âWell, it translates closest to âmy soul recognizes yours.ââ
Clark goes very still and swallows thickly. He understands the weight of what youâve offered, what you've given him tonight. He wants to make sure you know he feels the same. So, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
âMy soul,â he whispers in Kryptonian, âhas been completely yours, long before I ever understood what it meant to give it. You have my whole heart, sweetheart.â
Tears well up in your eyes. Itâs the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to you. You donât have the words in any language to match it. So you show him, curling into him, your leg sliding over his, fitting yourself against him as if the very atoms of your being were designed to align with his.Â
That night, you drift into the first true, peaceful sleep youâve known since arriving on this strange planet.
âââââââ
When you wake the next morning, Clarkâs side is empty, but you can hear him moving and cooking in the kitchen. You smile, the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon mingling with the lingering, musky scent of him on the sheets.Â
You stretch, feeling wonderfully sore in places you didn't know could be sore, a pleasant ache that serves as a constant reminder of the night before.Â
But beneath that, something else feels different. Off. Itâs a strong pull, a deep yearning that centers directly on the man in the next room. Youâve always felt drawn to Clark, but this is much more intense. Itâs not just attraction, it feels more like a biological and cellular-level need to be near him, to touch him, to have his scent and his warmth surrounding you.
So you pad out of the bedroom, the sight of him at the stove in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, making your chest warm.Â
You walk up to him wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and press your face into the solid warmth of his back. You inhale deeply, the scent of his soap, his skin, something uniquely Clark flooding your senses and easing all tension.
He goes still for a second, then relaxes, a soft chuckle rumbling through him. "Morning, sweetheart," he says, turning his face to press a kiss to your temple. âSleep okay?â
âBetter than ever,â you murmur, reluctant to let go. âI missed you.â
âYeah, It's only been like twenty minutes,â he teases gently, flipping a pancake.
âIt felt longer.â And it had. The moment you'd opened your eyes to an empty bed, a small panic had fluttered in your chest.
He must hear the thread of sincerity in your voice because he turns the burner off and turns in your arms, his own coming around you. He looks down at you, his eyes soft, searching. âEverything okay?â
You nod, rising on your toes to kiss him. âEverything is perfect. I just⊠like being close to you.â
A beautiful, warm smile spreads across his face. âI like it too,â he whispers against your lips before deepening the kiss. âNow go shower. Breakfast will be ready when youâre done.â
In the shower, the hot water soothes your muscles. You lather the soap, your hands roaming your body, and your fingers brush over the mark on your collarbone. You pause. You can feel the raised skin without even looking. You angle yourself under the spray and glance down. Itâs a deep, vivid reddish-purple.Â
A flicker of unease passes through you. Youâve gotten small bruises before, from bumping into things in your new, unfamiliar world. Theyâve always faded at most within an hour, your Kryptonian healing under Earthâs yellow sun making you remarkably resilient.Â
This mark, born from Clarkâs passion last night, is different. It hasn't faded at all. It looks as fresh as when he made it.
You dismiss it. Maybe it's deeper. Maybe the intensity of the moment, the force of his⊠love⊠left a more lasting impression. Yeah, that was it. Maybe your body is just processing the newness of everything. The thought sends a thrill through you, a strange pride.
You finish your shower and join him at the small kitchen table. He poured you orange juice, sliding a plate of perfect pancakes and crispy bacon in front of you. The whole time, you canât stop touching him. Your foot finds his under the table. Your hand rests on his forearm as he passes the syrup.
Halfway through breakfast, you canât ignore the mark any longer. It feels warm and persistent. You touch it lightly.
âClark?â
âHm?â He looks up from his coffee, his gaze immediately dropping to where your fingers rest.
âThis mark⊠from last night. It hasnât faded at all. Isnât that strange? My bruises never last this long.â
All the softness leaves his face, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus. He sets his mug down carefully. âLet me see.â
You tilt your head, offering him a clearer view. He leans in, his brow furrowed. His fingertips brush over the discolored skin. A jolt shoots from the mark straight to your core, making you gasp softly.
Clark pulls his hand back, his eyes wide with alarm. âOh, did that hurt?â
âNo,â you say quickly, your voice breathy and face hot, before you added, âIt just⊠felt like last night. A lot.â
His concern doesnât go away. He studies the mark, his jaw tight.
âIt should have faded,â he murmurs, more to himself than to you. âEven a⊠a passionate mark. Under the yellow sun, our cells regenerate too quickly for something like this to stay.â
âMaybe because it was you?â you offer, trying to lighten the sudden heavy mood. âMaybe my body just wants to keep it.â
He doesnât smile at your attempt, like you thought he would. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips to the mark, a kiss so soft itâs barely even there. But the restless, needy feeling that had been buzzing under your skin since you woke up quiets instantly, soothed by his touch.
He pulls back, his eyes still shadowed. âI donât know,â he admits, his thumb stroking the skin just beside the mark. âBut Iâll look into it. I promise.â He forces a smile. âDonât worry, okay? Just⊠let me know if it starts to feel painful or strange in any other way.â
You nod, the anxiety quelled by his kiss and his promise. For the rest of breakfast, youâre at ease again, basking in the simple joy of being with him.
But when he leaves for the Daily Planet, the restlessness returns with a vengeance.Â
Itâs a Monday, and the library is closed. The apartment feels vast and empty. You try to distract yourself with your tablet, browsing human social media, looking up new words, but your mind wanders. You check the time. 9:48 AM. He wonât be back for at least eight hours.
The need to be near him continues to grow into a physical ache, a hollow feeling in your stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. You find yourself holding the shirt he wore last night, burying your face in it, his scent a temporary, pathetic substitute for his presence.Â
You count minutes. You watch the clock. You feel ridiculous, clingy, but you canât help it. You tell yourself itâs a side effect of the new intimacy, a perfectly normal emotional codependence after such a powerful bonding experience.
When the key finally turns in the lock just after 6 PM, youâre on your feet before the door fully opens. You practically launch yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his neck.
âWoah, hey, honey!â he laughs, staggering back a step, his work bag dropping with a thud. He catches you easily, his arms coming around you, holding you tight. âMissed me that much, huh?â
âYes,â you breathe into his neck, inhaling him. The restless static in your veins finally stills. âI missed you so much, Clark.â
âYeah,â he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of your head. âI missed you too. Felt like the longest day.â He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm. âWhatâd you do all day?â
You shrug, reluctant to admit youâd done little more than pine for him. âNothing. The library was closed. Snooped around online. Learned three new words.â
âOh yeah? Which ones?â
âAftermath, deception, and kaleidoscope.â You list them off, but your heart isnât in it.Â
Youâre just happy heâs home. You make dinner together, your hip brushing his as you move around the kitchen, your hand constantly finding his arm, his shoulder, the small of his back. He seems to crave the contact just as much, his touches lingering, his kisses frequent and sweet.
The pattern repeats itself over the next few weeks. The desperate clinginess doesnât fade. It intensifies. Each morning you wake with a sharp yearning that only eases when youâre in his arms kissing him. At the library, shelving books, you find yourself very distracted, your thoughts orbiting him.
Your fingers drift to the mark on your collarbone, which remains stubbornly vivid, a brand against your skin. Touching it brings a flash of him, of his scent, of the feeling of his teeth, which both comforts and unsettles you.
And then, a new, colder fear begins to creep in, cutting through the fog of needy affection.
Your time on Earth is running short.
In less than a week, your pod will be ready. The original plan you agreed to, was for you to climb back inside and return to Krypton.
The thought now makes you feel queasy.Â
It sends pure panic through your system that you have to stop walking, and lean against a library bookshelf for support. Leave Clark? The very idea feels like someone is trying to tear your soul in two.Â
Thatâs when the idea blooms, desperate and hopeful: He could come with you!
The thought takes root and grows rapidly. Heâs from Krypton too. He has his parents there. He could come! You could explore your homeworld together. Itâs perfect. It solves everything.
But first, you need to understand whatâs happening to you. This obsession and mark that wonât heal⊠itâs not normal.Â
Only then, when you have everything figured out, can you tell him of your amazing idea!
Besides, Clark has been increasingly preoccupied anyways, called away more frequently by Superman dutiesâa disaster in Asia, a sinking ship in the Atlantic. The absences, though never long, feel like small eternities, leaving you agitated and anxious.Â
Heâs worried too; you see it in the lines around his eyes when he thinks youâre not looking, in the way he studies your mark with deepening concern but offers no real answers.
You need answers now though. You donât think youâll be able to stand another day of not knowing.
So, you decide to go to the only source you know. The Fortress of Solitude holds all of Kryptonâs knowledge. They would know.
You wait for a day when Clark is at the Daily Planet. You take a single, curly black hair from his comb, for the Fortressâs systems to recognize you as his DNA. Then you shoot up into the sky, flying the same path he took you many times before.Â
You call out as you enter the main chamber, your voice echoing. âHello?â
No answer. The usual robotic steward, Gary, is nowhere to be seen. You venture deeper, drawn by the sound of low, mechanical chatter. You peek around a crystal pillar into a secondary monitoring room.
Two robots, their backs to you, are hovering before a large, shimmering screen display. They are speaking English, but a rapid, clicking dialect you can just barely follow. But you know from their tone that they are gossiping.
ââhe still hasnât informed her,â one says, its visual sensor focused on the screen.
âSupermanâs directive to us was to repair the pod, not manage any emotional fallout,â the other replies.Â
Your blood runs cold. Were they talking about you? You strain to see what theyâre watching. The hologram resolves into a video.Â
Two gorgeous figures appear, a couple holding a baby. They look younger, dressed in Kryptonian robes. They are standing in a sleek, metallic room.
Youâre not sure how, an intuition perhaps, but you know instantly who they are.
Your parents.
And in their arms, you.
âOur dearest child,â your father speaks, his voice heavy. âThe destruction of our beloved planet becomes increasingly likely to occur. We have arranged to have you taken to a nearby planet for your safety. If all goes well you shall return to us in no longer than a yearâs time.â
Your mother smiles solemnly, and starts, âMy love, you will be safe on Caelis. Their star is stable, their people peaceful and they await your arrival ready to teach you everything of Kryptonian and Caelian knowledge. We are making this message in case all does not go to plan. If you are watching this means that is so.â
Your heart sinks.
âIf Krypton is to be destroyed, we take comfort in knowing you are safe and cared for. You carry our love. You will be strong, and you will do great things. Be brave, and curious, fall in love, and try new things. Our beloved, you are forever in our hearts. As the Caelians will teach you, Saelâka varin. We love you.â
The screen freezes, then dissolves.
You donât even realize you started crying. Where did that message come from? Why is it playing in Clarkâs fortress? Your mind spins, unable to process anything.
âIf you are watching this means that is so.âÂ
Did that mean Krypton was actually destroyed? No, that couldnât be. Your pod was set to return there after Caelis was destroyed. Clark was trying to help you go back there. He would know if the planet still existed or not. He wouldâve told you long ago. Wouldnât he?
Your mark burns suddenly at the thought of Clark, causing you to reach up and rub it.Â
The robots speak up again, âThe pod is fully repaired and recalibrated. All systems are optimal. She could depart within the hour.â
âAnd yet, Superman still delays. He requests âmore time.â Superman has not told the female that Krypton is destroyed. He has not told her there is no home to return to.â
The world tilts on its axis. The ice of the fortress seeps into your bones, colder than the void of space.
Krypton really is gone. The robots confirmed it themselves.Â
Theyâre all gone.
You feel sick, bile threatening to rise up your throat. Yet that wasnât even the worst part. The worst part was that Clark knew this all along.
He knew.
He knew.
A sound, a choked gasp, escapes you. Both robots whirl around, their sensors glowing brightly.
âIntruderâ Guest identified as Clarkâs female kryptonian,â one states, gliding forward. âWe were not aware of your arrival.â
You step out from behind the pillar, your legs trembling. âWhat,â you say, your voice a hollow rasp. âWhat did you say? Just now?â
The robots exchange a look, a silent communication. âWe are not authorized to disclose you with any information that is not regarding your pod,â it says carefully.
âTell me everything.â Your eyes glowed red with heat vision, threatening to burn this entire place down. âNow.â
They seem to get the hint.
In cold, precise detail, they confirm it. They confirm everything. Kryptonâs explosion. Your parentâs recording plug that Clark took from your pod. All the lies Clark told you since that day.
Clark.Â
Your Clark, who welcomed you, taught you, loved you⊠and lied to you. Every day. With every smile, every touch, every promise to help you return âhome.â
Home to a place that could never exist.
The pain is extreme, collapsing your chest into a black hole. You feel adrift all over again, but this time, there is no Clark to anchor you.Â
He is the storm.
Numb, you hear yourself ask one question. âThe mark on my collarbone. The one from him. Do you know why it hasnât healed?â
The robots scan you. A beam of light passes over the mark. Their optic sensors dim slightly.Â
âThe mark bears traces of concentrated bioactive enzymes and pheromones unique to Superman. It is not a simple injury. It is a⊠bonding mark. A physiological imprint, triggered during procreative-level intimacy under a yellow sun. It signifies a deep, biologically recognized pair-bond. For Kryptonians, such marks are rare and permanent. A claim.â
A claim. A permanent brand on your skin.Â
The words echo in the hollowed-out cavern of your mind. He didnât just lie. Clark claimed you. He anchored you to him and to this Earth with a bond you didnât understand, while knowing he was never sending you away.
You thank the robots, and then you are gone. The flight back to Metropolis was fast and cold.
Your mind raced incessantly. The needy clinginess youâd felt now makes horrific, perfect sense.Â
You beat him back to the apartment. You stand in the middle of the living room pacing. The place that had come to feel like home on Earth, now feels like a beautifully constructed prison.Â
You wait for him to come back. You will confront him and he will listen and thenâthen you did not know.
Leave? That part was still to be determined.
After what seems like forever, you hear him entering the building, taking the elevator, walking the steps to the door. The key turns. The door opens. He walks in, smiling, a bag of groceries in his arm.Â
âHey, sweetheart, I gotââ
He stops when he sees your face. The smile dies. Concern etches across his features.
âIs everything okay? Whatâs wrong?â
âYou knew.âÂ
Clarkâs heart drops all the way to the ground. The door shuts behind him with a hollow thud. He sucks in a sharp breath.
Did you know? How did you find out? Gosh, he's not ready for this to happen right now. Not yet. He still had a few more days.
Maybe this was something else, something completely different. Maybe it wasn't that. But one look at your pointed glare, crossed arms, and rapidly beating heart, confirmed it. You were angry. Which only meant one thing.
âKnew what?â Â
âDo not play dumb.â
âSweetheart Iââ
âYou knew this whole time that Krypton does not exist,â You say, your voice shaking. âThat itâs gone. That my parents are dead.â
He pales, the bag of groceries slipping from his grasp, fruit rolling across the floor. âWho told you that?â he steps forward.
âI heard your robots,â you spit out. âAt the Fortress. Playing the recording of my parents. The one that you stole and kept from me. And they were talking about the destruction. Your robots were talking about how you havenât told me.â You take a step closer to him, the movement jerky.Â
âYou lied. This whole time, you lied to me. Every time you say âyouâll helpâ or âsoonâ ⊠it was all a lie!â
âI was trying to protect you! You were so lost and scared when you first got here⊠I wanted to give you time to heal, to find your feet here, before burdening you with that kind of pain!â
Your hands shake violently. Tears spill, hot and uncontrollable.
âMy pain?â you scream,. âYou donât get to decide what I can handle! You donât get to hide my own history from me! My family! My planet! You let me dream of a home thatâs been dust for decades! You let me talk about visiting my parents, even your parents, while you knew they were ashes!â
âI never meant to hurt you.â
âYou did hurt me. This whole time youâve been hurting me.â
Tears are streaming down your face now. Short shallow gasps escape you as you hyperventilate.
âAâand then you touch me, and kiss me, and IâI give you lira. You are a monster, Clark. I hate you.â
He reaches for you. âPlease, just let me explainââ
You slap his hand away, the contact feeling like a burn. âAnd this!â you shout, yanking the collar of your shirt down to expose the vivid mark.Â
âYou marked me! Your robots told me what it is. A Kryptonian bonding mark. Permanent. Did you know? Did you know when you were doing it that you were branding me? That I would carry this forever, while you were âplanningâ to send me back to a dead planet?â
The look on his face is your answer.
He didnât know. Not consciously. But that somehow makes it worse. It means his very biology, his deepest, most primal self, claimed you while his conscious mind was deceiving you. Deception.
âI⊠I didnât⊠Iâve neverâŠâ Clark stammers, utterly shattered.Â
âI donât care!â you shout. âI will always be yours? Well, I do not want to be! I want nothing to do with you! Nothing to do with your lies, or your pity, or your claim, or this Earth!â
You push past him, heading for the door.
âSweetheart, wait! Where are you going? Please, donât go!â Heâs begging now, tears in his own eyes.
âAway from you,â you say, the words final and cold. You wrench the door open.
âI love you!â he cries out, the words a desperate, last attempt to try and explain himself.
You pause on the threshold, your back to him.
âThen why? Why did you do this to me? Why didnât you treat me like someone you loved,â you ask softly, drained from yelling. âWhy didn't you tell me?â
âIâI donât know. I tried. I really did, you have to believe me. It was just so hard once weââ
âClark.â
You stop him before he can continue. Hearing his explanations would only make it worse right now. Nothing he could say would justify this anyways.
âAs much as you may like to treat me like one, I am not a child who needs to be protected from the truth.â
And with that final statement. You walk out, slamming the door behind you. The click of the latch is the loudest sound youâve ever heard.
You donât get far.
You make it to the stairwell, your legs trembling violently causing you to grip the cold metal railing. You sink onto the concrete steps, the fight draining out of you, leaving only a hollow, echoing agony.
You can hear him inside. Not with your enhanced hearing, you arenât focusing that well, but because he isnât being quiet. Clark tries and fails to hold off choked-up sobs that carry through the door.
You should leave.Â
You should run as far and as fast as you can. But you have no idea where to go. So you walk aimlessly a while. You sit on a park bench until the sky turns purple, then black.Â
Eventually, you check into a motel on the edge of the city with the little cash Clark had given you for emergencies. The room is cold, the bed hard. The mark on your collarbone throbs with a dull, persistent ache.
It almost feels like a torture device.Â
Every cell in your body screams to go back, to find him, to bury yourself in his scent and his warmth and kiss and makeup. The bond, now that you know what it is, feels like a leash, yanking mercilessly on your heart. You fight it.Â
You curl into a ball on the scratchy motel blanket, sobbing until youâre empty. You think of your parentsâ faces, their love, their sacrifice. You think of Clarkâs face, his lies.
You can't help but cry.
You cry for Caelis, the only planet youâve ever really known, destroyed. You cry for Krypton, your true home that you never got the chance to know. Also destroyed. You even cry for Earth, the planet that you were starting to love because of Clark. Completely destroyed.
The pain is all-consuming.Â
But worse than the pain is the need. The restless, anxious, clawing need that only he can soothe. Itâs an awful withdrawal, agonizing and relentless.
You donât sleep. You donât eat. You just hurt, inside and out, torn between a betrayal that shattered your world and a bond that insists Clark is your world.
You last two days like this.Â
As the third night approaches, you canât bear it anymore. The motel room walls are closing in. The silence is screaming. The mark is burning.
Thereâs only one thing you can do.
You find yourself standing outside the familiar apartment door again. Itâs late. You raise a trembling hand, then drop it again. You donât knock. You just stand there, defeated, your forehead resting against the cool wood.Â
You donât know how long youâre there before the door opens inward.
You step back to take in Clarkâs appearance, which is albeit not much better than yours.Â
Shadows like bruises have formed under his red-rimmed eyes, hair completely disheveled, and he is still in the same clothes from that day. He hasnât slept either. Heâs been waiting. Hoping.Â
Clark looks at you, his breath catching. He opens his mouth, unable to muster anything but a pathetic, âHi.â
"Can I come in?"
âââââââ
author's note: i'm dead guys everything i touch turns to angst, this was NOT a sad request lmaoo. anywho, its canon that reader doesn't know curse words yet because clark hasn't taught her. also hella buzzcut season vibes.
as always, my requests are open and check out my masterlist for more of my works!! much love <33
things my chronically offline bf does â Clark Kent
summary: clark kent thinks tiktok means the passing of time, you're a (wannabe) influencer. what could possibly happen? answer includes but isn't limited to thirst traps, using your hot bsf to go viral, online anonymous confessions, and one really old cat named bean.
word count: 15k (insane, ik)
content warning: heavy rom-com vibes, heavy on the comedy and ridiculous. heteroerotic friendship, domestic clark & reader (they see each other naked and sleep together & so much more, they're literally disgusting), size difference, reader is a (non famous) influencer but she goes viral thanks to clark not knowing what slay means, clark and reader have no notion of privacy or boundaries around each other, they're also so stupid. heavy fluff, everything is sweet and nothing hurts. an embarrassing amount of slang and memes and tiktok mention (i apologize). this is seriously just crack. oh ALSO protective clark oh em gee i swooned writing that part. lois and jimmy act like creepy twins /aff
notes: this got out of hands, guys. ty for 1k<3 i hope you enjoy! apologies for the slightly rushed ending, i was growing tired with this behemoth of a fic
Itâs common knowledge that Clark Kent and technology do not mesh well. He writes all of his drafts on paper. He takes notes on his legal pad with a pencil that he keeps losing, and he uses a cassette recorder for interviews, and he uses an actual camera for pictures. He has a phone, he has a laptop, he justâ doesnât really use them. He doesnât know how to and doesnât need to know more than is absolutely necessary (as in how to send emails, how to use Google and how to type his final drafts for proofing).
So anything beyond that, and heâs completely out of his depth. Put him in a complete alien civilization light years away from Earth and he would still be more at ease than if youâd asked him to make a TikTok video and, God forbid, post it.Â
So really, it only made sense that his best friend was an influencer. You werenât exactly popular, and you didnât do it for fame, you just enjoyed sharing your life with the people who stick around. You were a wizard with your phone and could turn any moment into something cinematic.Â
The two of you were polar opposites. He was the moon, pulled into orbit around you, and it made sense he felt so good whenever he was with you. You were the sun.Â
He was happy to tag along with you to any of your adventures. Trying out a new restaurant, a new club, vlogging a last-minute trip, trying out PR packages you get.Â
Youâd always been the life of the friendship, and Clark was never afraid of being in your shadow. In fact, he reveled in it. He liked being invisible to others around you, as long as he was seen by you. It was more than finding a distraction so people didnât look at him for too long and start getting suspicious; it definitely helped, for sure, but it was never what made him want you as his best friend. He couldnât help it. After all, he was a sunflower. And you were the sun.Â
Sometimes his colleagues at The Daily Planet didnât believe him when he talked about you to them, and gave them your username. It didnât help that he didnât have any social media so he couldnât show them that you followed him back. Clark didnât really care whether they believed him or not.Â
âItâs not because she has less than a thousand followers doesnât mean your lie would be more convincing,â Jimmy said with the sageness of a monk. âSheâs too pretty for you.â Then, as an afterthought, he added: âNo offence, Clark.â
Clark shrugged. âNone taken. I know sheâs pretty.â
Lois hit Jimmy on the shoulder. âEve is too pretty for you too but you donât see me insulting you.â
Clark frowned. âGuys, sheâs my best friend, not my girlfriend.â
Jimmy looked at him with pity in his eyes. âLying about having a best friend is so sad⊠I didnât know you were so lonely, Clark. Iâve been failing as a friend.â
Clark just rolled his eyes but didnât try to convince him, since he didnât seem like he wanted to be convinced.Â
âShe would love to meet you one day,â Clark added before forgetting. He kept forgetting to. Or maybe, he just wanted to have you all to himself. Heâll never tell.Â
Jimmy looked at him suspiciously. âIs she just going to be a printed picture of her Instagram feed on a doll?â
Lois and Clark both ignored him.Â
âIf sheâs your best friend, she must be a really good person, then. I would love to meet her,â Lois said, before pressing on the follow button. Ding! âOh. She followed me back already.â
âShe knows about you,â Clark said. âShe must have recognized you.â
âThat was quick,â Lois noticed.Â
âYeah,â Clark replied. âShe says sheâs terminally sick online or something. I never understand her when she says those Internet words.â
Jimmyâs jaw dropped. âHe wasnât lyingâŠâ he whispered to himself, mind blown. Which, honestly, he should have seen it coming. Clark was the most honest person heâd ever met. He was incapable of lying to save a life. Jimmy pressed the follow button on his phone too, as if some part of him still wasnât convinced, and watched with quiet horror as a follow back notification popped. And he couldnât justify it as you just following back everyone, because you only followed cat and food accounts.
Clark just thought Jimmy was being his weird self again and didnât pay it too much attention. Honestly, he just took it as a compliment to you, which made him happy. He always felt proud and happy whenever people complimented you, as if he was an extension of you.Â
âGreat, I will call you for the details. Sheâs gonna love preparing something for the four of us. Sheâs such a good event planner.â
Of course Clark didnât text. Not that he didnât want to, it was just that even the biggest phone he could get was still too tiny for his hands and it made typing a pain in the butt.Â
âCool, canât wait,â Lois said. Jimmy was just staring in the horizon.Â
Clark smiled. He was happy all of his favorite people were going to meet.Â
You were waiting for Clark at the Daily Planetâs lobby. You were taking pictures of the regular cat that became an honorary reporter at the office, more exactly.Â
âHi Clark,â you brightened when you saw him.Â
âHey you,â Clark replied, fondness dripping from his voice until it was sticky and sweet. âHow was your day?â
âIt was okay, I found this new spot we absolutely have to try together,â you replied, getting on your tiptoes despite your heels to press your lips to the edge of his mouth. Clark smiled instantly, like a switch was flipped. Â
Some people would say you were too obsessed with image and social media, but Clark knew you better than anyone else. Even if you werenât an influencer, even if social media and the internet didnât exist, you would still be the same. You would still take pictures of your day, share your meals with Clark in a spot you really liked, and you would still take video diaries.Â
âI canât wait,â Clark replied. âOh by the way, Jimmy and Lois said yes.â
With his superhearing, he heard Jimmy gasp from somewhere behind. âSheâs really real. Wait, I thought he said she was his best friend? Why are they kissing?â Then the unmistakable sound of Lois slapping his shoulder.Â
He tuned it all out. He would get over his weird crisis later.Â
You grabbed his hand and dragged him away.Â
âOh, yeah, I saw they followed me both. I figured you talked to them.â
Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his.Â
âWhat did they think?â you asked curiously.Â
âLois said you must be a good person if youâre my best friend. Jimmy⊠well, I think he really liked you. He said you were way too pretty for me, whatever that means,â Clark replied earnestly.Â
âHeâs an idiot,â you replied. âIâm not too anything for you. Iâm just right for you.â
Clark nodded. âExactly. Perfect for me.â
Clark often offered to learn about internet and what you do, but you just replied, âno itâs fine, donât worry about it <3â (you made the heart with your hands).Â
You appreciated his offer, but you knew how all of this made his head turn and how hopeless he was with everything that was even remotely tech-related (donât even get her started on microwaves and Clark). And quite frankly, you found him cute just the way he was. Like an overgrown, oversized, oblivious but eager puppy.Â
âYouâre sleeping over tonight, right?âÂ
You were asking as if it was a planned event, when in fact Clark wasnât aware of this until right then and there. But Clark was nothing if not adaptable (he did get adapted to an entirely new and foreign planet when he was just a baby), and nothing if not used to you, so he took it in stride and nodded.Â
âMhm,â he replied. âIâll even make dinner if you want.â
âDeal.â
Walking to your place hand in hand had become routine early on in your friendship and one of the few things Clark would never bring himself to sacrifice. It was home away from home.Â
âIâm going to the gym tomorrow, youâre coming with me.â
âOkay.â
âGreat.â
Clark, being who he is, didnât need a gym, or at least not one fit for humans, but you asked, so he obeyed.Â
âWhat time?â
âSix am.â
That meant you were trying again to renew yourself and to adopt better habits and hobbies. It was something you routinely went through almost every six months. First when itâs the new year, second when itâs June, when you realized youâd been slacking off and not following your new year resolutions, and Clark became your accountability partner.
That title sounded big and full of responsibilities, but Clark didnât really do anything, really â except show up wherever you went and gently reminded you of your commitments. When it was something really important, like taking your meds, he pressed but other than that, he let you flit through life like the butterfly you were meant to be.Â
Clark was awake before you, unsurprised to find you pressed against his body, sleeping deeply while holding him like you were scared he was going to flee. Well, considering he was Superman, he guessed you werenât far off the mark.Â
With his free hand, he grabbed your phone to check the time since the arm he wears his watch on was currently being repurposed as a body pillow and his heart felt heavy at the thought of disturbing your sleep.Â
5.15AM. He woke up early, but not too early. Just in time to wake you up so you could enjoy your âfree time with Clark. Thatâs what you called cuddling up with him and talking about your dreams before you both had to leave the bed.Â
âPsst,â he whispered against the crown of your head. âMorning, sleepyhead.â
âNo,â you grumbled.Â
He chuckled softly. âWhat about your free time with me?â
âMhmhmhmmmâŠâ you mumbled before shifting position until you were actually cuddling him. ââm awake,â you said.Â
He didnât doubt you. He just thinks that youâre also asleep at the same time.Â
The both of you stayed like this for half an hour, Clark rubbing his thumb mindlessly on your arm, a quiet and gentle smile on his face while he listened to you ramble about your dream.
âYou dreamt I was Batman?â he asked incredulously, swallowing back the laughter that overcame him. âSweetheart, Iâm literally already my own superhero, why would you dream of me as someone else?â
âI donât know, Clark,â you replied and he didnât need to look at your face to know you were rolling your eyes. âI didnât do anything. I was quite literally just a spectator. Donât shoot the messenger and all that.â
âYouâre right. How could I forget you were literally incapable of wrong doing?â
âMhm,â you hummed. âBetter not forget next time.â
You fell back to sleep at six am on the dot. Clark tried to wake you up and remind you of your plans but you declined all attempts with the smooth dexterity of a politician deflecting questions.Â
âSleeping with you is its own workout anyway,â he muttered to himself.Â
Clark quickly left you when he heard someone call for Superman but he came back before you woke up, which didnât actually say anything about how long he took, since your sleep schedule was as predictable as a string of letters typed by a thousand monkeys on a typewriter.Â
He was under the shower when you finally woke up and barged in through the bathroom without a care in the world.Â
âIâm sleepy,â you tell him while peeing.Â
âHi sleepy, Iâm Clark,â Clark replied while showering.Â
You chucked the entire roll of TP at him and Clark didnât even try to avoid it, even though he definitely could have. (You loved Clark dearly, but his dad jokes when you just woke up were unforgivable.)
Morning you was the best kind of you, and it was nice to know that your grumpiness didnât do anything to erase your lack of privacy, because invasive you was also the best kind of you.
Itâs not like thereâs anything you didnât already see.Â
(To be fair though, you didnât just start barging in on him when he was naked without a care for his consent, it just⊠happened.Â
First it started with you walking in on him changing boxers, dick and everything out. Then it was him accidentally walking on you under the shower (honestly, how he didnât realize you were under there with all of his gazillion superpowers was beyond the two of you). And then again, you walk in on him because you keep forgetting that Clarkâs at your place more often than not, and then after that Clark accidentally used his super vision on you because he thought you were injured.
 So you sat him down one day and asked if he minded whenever either of you accidentally sees the other naked and he replied ânoâ, so you asked, âwould you mind if it wasnât accidental? Not exactly on purpose but just⊠not caring at all?â and he said ânoâ, and you said âokay, by the way you have a big shlongâ and thatâs basically how it started (after teaching Clark what shlong meant.
Clark only regrets his decision when itâs early in the morning and his hormones are raging and youâre changing in front of him like no oneâs watching.)
He was out of the shower by the time you were brushing your teeth.Â
âYouâre not vlogging this morning?â he asked, feeling that same rush of pride he felt whenever he used one of the words you taught him, towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and curled and doing all kinds of swoopy woopy things. His chest was glistening and dripping with water.Â
âI wanted to but I also didnât want you to steal my thunder with your naked cameo,â you replied with a floss string between your two front teeth. âAlthough you would have definitely made me go viral.â
âAh, my bad,â he replied humorously. âIâll try to be less⊠hot under the shower next time.â
You threw the used floss in the bin. âI donât think thatâs possible, unfortunately.â
Clark blushed and the redness followed him right to his neck and collarbones.Â
You grinned toothily at him so he could inspect your teeth. He grabbed your chin between his index and thumb, and used his thumb to push your lower lip lower. âMhmâŠâ he hums thoughtfully. âPerfectly flossed. You get a star. Doctors from around the world want you as their client.â
âYay! Thanks, Clark!â
His lips broke into a happy grin. âYouâre welcome. You know, itâs not too late to go to the gym now.â
âI was hoping you wouldnât say that,â you said. âMy past self was crazy. I donât associate with the likes of her anymore.â
âI see, your past self is being cancelled. Right?â
You burst out laughing before petting the top of his head. âGod, I love you Clark. Never change.â
You ended up going to the gym anyway, dressed in your âcuntiestâ outfits to âserveâ (to serve what? Clark thought you quit being a server a year ago), but all you did was point at things and ask Clark if he could max them all out. Of course he could, and you knew he could, but you asked for a demonstration anyway.Â
Then, because seeing him succeed flawlessly at every machine (and after attracting every âgym broâ in the vicinity who started asking Clark about powders and training regimen and whatnot, and lowkey looked impressed when Clark replied earnestly to the question of how he became so strong with âBy being kind and respectful to everyoneâ), you decided he now had to do pushups with you sitting crisscross applesauce on top of him.Â
âBut why?â
âIâve always wanted to know what it felt like to be a barbell,â you replied.Â
âI think you mean plate, sweetheart.â
âSame difference,â you replied. And of course, Clark was totally convinced.Â
âDo you mind if I take pictures?â you asked him once you were sitting on him and he was laying on the floor, shirt off.Â
âYou know I donât,â he replied. He didnât need to remind you not to post his face anywhere because he trusted you implicitly.Â
And then he started the pushups with complete ease, because there was no better way for him to spend his day-offs than to go to the gym with your best friend and use her as additional weight.Â
You took plenty of pictures; some you called aesthetically pleasing and âwould do well in tumblrâ, others you said were just silly and for fun.
You showed him the pictures while still on his back, your arms on each side of his neck as you scrolled through the pictures for him while he stayed in an isotonic contraction (his muscles didnât even flail, and it took you almost fifteen minutes to show him everything because you annotated each one.)
âI really like this one,â Clark said, lifting a hand from the floor to point at a picture, still lifting your weight with only one arm.Â
The picture he picked was one where he looked at the mirror in front of you, and he was obviously looking at you, while you were making a silly face that wasnât really silly, because it made you look devastatingly pretty. You were also flexing your left arm, winking and tugging your tongue at the camera.Â
âSolid choice,â you replied, tapping something on the screen. âDefinitely one of my favorites too.â
He smiled happily, and then remembered they were in public and he shouldnât be showing off his strength so much, as much as he wanted to impress you.Â
So, he pretended to have his muscles locking and asked you to get off, in case anyone was watching. You were always up for a bit of acting with him. You said it made you feel like the sidekick of a hot spy in a film noir.
Clark hung in the side while you took a video of yourself rambling to the camera â he was tall enough that he didnât worry about his face being caught on camera, but the camera could still pick up your interlaced hands from the angle you held the camera. People would only be able to see his arm swinging and the beginning of his legs.Â
You were talking about going to the gym and how you earned a big meal after it (though if you asked Clark, he would say you should never feel like you have to earn a meal, and that you could eat anything anytime you wanted if it made you happy).Â
You set up the phone against the wall so it could take a video of you and the table. Clark was sat across from you, and again, wasnât visible at all. Not even your face fully showed. Just the bottom half of your face. Your hands did most of the talking as you animated your stories with a floating burger.Â
The camera captured Clarkâs hand across the table, wiping the side of your mouth with a thumb, and your pleased, bashful smile after.Â
It captured you stealing fries from Clarkâs plate, and then Clark sharing half of his fries with you.Â
It captured your laughter, and then your lips as they moved to form the words: I love you, Clark.
(When you finally uploaded the video to YouTube a while later, people commented:Â
âam I the only one who felt like a third wheel throughout the video? I loved it though. Always wanted to be the third to a hot coupleâ
âGod I see the things you do for othersâ
âGuys ik she said he was just her best friend but Iâm seriously having doubts rn. Maybe she meant it as in best boyfriend?â
âYouâre so pretty!!!!!! And your bf looks so hot too. Definitely my fav power couple of youtubeâ
Which then pushed your videos to more people.
You read all of the comments to Clark while he was writing down notes for his next article. His thoughts? âI think they really liked the video. Iâm happy for you, sweetheart.â)
You picked a nice coffee shop downtown for your first meeting with Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy couldnât look you in the eyes in shame.Â
âIâm so sorry I doubted Clarkâs ability to have pretty friends,â he said, before getting elbowed by Lois in the ribs.Â
âExcuse my friend. Heâs a dumbass.â
You took it in stride. You loved them and they loved you. Jimmy helped you take the perfect pictures for your picture dump, Lois and you talked about fashion, and Clark was happy to just step back and watch as three of his five favorite people get along so well.Â
âHow did you guys meet?â Lois asked curiously. Sheâd been eyeing the way you were both sitting so close to each other it bordered on lap sitting.Â
âHe mistook me for a scarecrow,â you replied.Â
âWe were childhood friends.â
âClark I love you, but for a journalist youâre really bad at hooking people in,â Lois said. âAs for your best friend, she was clearly made to hook people in.â
Clark was too happy to even feel offended, and just let you tell the story. The insult flew right over his head.Â
It wasnât anything grand. Clark was in the fields with his parents when he noticed a figure almost his height in the distance, and ran towards it. It was you, standing still with your arms outstretched.Â
He ran back to his parents and asked if they put a new scarecrow in the fields that looked like a little girl.Â
Jo and Ma looked at each other concerned before setting off to find this little scarecrow girl.Â
And the rest was history.Â
âI still donât know what you were doing,â Clark confessed at the end of your story. âYou wonât tell me.â
You shrugged. âBecause I am aloof and mysterious.â
âThis raised more questions than it answered,â Jimmy said with a faraway look on his face.Â
âGood,â you and Clark said at the same time.Â
âYour friends are really nice. Maybe I should become a journalist too and then become your colleague. That would be so much fun,â you told him after quitting Jimmy and Lois. âWhat do you think?â You took a sip of your Oreo milkshake you got for take-out.
Clark smiled. âI think you just canât get enough of me,â he said.
You squeezed his hand. âYeah, youâre right. I wonât even try to lie.â
He laughed.Â
He had never realized how his friendship with you could be seen as strange until you were both in college and everyone on campus the two of you were dating. It was common knowledge around all of the campus that you and Clark were the it couple. Even in high school, youâd been both voted prom queen and king, even though you both didnât even know you were participating. Clark didnât regret it though, because he got to wear a crown alongside with you and dance. It was one of his fondest memories with you.Â
âFriends donât act like that,â people would say. No one would ever be able to understand the bond you two have, so he doesnât bother replying or trying to explain. Besides, what you have between the two of you was special, and he wanted to keep it that way.Â
But Clark supposed there was some part of truth to that. Lois and Jimmy were his best friends too, but he would never cuddle in a bed with them, as much as he loved them. He also wouldnât even dream of letting them peck him on the lips, or, God forbid, walk in on him under the shower.Â
If this friendship was considered weird, then he was happy to be weird with you. Besides, nothing he could ever do would be weirder than being an actual alien pretending to be human. Or stumbling through your window into your apartment, jaw dislocated and nose bleeding.
âClark? Is that you?â you called out from the kitchen.
He closed his eyes. Coming here was a bad idea, because he hated the thought of worrying you, but there was also nowhere else in the world he would rather be. âYeah,â he replied, voice distorted because of his jaw. He heard you close the lid on a sauce pan and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel before hearing the soft pads of your feet walking into the living room.
âHey, what did I say about tracking blood and mud in my apartment?â
Your words sounded mad but your voice betrayed your worry. You dropped the kitchen towel and reached him in quick strides. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, and you fell on your knees, hands hovering over his jaw, unsure whether you could touch him in this state.Â
âSorry,â Clark replied. âWill remember for next time.â
âThere wonât be a next time because youâre going to stop letting bad guys hit you, okay?â
He laughed, even if it hurt to. Of course you said it as if it was that easy. It wasnât, but Clark would make it so.Â
âStop laughing at me,â you chided, even as you inspected his nose. âIt doesnât look broken, so thatâs good.â
âIt healed on the way here. Perks of being Superman.â
âStop acting like nothingâs wrong or Iâll break your nose myself, and Iâll make sure your healing factor is too busy to handle your nose first.â
âWow,â he said. âSuch violence coming from such a tiny little human.â
You grabbed his jaw without a warning and snapped it back into place.Â
âGolly, woman! Warn a guy first, will you?â he yelped indignifyingly, rubbing his smarting jaw, before moving it left and right to make sure it was still working. He didnât need to worry because you were a professional by now, ever since you were both fourteen and you started playing nurse for a Clark who was discovering his powers and trying each day a new way to test his abilities.
âIf I warned you, you would never be ready,â you replied, and Clark smiled sheepishly at that. You were right. Despite him being the strongest human on Earth, his pain tolerance was subpar, and he always chickened out before anything like that. Usually, you would at least fake a countdown. âAnd besides, thatâs what you get for making fun of me.â
He pouted. âIâm sorry baby,â he said, batting his eyelashes at you.Â
âUgh! This is so unfair,â you groaned, before bending at his height and pressing your lips against his pout in a quick peck. âI hate you.â
âI love you too,â Clark replied, not in the least bit remorseful for guilt-tripping you, basking in the bliss of the feeling of your lips against his, as fleeting as it was.Â
You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.
âOw, ow, ow!â
âDonât even try to talk to me for the next five minutes. Iâll be too busy hating you.â
He was behind you before the five minutes even were up, wrapping his arms around your waist, still pouting. âWhy are you so mean to me?â he asked, cheek pressed against the top of your head. He was still in his dirty Superman suit; he hadnât even taken off his boots yet.Â
You were trying really hard to ignore him. It was funny, and Clark couldnât keep up the wounded act any longer. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed mirth.Â
âMessage received, baby. Iâll let you be for five minutes. In fact, Iâll let you be for thirty minutes.â
He used that time to clean up the mess heâd left behind (superheroing wasnât a clean job) and finally take a shower. He tried not to notice how you kept pretending you forgot something in the bathroom while he was showering. First, it was your glasses, which you hadnât even found, then you had to check a pimple on your face, and then it was your makeup, which you needed to retouch.Â
âYou know,â he said, voice barely heard over the sound of the stream of water. âIâm starting to think youâre just finding any excuses to come check on me.â
You shot him a dark look. âYou said you werenât going to bother me for thirty minutes.â
âIâm not bothering you, but you are bothering me.â
He realized his mistake before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You gasped.
âSee if I ever bother you again,â you said, turning on your heels.
Clark groaned, before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips and chased after you, dripping water everywhere but unable to care because he just wanted to catch before you locked yourself in your room (and coincidentally blocking him from getting his clothes) and started listening to heartbreak songs at full volume.Â
âNooo,â he whined, âyou know I love it when you bother me! Please donât ever stop!â
âNuh uh,â you replied, escaping his hand narrowly.
âOh come on, are you really going to sulk at me for that? And why were you so mean to me anyway? Ever since I got here, you were being grumpy, which, donât get me wrong, I love it, but I donât understand why, did I do something wrong?â
âOh I donât know, maybe itâs the fact that you were injured again as Superman, you donât take it seriously when Iâm worried, you make fun of me when I tell you to be more careful, and you tracked blood everywhere! You know I hate blood! Stupid blood! And your blood isnât even normal, itâs alien blood!â
You still didnât stop walking but now the two of you were walking in circles until you were the one chasing him now. It was a ridiculous sight, but it wasnât an unusual occurrence at your household.Â
âWait, what do you mean by alien blood?â
âYour blood doesnât come off easily, you know that! Remember when I was trying to scrub your blood out of the rug and I kept mixing any chemicals I could find and accidentally made chloroform?â
Clark felt silly for entertaining for even one second the terrifying thought that you thought of him differently, and his shoulders dropped. He stopped walking. And he did remember that time. Of course he did. Heâd been sick with worry his muscles had locked in place for a few seconds before he finally spurred into action and got you to a safe place with fresh air and threw away everything else before it did more damage.Â
Heâd made you sleep over at his place for a week to make sure the smell had completely left the apartment.Â
âBaby, Iâm sorry, I know you hate blood, but I really wasnât thinking straight, and I just wanted to see you, and it made everything else disappear. Itâs not an excuse however, and I apologize for it. And Iâm also sorry for not taking you seriously when youâre worried about me, itâs just⊠Iâm not laughing at you, itâs just⊠itâs really sweet how youâre always so worried about me, and you always get so endearing when you lecture me, I just canât help myself.â
You sniffed. âOkay, fine. I forgive you. And Iâm sorry for being so mean to you today. Itâs not really because of you. Iâm just so irritated these days and lashing out makes me feel better, even though I shouldnât.âÂ
Clarkâs heart instantly broke at your small voice, and gathered you in his arms. âNo need to apologize, sweetheart. I gave you a good reason to get annoyed at me, it was my fault.â
âItâs always your fault,â you mumbled, voice muffled by his chest.Â
He snorted through his nose, unable to help himself. âYes, baby. Itâs always my fault, and Iâm sorry.â
âMhm, and youâre taking me out tonight.â
âOkay, baby. Anything you want.â
There was a comfortable silence before you said, âI think your towel just fell.â
Clark couldnât look at you for the rest of the day without going as red as his cape in the face and you laughing at him every single time.Â
âIt was time it happened, you know? Itâs just the natural course of events.â
You pretended it was fine, but Clark could tell you were embarrassed a little too and that knowledge comforted him a little.Â
You were laughing at him again. Because he just took out his pocket notebook from his backpocket so he could make a note out of something he wanted to look up later. And he had a tiny pencil that came with it.
âYouâre soââ you shook your head.
âAn old soul?â Clark offered helpfully as he closed his notebook and slid it back in his pocket.Â
âChronically offline, I was going to say, and itâs crazy how even your words reflect how chronically offline you are.â
Clark smiled. He liked it when you teased him, because it meant you liked him, even if he had ten billion other proofs that you liked him.Â
âIâm going to say words and youâre going to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?â
âLetâs do it.â
He moved his upper body so that he could fully face you, giving you all of his attention.
âServe.â
âTennis.â
âEat.â
âFood.â
âSlay.â
âDragons.â
âFlop.â
âFlip flop.â
âTik Tok.â
âClock.âÂ
Your face got progressively red as you tried not to burst out laughing.Â
âDo you know what rizz means?â
âUh⊠not really, but I remember Lois telling Jimmy she didnât understand how he got so much rizz. Is it⊠freckles? He has a lot of freckles.â
You broke into laughter. âOh youâre so cute, Clark. I just want to eat you up. In a soup. Like wonton soup but itâs Clark soup.â
âThank⊠you?âÂ
âYouâre welcome, babe.â
Clark Kent was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, respectful young man. Itâs a truth universally acknowledged. Despite his stature and his size, no one had ever seen him use it in a way to cause harm rather than help. Sure, theyâd seen him climb on top of a tree to save a kitten, help lift things from one floor to another, but theyâd never seen him use that strength against someone else.Â
And no one ever will. Not even you. Clark takes great mesures to make sure that it stays that way. Heâll do anything to protect you from anything that could upset you and if itâs truly important, he wonât tell you about it. Why would he ruin your day when he was perfectly capable of handling everything? He was happy to handle everything else while you were busy enjoying yourself, like now.
You werenât even drunk â you hated alcohol and besides, Clark couldnât get drunk either so it wouldnât be fun for him to be the only one sober â but you were feeling the music, and talking to someone, looking gorgeous and in your element in your dress. You looked stunning. Not just because your dress was pretty â though it was â but because you were radiating with joy. You loved going out and having fun and dancing to a music that reverberated deep in your ribcage.Â
âHi Clark!â you screamed over the music, even if he could have easily heard you mumble it ten feet away in the middle of fireworks. âYou having fun?â
âI am,â he called back.
You grabbed him by his hands and tugged him against you. âCome on, letâs dance.â
âOh, no, you know I donât do any of that.â
You snorted. âIf itâs just because youâre embarrassed of your dance moves, I wonât judge, I promise. Iâve already seen them all anyway.â
âItâs not thatâŠâ he countered weakly. It was exactly that. His gracefulness as Superman unfortunately did not translate to when he was Clark Kent, and coupled with his height and size, he was an actual public hazard. He didnât want to accidentally bump into someone or, God forbid, step on your feet. He knew you wouldnât care, but he did, and it made him feel bad.Â
You huffed. âFine. Iâm gonna go dance with that hot guy over there, then. Heâs been trying to talk to me for like an hour but since I thought you were going to dance with me⊠anyway, itâs his lucky day, bye Clarkie,â you said, before sauntering over to the guy who, Clark had to admit, was attractive.Â
He watched you talk with him with an unnamed feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he forced himself to take a sip of his water. Maybe he should have gone with you.Â
But then you were back already, not even ten minutes later. You said you just didnât âvibeâ with him, but Clark suspected it was because you missed him.
âLetâs go home,â he whispered against the crown of your head. âI was getting tired anyway.â
âBollocks,â you replied in a fake posh accent. âYou never get tired.â
He hummed. âTrue. I just wanted to go home with you.â
âThen letâs go home.â
The streets of Metropolis were half-lit. It was a Friday night in the summer so everyone was still out, despite the late hour. He had your hand in his and you were skipping on the pavement, heels clicking, arm swinging.Â
He loved you best when you were like this. Happy and blissful and totally unaware of the rest of the world, because you trusted him to have your back, even if you werenât entirely aware of the many ways heâs had your back.
âI hate the subway,â you muttered, scanning your metro card against the reader.Â
âWell, you refuse to fly you home, and also walk home so,â Clark replied patiently.Â
âShould have taken a taxi.â
âAnd complain about how itâs expensive all the way home?â
âYou know, Clark, I donât think I appreciate how much you know me. Maybe itâs time we start putting some distance between the two of us.â
Clark didnât need to reply, he merely looked down at the way you were literally pressed against him until there was not a single inch of space left between the two of you.Â
âShut up,â you grumbled.Â
The subway was full despite the late hour so the both of you had to keep standing. Well, Clark had to, but you leaned against him, putting most of your weight against him. He loved it.Â
It happened when there were only five stops left.
You were rambling to Clark about something even you wasnât sure about it, when Clark noticed the man behind you who had been trying to get closer for the past five minutes.
His reaction was swift but controlled. Making sure your attention was elsewhere, namely fixating on the bright lights announcing the stations left, he grabbed the manâs wrist in a tight enough grip that it was uncomfortable, but not tight enough to break anything â yet.Â
âHey, baby, can you explain to me what Instagram again?â he asked you, voice soft and sweet.Â
âAgain?! You do realize itâs beenââ
He tuned you out, not out of malice, just so he could focus his energy into the man who thought sticking his phone underneath your skirt was a good idea.Â
The manâs eyes looked up in unwarranted anger, ready to yell at whoever dared touch him, but it quickly switched into fear once he saw the stony expression on Clarkâs face â and the height and muscle he had on him.Â
Clark knew he shouldnât, but he squeezed his grip tighter until his super hearing could pick up the sound of his joints creasing against each other.Â
âAre you even listening to me, Clark? This is your problem, because you say you want to understand but then you always zone out even before I even start.â
âSorry darling, thereâs just a⊠bug thatâs been bothering me.â
âSilly, just swat it away, and then give me your full attention.â
Clark grinned, and twisted the manâs wrist until it sprained. Just enough to make him second guess himself next time he tried to pull this stunt again â to you or any other unsuspecting girl who may not have Superman by their side. The phone dropped and Clark âaccidentallyâ stepped on it.
âPerfect idea, my smart girl.âÂ
The rest of the ride home went without any other problem, but Clark still couldnât for the life of him understand what Instagram was.Â
You passed out in bed before Clark even took off his pants.Â
He sighed at the sight, but without any real annoyance. He supposed your clothes were comfortable enough to sleep in, but he gathered your makeup wipes from the bathroom.
You mumbled something intelligible when the mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crossed a leg on the bed and sat down, and he smiled. Even unconscious, you were endearing.Â
He poured some product in the cotton before he wiped your face with it gently. He did the same with another cotton wipe and focused on your eyes this time, removing the mascara and eyeliner he loved so much that made your eyes look even bigger and shinier.Â
He threw everything away and then got into bed behind you. Sleep had never felt sweeter than when he slept with you in his arms.Â
Things my chronically offline bsf does
âWhatâs this?â Clark asked, blinking at the screen you just shoved in his face as if you were afraid he was going to somehow miss the glowing bright box. He was drinking his glass of milk when you walked in the kitchen in a flurry of excitement.Â
âItâs an idea for a TikTok,â you explained. It probably explained it for most people, but it only left Clark even more puzzled. He knows you explained it to him, multiple times, but he keeps forgetting.Â
âWhatâs bee-ess-eff?â
âBest friend. Itâs you. Youâre my chronically offline best friend. I think the world needs to know about this.â
âUh⊠sure?â He wasnât sure why the world needed to know the things he did, but he wasnât one to not show you support whenever he can, so he went along with it. âWhat sort of things do I do?â
âTake notes on an actual notepad.â
âThatâs normal, why would they care?â
âYou use physical maps.â
âTheyâre fabricated for a reason!â
You ignored him again. âYou print recipes instead of following them on your laptop. Wait, let me correct that. You ask me to print you the recipes because you still havenât figured it out.â
He blushed at that. âBut itâs just so much easier that way! I like having everything I need right in front of me. I donât want to have to scroll or zoom in or whatever else it is.â
âMhm,â you replied, unconvinced. âI still think it makes for a really funny TikTok video, so. Iâm posting it.â
âWell⊠okay. Sure. Maybe someone in the comment section will explain to me why itâs so funny.â
You snorted. âI love you, Clark.â
He brightened up, confusion leaving his face. This, he knew. This, he was used to. âI love you, sweetheart. Let me know when you upload it. I want to read comments with you.â
The TikTok was forgotten for a bit. Life got in the way, you got distracted by other shinier, newer, better things, and it was deadline season for Clark, and crime seemed to have multiplied overnight.Â
So, it wasnât long before he and you finally got to reading the comments.Â
âClark, youâre a famous man,â you preamble.Â
He paused mid-slurp of his chicken noodles. âHuh?â
âThe video blew up.â
Clark instantly looked concerned. âWhat? Are you okay?â
âYes, silly. It means the video went viral.â
âIt went where?â
âUgh! Whatever. Youâre famous. I got like 35k comments.â
Clark knew what going viral meant. He was just being a little jerk, and you were so used to him being actually that obtuse that the joke flew right over your head.Â
But the number made him pause. âThat many? Where do these people come from?â
âAll around the world. Do you want me to read the comments for you or not?â
Clark placed his chopsticks down and stapled his fingers, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. âLetâs hear it.â
You cleared your throat, readying yourself to start reading some sort of royal decree. âHim having the actual notepad from old iPhone noteapp is taking me out.â
Clark was frowning, not upset, just trying to understand. âOkay, but where is my notepad taking them out?â
âDo you actually want to know or do you prefer living in bliss?â
âUh⊠is it bad?â
âNo, I just donât know if you want to preserve your ignorance.â
âOh. Explain this one. Iâm intrigued.â
You did, and he cracked a smile when he finally got it. You kept reading him some comments, explaining them when needed.Â
âSomeone said, this is the only person who would probably survive a nuclear fallout.â
You snorted at that one, knowing that the commenter couldnât possibly realize just how close to the truth they were.Â
âHow did they know?â
âItâs a figure of speech, honey.â
âOh. Okay, next one.â
âI am lowkey jealous of him. I bet he is happy and healthy and has clear skin.â
âCould you reply to them?â
âYeah. What do you want to say?â
âTell them that if they have questions about how I live, they can ask me. Or I guess, direct message you.â
âIf I do that, everyone will flood my DMs but fine. The things I do for you⊠okay, done. Next. Bet he pays all his bills by check too with a crying emoji.â
Clark frowned. âWhy are they sad? Did I make them sad?â
âA crying emoji is basically laughter, donât worry.â
âWeird. Next.â
âThis guyâs got the worldâs cleanest internet footprint. Even rainbolt wouldnât be able to find him.â
âWhoâs rainbolt?â
âA dude whoâs really good at finding locations in the world with the tiniest picture.â
âOh.â
Sometime between the first comment and the last one, youâd ended up on his lap, and heâd leaned back against his chair to give you more space.Â
âWhat is this one?â
âI hope he knows heâs iconic,â you read out loud.Â
âOh. Thatâs really sweet. I am iconic, thank you. But so are you.â
You smiled, pleased before bursting into laughter. âOh youâre gonna hate this.â
âUh oh. Lay it on me.â
âChronically offline but chronically FINE,â you said, barely able to read it with a straight face. âI should have known people were going to lose their mind over you.â
Iâm getting a pigeon just so he can start sending me letters.Â
âUnlucky for them, youâre all mine.â
Clark smiled, pleased and smug. Thatâs right. He was yours.Â
You started including him more in your TikToks, partly because people demanded more of him, but mostly because you enjoyed doing things with him.Â
You posted another one:Â
things my bsf does for me because heâs just built like that
Ever since they met, Clark had just felt more inclined to do things for you. He was raised that way, yeah, but it was more than that.Â
Clark didnât think there was any door heâd let you open when he was around. Paying for you had always been second nature to him, just like kissing your forehead whenever he was happy. Holding your hands started out because you wanted to hold his hand, but he kept the habit. Now he couldnât go anywhere with you without holding your hand.Â
If anyone asked why, he wasnât sure he would be able to explain why. He just felt like it. Just like walking on the side of the road, or gently guiding you with a hand to the small of your back.Â
He didnât see anything out of the ordinary in the things you picked, but somehow the internet had a lot of things to say about it. Surprisingly, they were all nice.Â
May this kind of friendship kidnap me (What?!)
Is someone going to tell them? (Tell them what?)
I donât think theyâre aware theyâre dating. (Clark would like to believe that he would know whether he was dating someone or not.)
THEY SLEEP TOGETHER?!? (Yeah? How else would they cuddle then?)
I feel so bad for their partners. (Clark and you havenât dated anyone ever, so the worry was appreciated but unwarranted.)Â
Iâm struggling to find a good bf because girls like her are hoarding the good men (What?)
Girl youâre living the life. Where can I find me a man like that? (In corn fields.)
THAT SHOULD BE ME⊠holding your hand (Oh! Clark recognizes that song.)Â
Clark didnât say anything as you wedged your head between his arm and forearm, using it as a sort of prop, only watched in confusion as you took a picture of it using the reflection on the trainâs windows.Â
âItâs for my collection,â you helpfully added.Â
Your collection of pictures of the two of you. Picture of your hand against his, another one of you flexing your arm next to his relaxed biceps, his hand wrapped around your waist. He never really understood why, but he didnât need to understand it to feel a sort of understated satisfaction and pride at the sight of the two of you together, your difference in size so pronounced. When asked about it, you merely said âTumblrâs gonna go crazyâ as if it explained everything.
Clark didnât know who Tumblr was, but he felt bad for them.Â
But like anything else that you did or said, Clark didnât need to understand it to support it.Â
During lunch break, Clark was swamped by Lois and Jimmy who stood over his desk like two very nosy sentinels.
âDid you see your best friendâs new post?â
Clark clicked out of a tab before peering up at his two other best friends through his thick glasses. âUh⊠she didnât show me anything, so I wasnât aware she uploaded something new. Why? Did she?â
âOh no,â Lois said, way too normally. âWe, uh, we were just wondering if she was going to post something soon.â
âYeah, we became huge fans. We canât get enough of her posts,â Jimmy supplied.Â
Clark beamed. âOh, thatâs really sweet. Sheâs going to be so happy hearing that. Iâll definitely let you guys know if she ever wants to post something new on the TikTok.â
âCool, cool,â Jimmy said in his usual shifty way.
âWanna go out for lunch with us?â Lois asked.
âUh⊠sure,â Clark replied with a nod. You were busy that day, so it wasnât like he had anything planned with you.
Clark wasnât much of a talker. Around his loved ones, he preferred listening. He couldnât get enough of it.
Jimmy was talking about his latest date with Eve, a really sweet girl who kind of reminded Clark of you, because she was an influencer too.Â
Lois talked about her latest investigation against Luthorcorp. You could take her out of the office but you couldnât take the journalism out of Lois. Itâs how Lois and him had become friends when Clark first joined the Daily Planet.Â
âHow are things with her?â she asked once the conversation trailed off and Clark smiled, always happy to talk about you.
âGood, weâre actually going to the movies tonight. I canât wait.â
Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake.Â
âThe new horror movie?â Jimmy asked. âEve and I went to see it last week. It was really good but I think Eve forgot she had her own seat.â He rolled his eyes.Â
âEve deserves so much better,â Lois sighed longingly.Â
âHey! You said you werenât gonna say stuff like that to me!â
Lois shrugged. âI lied.â
Clark watched them bicker happily. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of his own parents bickering together.Â
Clark raised a brow at your look. âLazy night tonight?â
You were dressed in Clarkâs old hoodie that still hung loosely on you and a pair of sweatpants (not his, unfortunately), and your hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. âMhm,â you grunted. âI looked at my closet and it looked back at me and then I stared back and I realized I was way too lazy tonight to dress up properly. So, you get this.â
âWell, not that you asked, but I still think youâre gorgeous like this. Actually, I think I like you better like this, wearing my shirt.â
âPossessive much, huh?â
Clark rubbed the back of his hand with a sheepish smile. âAh, wellâŠâ
Clark liked going to the cinema with you. He liked buying you overpriced snacks just because you loved them, and he loved it when you inevitably get tired mid-showing and lay your head against his shoulder. Or when you grow bored with the movie and start playing with his hand instead, sending shivers down his spine when you caress the back of his hand with a feather-light touch.Â
âThis movie is so lame,â you grumbled, hand digging into Clarkâs popcorn.
Most of all, he just loved you. Even when you were being a harsh critic.
Clarkâs eyes crinkled as he laughed. âItâs a childrenâs movie, sweetheart. What did you expect?â he whispered back.Â
âEven kids deserve quality! They need to watch good movies at the earliest so that they learn to appreciate good cinema.â
Clark snorted. He usually tried not to be so noisy in the cinema but the room was filled with approximately twenty children who were all screaming or crying or making some sort of noise. His snort flew under the radar.Â
âHave you always been this passionate about children movie?â
âI was a child once too, Clark. This is very important to me.â
Clark barely resisted the urge to grab your hand, buttery and salty, and press a kiss to it.Â
Clark cannot exist without you, but Clark thinks that you could exist without him, you just choose not to.Â
âClark,â you said one day, phone in one hand and Clarkâs arm in the other. âMy favorite bubble tea shop is offering free drinks for couples on Valentineâs day. We have to go.â
Clark knew that bubble tea was your favorite, so it was easy to agree. âIâm not sure they count best friends as couples, though.â
âOh Clark, you dummy. Weâre going to go there as a couple. I got us matching outfits. Weâre going to be the cutest couple ever.â
Clark heard matching outfits and his heart hammered inside his chest. He was no stranger to matching outfits. It was you, after all, who introduced them to him.Â
It had started out small: friendship bracelets, then necklaces, then clay rings they made together.Â
Then one day youâd come across matching beanies and bought them on an impulse, because they made you think of him. Clark had really loved the beanie. His was red and blue, because of course it was. Yours had been pink and black.Â
From then on, there were no more limits to what you would consider matching. Youâd even made him exchange sim cards holders so that yours became black and his pink.Â
A full matching outfit had always been the next natural course of action.Â
âWouldnât that be⊠lying?â he said, smiling sheepishly. As much as he loved the idea of wearing matching outfits with you and helping you get free boba, he wasnât so sure he wanted to help you commit fraud.Â
âClark, think about it. We regularly go on date together. Your toothbrush is next to mine in my bathroom. We celebrate anniversaries. We sleep in the same bed. These are all things couples do.â
âYeah? But weâre not a couple.â
âThey donât have to know that! Weâll just let the facts speak for themselves.â
âWellâŠâÂ
Clark Kent was about to commit fraud in the name of love friendship.
You got your free drinks because nothing could stand in the way between you and your favorite drinks with pearl shaped tapioca inside.Â
âHey, Kat,â you said, greeting the cashier by name as if you guys were long lost friends. âCan you help me out?â
Kat had a confused smile, but she also looked intrigued. âSure?â
You hook a thumb towards Clark. âHeâs been sleeping in my bed for close to a year now, and he makes me breakfast every day, but he refuses to believe weâre dating.â
Clarkâs entire face went beet red with sheer embarrassment. âH-Hey!â
Your grin could put to shame the Cheshire catâs smile.
Kat snickered. âOh boy, heâs got it bad, isnât he?â
You showed her your matching clay rings. âLook at this. We made them together ten years ago. And now because he refuses to admit weâre together, I wonât be able to get my free drink.â
Katâs eyes went big, before looking at Clark like he was really dumb. âIs he blind?â she asked you while looking at him.
âWell, they do say that love makes you blind.â
Oh you were good, and you were such a menace, and Clark wasnât sure his face was ever going to be able to go back to a normal shade after this.
âWas this really necessary?â
âNo, not really,â you admitted, taking a large sip from your straw. Your drink was pink, because of course it was. Itâs Valentineâs day, after all. âBut it was fun. And I technically didnât say lie.â
âYouâre going to be the death of me,â he whimpered.
âYou love me.â
âI do. Unfortunately for me.â
âWhat was that?â
âNothing, sweetheart. Enjoy your drinks. Theyâre tainted with the taste of my mortification.â
âYummy. Extra delicious.â
Contrary to popular belief, Clark Kent was a menace too. He just hid it really well, and only let it show around you.
It was stupid, really. He came across a joke store and he went inside for some reason. He thought he would find something silly or cute for you. Maybe matching disguises.Â
But then he found a disturbingly realistic cockroach and before he knew it, he was out of the store with a bag and three dollars missing from his wallet.Â
He already felt so guilty, but also very excited.Â
Clark was pretty humans all over the globe, metahuman or not, had been able to hear your scream when you noticed the cockroach right next to your eyes.
âClark!âÂ
Your first scream was one of fear.
Another thing about Clark Kent was that he had a terrible poker face. Itâs why you loved playing poker against him.
But it also meant that he was the worst at playing pranks, because guilt always showed on his face. Ergo, you knew instantly.
âClark!â
Your second one was of anger and Clark smiled, ducking his head to the side. âGood morning?â
âOh Clark, I hate you.âÂ
But Clark didnât need his enhanced vision to see the way your lips quirked up as you struggled to not smile.Â
âAre you free Friday night?â you asked him, peeking your head inside the bathroom where Clark was showering. Thankfully he was only showering and not doing anything else.Â
âUh, sweetheart, you know Iâm always free Friday nights,â he said, wiping a hand over his face to see you better.Â
You snorted. âOh yeah. Forgot you were such a nerd. Oh well, consider yourself not free anymore. You know, you look really cute with your hair pushed back.â
He flushed.
âYou blush down there too. Interesting.âÂ
You closed the door behind you and he let his forehead bump against the wall with a dull thud. Oh, he was in so much trouble.Â
If Clark Kent stopped being dishonest with himself, he would finally let himself admit that he liked you more than normal friends, and more than their own brand of friendship.
His feelings for you ran as deep as the ocean, as old as the birth of his civilization. From the day he thought you were a scarecrow, to his first kiss. His first kiss was with you, of course. It was your first too. You said you wanted to know what the fuss was all about.Â
Fireworks had erupted the moment your lips touched his, and never stopped once whenever he saw you.Â
Clark Kent was really in love. With his first kiss, his first friend, his first love, you.
And it wasnât as scary as people made it out to be, honestly. Nothing was scary when you were there.Â
When he first started getting his powers, it was scary but you were there. You made it not scary.Â
When Pa Kent had a health scare, it was really scary, but you were there. You made it not so scary.Â
Point was, Clark wasnât afraid of the depth of his feelings for you, because he had blind trust in you. (And something told him that you felt the same.)Â
Even if you dragged him to random parties on a random Friday after work. It felt weird to spend eight hours cooped up behind his laptop and then find himself in a nightclub that same night, wearing clothes that were way too fitted.Â
âI need you to wear something good,â you told him before dragging him into an impromptu shopping spree. It was planned for you, but it was a surprise for him. Really, who was he to tell you no?Â
Your whistling and happiness were worth wearing something out of his zone of comfort.Â
âYou never leave your drink unattended, okay?â you warned him seriously.Â
Clark only nodded sagely, even though he was fighting the stupid grin that was threatening to break on his face. It was cute how you worried for him, even though drugs literally had no effect on him.Â
âNo drinks left unattended, got it. And I donât talk to strangers. Unless theyâre cute.â
âDonât sass me, young man. Iâm doing this for you.â
His smile turned softer. âI know. Thank you, sweetheart.â
It was a regular nightclub, like any other. You wanted to taste their drinks, take pictures, have fun. Clark was used to these nights. You were there for the fun, he was there for you.Â
He didnât usually dance but there was something different about tonight. He remembered the way he felt when you went to dance with someone else, and he didnât want to make the same mistake twice.Â
He waited until you finished your drink to ask, âCan I have this dance?â
You looked at him with eyes wide like saucers. âOh em gee!â you shrieked. âI thought you would never ask!â
If heâd known how happy it would make you, he wouldnât have kept refusing you.Â
He wasnât really used to dancing, and the only thing that came to mind when he thought of dancing was slow dancing. So thatâs what he had in mind when he asked you. But then you finished his glass in one go and pressed yourself to him until there was no more space left, and the rest of the world disappeared.
He could feel everything. The press of the swell of your breasts against his chest, your hands gliding along his waist, the intoxicating smell of your lavender perfume.
Oh yes. This was a nightclub. This was how people danced. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he chose the wrong time to ask for a dance.Â
Your hands are now caressing your neck, up to your hair, your head turned to the side. You were one with the song, and Clark was frozen in place, hands hovering in the air, suddenly unsure whether he was allowed to touch you.
âAw, Clarkie, getting shy on me now?â you teased him when you noticed him unmoving. You grabbed his hands and placed them on each side of your waist. âJust follow the music. Sway from one side to the other.â
He tried, but God did he feel stiff and watching you in your element didnât help. The friction of your dancing body against him was doing something to his nerves.
âLook at how the man are dancing with the girls,â you whispered. âTry doing the same.â
He looked, and immediately averted his eyes. âI canât do that,â he whispered in panic. âItâs⊠borderline graphic!â
You laughed. âOh Clark. Youâre adorable. Iâm gonna grind on you,â you said with that same look on your face that said you were up to no good, and that Clark couldnât even dream of surviving you.
âPlease donât,â he whimpered in a tiny voice. âAt least not here, where everyone can see.â
You paused at that, your teasing smile frozen in place, and Clark watched with barely muted satisfaction at how heâd so easily rendered you speechless.Â
But then your eyes turned mischievous, and Clark realized his mistake. âI like the sound of that.â
He groaned, throwing his head back. You used that moment of weakness to press your lips along the lines of his neck. Not a kiss, not a bite. Just the soft press of your lips against his neck.
And then you screamed when your favorite song came on, and it was like that moment never even happened.Â
âThis is my song!â you squealed excitedly.Â
You were so drunk.
Clark Kent didnât mind taking care of you when drunk. He would like to say it was because he always wants to take care of you, but the truth was a little more selfish than that.Â
Sure, drunk you was a menace, but when you got tired and sleepy and drunk, you were always so sweet. So clingy, so desperately needy and Clark absolutely loved to take care of you in that state. You were already clingy on a normal day, but drunk and sleepy was a whole other level. If he didnât have his Superman strength, he would never be able to extricate you from his body. You turned into an oversized, drunk, needy koala. Clark leaving for just one minute to bring you water was enough to send you into an inconsolable state, so he learned to improvise. Again, he was thankful for his superstrength allowing him to lift you with one arm while he took care of things.Â
Tonight was no different. By the time you both reached your apartment, you were already dozing off to sleep but fighting it, your entire chest wrapped around Clarkâs arm.Â
âClark, youâre staying the night, right?â you asked, voice muffled and words slurred.Â
âYes,â he replied, fighting hard a smile, turning his own copy of your keys in the lock.Â
âAnd youâre staying with me, right?â
âYes,â he replied. This time he couldnât help the smile. He helped you walk inside.
Your bottom lip quivered, tears already forming in your eyes. You let go of him. âYou hate me!âÂ
Clarkâs eyes went wide. âWhat? Where the heck did that come from? I just said I was staying with you.â
âYes, but you sounded like you hated me when you said it,â you replied, voice already watery.Â
âGosh no, what? I could never love you. I love you. Always have, always will.â
âSo why did you stop calling me petnames? You hate me!â
You broke into tears in the middle of your living room and for the first time since ever, Clark felt utterly helpless. He hadnât even noticed that heâd stopped.Â
âOh baby, is this what itâs about?â he cooed, and his heart broke when you nodded pitifully. âCome here sweetheart.â
He opened his arms and you launched yourself into them. He closed his hold around you, his arms wide enough so he could hide all of you, and protect you. Your shoulders shook with the strength of your sob, and once again he found himself wondering how such a tiny little thing could have so much feelings inside of her.Â
âI love you baby, I could never hate you. Forgive me?â
âOkay,â you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. âI love you too. Even if youâre mean sometimes.â A pause. âOkay, youâre never mean. But still.â
âThank you sweetheart.â
He kissed the crown of your head and you didnât move for so long he thought youâd fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid.Â
âLetâs get ready for bed, okay?â
âOkay.â But you still didnât move.
No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl.Â
âOpen up,â he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.
âAaaah.â
âGood girl,â he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions.Â
You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth.Â
Your mascara had run across your cheeks â unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight heâd ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.
You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because youâd gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didnât give you water to rinse it off because heâd seen that you shouldnât do that.Â
Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.
âCan you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?â
The effect was instant. You pouted. âBut I wanna see you.â
âIâll be quick, I promise.â
âOkay.âÂ
You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. âAlmost done,â he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants.Â
Then, it was your lipsâ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.
âYucky. Doesnât taste so good,â you mumbled.
He laughed. âOh baby, you shouldnât taste it.â
You pouted again.Â
He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin.Â
You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes â Clark hadnât gotten to that â and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love.Â
âAll cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.â
You looked proud of yourself, even if all youâd done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should.Â
Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didnât look anywhere he wasnât supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didnât linger, didnât stray.
He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you.Â
Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest.Â
Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok â he recognized that logo.Â
He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user).Â
Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.
âWanna go grab brunch?â you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.
âSure. Bubbyâs?â
âGod yes.â
Bubbyâs was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover â or just particularly hungry.
Clark didnât waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten.Â
It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how heâd downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random personâs LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.
He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.
It was nothing big â it wasnât even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).
He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didnât do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button.Â
He wasnât quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case â the first one that popped up.Â
And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea heâd ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future.Â
  âââââââââ ౚৠâââââââââ
You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.
It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadnât posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well).Â
Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?
Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.
IS THIS THE BSF?!?!
I KNEW IT!!!!
omg i ship them so bad
Is this @pinkbubblesâs bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her
@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK
LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doingÂ
You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when youâd traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. Heâd taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didnât show. Just your smile and your arms.Â
The caption read: she doesnât know i am so in love with her.Â
This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.
You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just âi hope she loves me back #charlidamelioâ. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.
Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didnât know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office.Â
Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption âhe doesnât know i am in love with himâ. The only difference was that youâd used an actual song, and you didnât use any hashtags. It wasnât meant to go viral. It was just⊠a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret.Â
And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was itâwhat had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how heâd even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.
Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.
You think youâre going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you.Â
He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face â just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clarkâs latest childish stunt.Â
NowÂ
So how did the man who couldnât even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didnât just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night.Â
âHey, baby,â he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesnât understand why his owner wasnât acting like normal? âHow was your day?â
âUh⊠um⊠it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?âÂ
He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. âHow are mine? Mine what?â
Youâd meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didnât even feel that awkward when youâd hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse.Â
âI hate you,â you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest.Â
Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?
Clark didnât look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. âCome on, letâs go. Where are you taking me tonight?â
Your mind blanked. âUh. Home?â
âThen letâs go,â he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. Heâd done that particular gesture a thousand times and youâd never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been.Â
Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasnât supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this â and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other.Â
But panicking about required love was more dramatic.
âClark.â
âThatâs my name, yes.â
âSmartass.â
He smiled in reply.Â
He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadnât posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night.Â
What if that wasnât even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it.Â
But⊠not now.Â
Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and youâre going to light candles and then youâre going to make him take pictures of you.Â
It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more⊠charged. More intimate. MoreâŠÂ
You were running out of adjectives.Â
âThis pasta is wonderful,â you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking.Â
âAh, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didnât have time.â
âAnother time,â you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldnât look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)
âAnother time,â he confirmed.Â
Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.
Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps youâd have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now.Â
âClark.â
His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you.Â
âCould you pass me the salt?â
His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasnât your fault you chickened out right at the last minute.Â
âSure thing,â he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen.Â
You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first.Â
You can do this.Â
You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour.Â
You really missed life back when you only had one follower â Clarkâs account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence.Â
You couldnât post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline.Â
âHey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.âÂ
When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark.Â
âOh look at that little fella,â he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. âWas he on your way to work?â
âUh-huh,â you replied. âHe was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.â
âWhy didnât you?â
Oh, yeah. He was perfect.Â
âWell we hadnât talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didnât want to presume.â
âNext time, then.â
âNext time,â you confirmed.Â
As easy as that. Heâd agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated.Â
Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat whoâd been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years.Â
Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasnât staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course.Â
Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well.Â
âYou know,â Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), âshe really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.â
You snorted. âThat does sound like something I would do.â
Clark scratched behind Beanâs ears subconsciously. âItâs not just that. Itâs⊠well, sheâs quite clingy.â
âI am not clingy,â you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything.Â
Bean meowed in displeasure too.Â
âSweetheart, youâre currently using my arm as a body pillow.â
âDoesnât mean anything.â Bean meowed. âSee? She agrees. We arenât clingy.â
âYeah, yeah.â He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Beanâs head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didnât mind.Â
âMeow,â you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something.Â
Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clarkâs desk.Â
âI want to see her too,â he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days.Â
âUhâŠâ he pushed his glasses up his nose. âSure. She would love that. And I would love that too.â
âItâs weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,â Jimmy said.Â
âYou guys talk about me behind my back?â
âDuh,â Lois replied. âWhat else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?â
He blushed. âFair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?â
Lois and Jimmy shared a look. âHow can he be so big yet so dense?â Lois asked.Â
âHey!â
âHonestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,â Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. âWas he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?â
âI couldnât have asked better questions myself,â Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. âClark, would you be up for an interview later?â
Clark frowned. âWhat⊠what is going on?â
They shared a look.Â
âI donât think he knows that we know.âÂ
âOr that the entire Internet knows,â Lois added.Â
âOr that she knows,â Jimmy appended.Â
âHe thinks heâs sleek with it,â Lois commented.Â
âStop talking like creepy twins!â he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. âWhat is going on? No, I donât wanna know. I need to take a break.â
âShould we tell him?â
âYes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I donât think he knows the implications of it.â
âWhat does Bean have anything to do with any of this?â
âBean is your child. Youâre the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and youâre both in love.â
He finally blushed. âNo weâre not.â
âYes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.â
âWait⊠when did she confess?â
âOh great heavens.â
Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmyâs phone and her video on Loisâ phone.Â
âWho are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?âÂ
âThe Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, itâs cute, but itâs not something Clark would do.â
âHe can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!â
Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didnât even do, just to make her stop.Â
 His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasnât about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you.Â
Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation â finally â that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told.Â
âStop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.â
âGross. Maybe we shouldnât have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.â
âIâm just happy and mortified! Canât I be happy and mortified in peace?â Clark whined.Â
âNo,â came their reply in unison.Â
âGuys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry Iâll work from home.â
He doesnât wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didnât care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless. Â
warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
The air felt sticky. It wasnât surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didnât make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. Youâd be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. Youâd only had one encounter so far wherein youâd had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl whoâd gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after youâd brought her back to safety.
Youâd been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, youâd known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and youâd take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and youâd seen both of them in action. Youâd thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasnât like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. Youâd stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And youâd sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what âroom temperatureâ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasnât something you could easily fixâyou couldnât just ban someone from the beach if they werenât doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But heâd wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldnât have been a problem. Youâd seen him a handful of timesâyou shared friends, after allâbut you hadnât had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didnât want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasnât the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time youâd been alerted to his presence, youâd been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. Youâd seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
Youâd tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. âWill you just talk to me?â he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
âNo, fuck you. Iâm working.â you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You werenât about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
âYeah, I know. Iâm here because I know how good you look in a bikini.â
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. Youâd worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you werenât looking directly at him. âWhat do you want?â you hissed, almost at your destination.
âI think we should talk.â he said simply, reiterating what heâd first claimed. But you knew that it wasnât as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
âI donât think so.â If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadnât been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of âboyâ and âgirlâ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
âCome on,â he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. âYouâre already doing it right now!â
âFuck off, Bucky, Iâm working.â At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
âIâm gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.â he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. Heâd projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. âCanât avoid me that easily.â
Then heâd smiled at you, smug, like he thought heâd be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadnât expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people youâd ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
Heâd lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. Youâd begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didnât get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you werenât up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didnât know what exactly he wanted. Youâd already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, heâd told you, âJust see what he wants, and if heâs being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,â to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, âI donât want to hear about any threats to someoneâs life.â
You didnât want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at thatâheâd always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didnât think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldnât have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. UntilâŠ
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft âoof!â Youâd only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me.â you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. âGuess weâre coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isnât that great?â
âYou know that I canât change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.â Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. âYouâll be on shift with him at one time or another.â
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. âBut isnât there some way we can look at it more strategically?â
âLook, I know that you have some kind of history with this guyââ
âDoes he even have his certification?â you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. âOf course he does. And even if he didnât, weâre doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.â
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. âDid this guy⊠did he hurt you?â
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. âNo, not physically. Just⊠emotionally.â
You both sat with that for a moment. âIâm sorry about that. But thereâs nothing I can do. You know that I donât tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I canât guarantee that youâll never have to work with him. I know youâre professional, so Iâm not worried about you,â he paused, pushing his glasses back up, âbut if he goofs around or something, Iâll get rid of him. okay?â
You didnât allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. âOkay.â
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadnât anticipated, something far worse than what youâd imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didnât hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
âHey, wait!â you scrunched your face up at the sound of Buckyâs voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. âHey, I just wanna talk.â
âYeah, so Iâve heard.â you said icily.
âWell, can you just hear me out?â
âNo.â You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once youâd slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driverâs side. âMove.â
âNot until you talk to me.â
You crossed your arms. âMove right now, or I swear, Iâllââ
âI want to get back together.â
âAre you fucking joking?â You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to youâŠ
His expression was serious, pleading. âLook, I know I made a mistakeââ
âA mistake?â you screeched. âYou broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!â
Youâd made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. âI know. Shitty timing on my part, Iâm sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. Iâve been missing you.â
âWhat, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?â you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. âYeah, I know about that. We hadnât even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.â You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. Youâd never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didnât care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. âI gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?â
âWell, you never dated anyone after me, did you?â he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. âWhatâs your point? I was pretty busy studying.â
âNow, you and I both know thatâs not why.â he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartmentâit seemed that hadnât changed.
âYou havenât dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And Iâm not going to stop fighting for you.â
If heâd said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didnât even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didnât mean youâd drop everything. Because if heâd loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
âThe only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.â you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. âNo, Iââ
âMove out of my way, or I will scream.â
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. âBack up or Iâm gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.â
âIâll show you how sorry I am. I swear. Iâll make it up to you. Iâll be good to you for the rest of my life.â
âGo fuck yourself, Bucky.â And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldnât do itâit would be just your luck that youâd land in jail because of himâbut thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
Youâd make him regret ever looking in another girlâs direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didnât realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what heâd said to youâyou hadnât calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You werenât working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You werenât the first one there, but youâd beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, youâd all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that heâd make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. âMissed you yesterday,â he commented.
âOkay.â You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
âI remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?â
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didnât want to think about last summer, or the one before that. âIn the act of saving lives? Yes.â you said drily.
âI got my certification last week,â he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. âOkay.â you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
âI never told you before, but I think itâs really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.â
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying âokay,â for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. âAlright, everyone. Weâre going to get started now. You know how to do this, so weâre skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?â
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what youâd need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, youâd been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. âAlright, readyâŠ?â
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. âGo!â
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone elseâs. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though youâd been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. âMy hero.â
âShut up and donât make things difficult. If you screw this for me, Iâll kill you.â
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadnât discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldnât have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didnât have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldnât be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. âSave my life, angel. What are you waiting for?â
âShut up!â you whispered harshly. âDrowning victims usually donât talk!â Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didnât care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. âDo not enjoy this,â you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You werenât supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. âYou taste just like I remember.â
âOh, Iâm gonna kill you,â you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
âHey, donât break our dummy. Heâs not one that we can replace.â Samâs voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. âWork away, Wilson. I did my part.â
âAnd you did it so well,'â Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that heâd kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldnât have been a shockâheâd made his motivations to win you back somehow very clearâbut still, you didnât think heâd put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic⊠the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasnât something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didnât matter to you. Youâd already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Buckyâs eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyoneâs efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand ownerâs daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you werenât filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when youâd been surrounded by teachers and other students, heâd had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, youâd mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. Youâd frequently been told to âget a roomâ even when all youâd been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. Heâd get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and youâd simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didnât really deter him eitherâany time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, heâd join right in, and youâd abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought youâd at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scottâhe and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. âIs this where I redeem my coupon?â He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. âI should have known this was where youâd be hiding.â
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. âAnd now I need to find a new spot.â
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second youâd moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. âOh, grow up.â
He tried and failed to school his expression. âThat was hot.â
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licksâyou were almost down to the cone now, and you didnât really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. âYouâre so gross.â
âDo you remember that night⊠at that John kidâs party?â Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. âSeriouslyââ
âWhen we stole wine from his dadâs cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldnât breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?â
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. Youâd drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. âI remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,â you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. âYeah, me too.â The âafterâ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your âBâ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time youâd moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And heâd taken you to a fast food drive thru, and youâd sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didnât want to get sentimental. It was a road youâd already travelled far too many times, and you didnât want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didnât want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
âWell, this was fun and all, but Iâm gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.â You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
âI miss hearing you laugh.â His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, âWell, thatâs a privilege only my friends get to hear. And youâre not my friend, Bucky.â
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Buckyâs pleading stare, heâd show himself. You really thought heâd have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. Youâd worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadnât been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquinâs eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquinâs arm. âHow about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?â
âButâ
âOh, come on. Lighten up. Itâs not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.â Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. âActually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.â
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. âYouâre just jealous that no oneâs making eyes at you.â Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasnât worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, âWell, thatâs not true⊠Buckyâs been checking her out all day.â
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that youâd mercifully not seen much of your ex. Youâd covered up today. The UV was high, and youâd worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way heâd be checking you out over those girls. You werenât blindâeven you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. âWell, good luck, because youâre walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.â He said to you.
You grimaced. âI know.â
Youâd looked at what the day would bring for you when youâd first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldnât be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, youâd just push him into the surf and keep walking.
âAre you ready to forgive him yet?â Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. âWhy on earth would I do that?â
âI donât know, maybe so we donât have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dudeâs got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.â
âShut up, Sam.â
âItâs true,â Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. âHe wonât shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.â
That gave you pause. âLike whatâŠ?â You were afraid of the answer.
âLike for your one month anniversaryâlame, by the wayâyou made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didnât want to know that.â
âOr,â Sam added, âthat your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? Itâs gross. Youâre like a sister to me. I donât wanna know that.â
âOh my God.â You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
âYeah, think of how we feel.â
âWell maybe you shouldnât have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?â you snapped, looking between them.
âWhen heâs not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, heâs a cool guy. But my God, heâs so down bad for you.â Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. âSo either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.â
But it wasnât up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They werenât the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. âSounds like itâs gonna be a long summer for you two, then.â
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. âOff to serve my sentence,â you said, stretching your arms.
âGood luck out there.â Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabanaâs door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. âJesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?â
He shrugged one shoulder. âNo, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didnât want to crash the party.â His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, âAre you ready to go?â
âI guess.â You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
âUgh, god, Sam was right.â
Bucky met your eyes. âHuh?â
âHe said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as itâs your job.â
âI canât help it,â he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. âI only have eyes for you.â
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. âYeah, right.â
âItâs true!â
âPretty sure youâd be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.â You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didnât want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldnât remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
âWhat do you want me to do,â Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, âdo you want me to beg?â
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
âOh my God, get up.â You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
âIâll beg, Iâm not above it. Iâll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.â He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no⊠you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. âBuckyââ
âI was a total idiot. Iâm gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And Iâm sorry. Iâm so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isnât easy, but Iâm asking you to consider it.â
You werenât really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
âIf you donât get up right now, thereâs no chance in hell.â You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. âSo thereâs a chance?â
âThatâs not what I said.â
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since heâd touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where heâd been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didnât usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
âCan we just⊠can we just finish the perimeter, please?â you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadnât been more of a spectacle.
âOkay. Whatever you want.â But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didnât take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didnât necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. Youâd climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when heâd bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that youâd fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didnât really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that heâd worked. He technically wasnât required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. Youâd just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. âBucky, doesnât that hurt?â You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. âYeah, but I canât reach there.â
You hesitated before biting the bullet. âDo you want me toââ
âYes.â He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times heâd given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. Youâd pepper the side of his face with kisses and heâd dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought heâd do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. âOkay, youâre good.â
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. âCan I⊠return the favour?â
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way heâd asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day heâd gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that youâd never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that heâd be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. âOkay.â The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. Youâd done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when youâd been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and heâd sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you werenât looking at him right nowâyou were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didnât like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, âAll done.â A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didnât want to turn around. You knew exactly how close heâd be.
âThanks.â
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadnât hurt you and you hadnât refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didnât even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasnât working, and almost all of Buckyâs earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. Heâd stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when heâd stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been⊠good for him.
Not with the way heâd ended things, no, but he hadnât had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before youâd started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steveâs to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasnât aware of you. When heâd been getting off shift, but heâd stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When heâd helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when theyâd cried, accepting the motherâs profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky youâd known before wouldnât have bothered with going out of his way to help people. Heâd been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe heâd grown up more than youâd originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy youâd loved, whoâd been all of your firsts, whoâd broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if heâd have still become who he was now. If youâd love him more than you thought possible. But youâd changed, too. You werenât so trusting, you werenât so open to new things, like youâd been with him. When youâd been together, youâd felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But youâd become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses werenât so pink anymore.
Still, you werenât quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didnât think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. Youâd always be thinking of before, when youâd been more. And heâd already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldnât take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didnât know if heâd be able to respect your wishes or not or if heâd cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that youâd fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldnât do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldnât figure out why. After all, youâd spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expectâSam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a rowâbut still, you couldnât shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
Youâd heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldnât be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasnât there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then youâd go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didnât think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didnât see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You werenât surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. âI thought you werenât coming,â you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
âI was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.â
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because sheâd called him, begging him to bring her something sheâd left behind. And heâd always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and youâd only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one sheâd always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
âHow is she?â you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
âOh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.â
You hummed, remembering the recitals youâd attended with Buckyâs family. âSheâs got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?â
ââCourse. Itâs on her wall. She made this, uhâŠâ he trailed off, searching for the word, âvision board thing. I donât know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?â
You nodded. âRight. Itâs supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.â
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. âYeah, that. God, canât believe sheâs gonna be applying for universities this year.â
âI remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,â you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer sheâd gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, youâd helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones youâd outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
âAnd now sheâs got her learnerâs permit and a part-time job.â Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what sheâd been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, youâd always have a soft spot for his family. ââŠAnd then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.â he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if youâd been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. âYou know, she was uh⊠she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didnât talk to me for two weeks.â You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. âShe would have picked you over me, if she could have.â
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didnât quite know what to say. âMom, too, actually.â Bucky added after a moment. âShe slapped me upside the head.â
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. âYou know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.â
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. âI wasnât gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didnât. But I missed them so much.â Buckyâs family had always been much more hands on than yours. Theyâd never been upset by your presence, theyâd just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. âHere, take it.â
It was Buckyâs sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. Youâd constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. Youâd taken no less than three of his shirts with you when youâd gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. âYou know my mom would still love to see you, even if weâre not together, right?â
âI know,â you said softly. âBut itâs too hard for me. I canât⊠I canât go into that house anymore. I canât look at your picture on the wall. Because then Iâll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.â You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. âItâs all just a reminder of before. And I canât keep looking back on it.â
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. âI understand.â For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. âTell me about school. Straight Aâs?â The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
âOf course. like I'd ever get any less.â
He laughed. âWish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.â
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. âYou made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didnât really work.â
âDid you colour code everything?â
âI tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.â
You shook your head. âNovice move.â
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. âI want to kiss you right now.â
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where heâd touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. âI should go. I wasnât gonna stay long, anyway.â
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. Youâd thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didnât know what you wanted. For a second, all youâd wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped youâd get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before youâd reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because heâd wanted to chase down some tail that wasnât you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action heâd taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Buckyâs car. He was following you. âShit,â you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldnât let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and sheâd ask questions. Hell, sheâd probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. âI'm sorry,â were the first words out of his mouth. âI shouldnât have said that. I didnât meanâI'm sorry.â
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. âAnd to be clear, I donât mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. Itâs the last thing I wanted to do.â
His hand gripped the top of the carâs door. You wouldnât even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. âDo you want this back?â you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
âWhat? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.â
âBucky,â you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, âI'm not gonna keep it. Itâs not mine, and neither are you.â
âYouâre wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you donât want me.â
The admission left you in stunned silence. Heâd already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that⊠to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation⊠Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
âWhat can I do? Iâll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'â
You didnât even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
âDo you know why I really failed that class?â A cricket chirped between the words of the question. âYeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for youâI kept a photo of you on my nightstand.â
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. âYeah, thatâs right. Itâs you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncleâs lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.â He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and youâd come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because heâd forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. âYou were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos arenât the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you werenât cominâ home.â
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And youâd been relieved. You hadnât wanted to come back to town, worried youâd bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. âI knew that for the last three summers, youâd worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.â
His voice broke a little on the last word. âStop.â you whispered.
He didnât. âI miss you so much, baby. I miss you when youâre standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when youâd tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didnât think it through. I didnât need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.â
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though heâd hurt you more than youâd thought he ever could⊠he wasnât entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid youâd duck away. This time, you didnât. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. âPlease,â he whispered, âplease give me another chance.â
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didnât know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought youâd never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
âHow do I know you wonât hurt me again?â
âYou donât. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.â His eyes were still closed, like if he didnât open them, he wouldnât have to see what youâd decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. âI have to think about it.â you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You werenât ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. âOkay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.â He seemed reluctant to let go of you. âYou know that, right?â
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. âI know.â
That was what made him drop his hands. âI love you.â
You didnât say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you werenât about to reciprocate. âI'm sorry I ruined your night.â
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. âYou didnât ruin it. I really wasnât planning to stay long. You should go back, though.â
He shook his head again. âI think I got what I came for.â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âA foot in the door.â
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. âDrive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?â The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
âYeah. I start at 12.â
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. âSee you at 12.â
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didnât really know what to do with yourself in the morning. Youâd been on total autopilot the night before, after youâd gotten home. You didnât remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Buckyâs sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. Youâd let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldnât summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldnât believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasnât.
But that didnât mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didnât want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by âcold feetâ again.
You didnât remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that youâd gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, youâd blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Buckyâs car was already there. Heâd started before youâyour shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldnât even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling youâd get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that youâd been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understoodâif youâd had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, youâd remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way heâd kissed you and the sound heâd made, along with a million other tiny things heâd done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. âHi,â you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
âHey,â he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid youâd come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. âWas it busy this morning?â you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. âThe standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. Iâve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.â It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
âItâll probably be more of the same for you. Itâs supposed to rain around three.â he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. âItâs been a pretty dry summer.â
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying âaddress me!â
You pointed at the shoreline. âWell, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?â
âYeah.â But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes heâd leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which youâd return. Other times, heâd hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When youâd gone to check the schedule at one point, heâd stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldnât have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
Youâd started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though youâd only let him return the favour once, because heâd trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldnât look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that youâd boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. Heâd continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if heâd wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though heâd started to give you a little more space. Youâd unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each otherâs schedules, even though you both new the otherâs as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, âI canât sleep so Iâm looking at your picture,â and âI think I was dreaming of you. I couldnât see your face, but it was you. It couldnât be anyone else.â Sometimes heâd tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how youâd envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each otherâs campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still werenât ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. Youâd be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if heâd make some sort of grand gesture or if heâd keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else youâd be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was goodâquick, sharp, determinedâbut she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, youâd have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, âSo is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?â
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. âWhat?â
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didnât look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. âThereâs something going on there, right?â she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. âWe um, we used to date, yes.â You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
âUsed to date? How long ago?â
âA year ago, give or take.â you said mildly, hoping sheâd drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. âA year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?â she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. âIn a manner of speaking, I suppose.â
âAre you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.â
âI know.â
âNo, no, I mean⊠no one looks at a person like that.â she said, grabbing your arm. âMy grandparents have been together sixty years, and I donât think Iâve ever even seen them look so love struck. Heâs looking at you like youâre keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.â To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldnât be clearer what you were talking about if sheâd started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadnât taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. âWell, itâs sort of complicated,â you muttered.
âWhatâs so complicated? He looks like heâd get down on one knee right now. Itâs actually sort of gross.â She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. âAnd besides, you look equally struck by cupid.â
âWhat? No I donât!â You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of ropeâthe thing youâd been trying to do when youâd dropped them. âIf you say so.â
As the rest of the day went on, you couldnât help thinking about Kateâs question. Whatâs so complicated? Yes, youâd been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that heâd boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. Youâd stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure youâd always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasnât something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, thereâd be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. Youâd seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument youâd ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. Youâd been solid. And it shouldnât matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didnât want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldnât work, heâd put a stop to it. Since then, heâd been nothing but sincere. Heâd prostrated himself before you. Heâd tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, youâd never fallen out of love with him, even when youâd had your heart broken, even when you hadnât seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
Youâd just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like heâd known youâd been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was rightâyou were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so heâd told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. Youâd asked for it to be that wayâyou hadnât wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasnât a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight oâclock, youâd be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of itâthe beach was busy that evening, and youâd had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but youâd kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. Youâd had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Buckyâs throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatchâs stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. âDid you lock up yet?â
âNot yet. I wasnât sure if you needed anything else from there.â Heâd already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. âI just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.â
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least heâd put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. âYeah, last one with Torres.â
âMine was Tuesday,â Bucky said.
In the back of your head, youâd known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that youâd be drifting apart again if you didnât do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Buckyâs cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldnât be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
âWell, I guess Iâll see you,â you finally said.
Heâd been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. âGood night.â
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like youâd stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street lightâs glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where youâd left him, still watching you. He didnât say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Buckyâs eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest youâd been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
âIâm not saying we can pick up where we left off,â you started, your voice hushed, ânot like we were before. Iâm not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But Iâm⊠Iâm willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.â
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didnât know if Bucky would readily accept it or if heâd have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, youâd pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. âIâll take whatever you give me. Even if itâs just phone calls and texts. I canât do another year without you in my life.â You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
âCan I just ask for one thing? Itâs the only time I will, I swear.â
You tilted your head to the side just a little. âWhat is it?â
âPlease, for the love of God, can I kiss you?â
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. âYesââ
The word wasnât even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasnât satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldnât resist chugging you. It wasnât that youâd forgotten what kissing Buckyâreally kissing Buckyâwas like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each otherâs faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. âPlease donât let that be the last one before we go back to college,â he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky youâd known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldnât hold back your laugh. âMaybe not, weâll see.â
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your faceâyouâd seen it when youâd gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after youâd gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages heâd apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didnât expressly invite you, but⊠the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasnât going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, youâd allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldnât help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didnât think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquinâs chest. âGod damn it, Torres, you won.â
Youâd frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. âYou forgave Bucky.â
âHow do you know?â
âI can just tell. If you could see you right now, youâd know. Itâs really obvious.â
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didnât seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasnât visible to the naked eye⊠was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasnât working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. âWhatâs going on?â
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as heâd come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. âYou placed a bet?â
He snorted. âOf course I did.â
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if youâd consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. Youâd had one last ice cream at the Langsâ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a yearâs time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. Heâd already been reprimanded the previous time when heâd corralled you into the showers. Youâd admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but youâd ultimately been mortified when heâd pinned you to the showerâs wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, âAh-hemâŠâ from Bruce. You wouldnât have been surprised if he hadnât invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didnât want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Buckyâs, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadnât seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. âWhyâd you stop, love?â
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. âNatashaâs here,â you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. âHuh, you know, I didnât even notice.â
It seemed crazyâeven you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next⊠Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. âDo you want to grab dinner when youâre done? Nothing crazy, just, I donât know, burgers? At that one place?â Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
word count | 12.3k words
summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, theyâre both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo
a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated âš
MASTERLIST
Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.
Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.
James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.
He was older by ten years, and youâd been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.
Because you had.
You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didnât realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.
Even with his corny ass mustache.
It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.
It was actually⊠kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like heâd tip his hat at you and call you âdoll.â
Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.
And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.
Even more so, his big dick.
If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didnât want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didnât feel fake.
And, yes, there were red flags.
The texts, for one.
In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadnât dated much, and he definitely hadnât dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him ânoâ and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.
He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, âHope your day is going okay.â Then, âNo pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.â Then, âSorry, that sounded weird. Iâm not weird.â Then, somehow, youâd look down and realise heâd sent you five messages in a row and youâd been at work the whole time.
It was⊠a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.
It wasnât even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didnât understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasnât trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.
And the clinginess didnât exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.
You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasnât your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old manâs feelings.
Unfortunately, you didnât give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.
You really, truly believed that.
And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.
You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.
And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.
You couldnât even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.
james barnes (bucky)
Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm
You
lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm
james barnes (bucky)
Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm
Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm
Doll? | 10:39pm
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and heâd spiral. Too detailed and youâd be feeding it.
You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didnât just feel your mood get tugged sideways.
But it didnât stop.
By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.
You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.
More messages had piled in.
james barnes (bucky)
Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm
Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm
Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm
âIsnât it past your grandpaâs bedtime?â Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.
You didnât look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.
âDonât call him that,â you muttered. âAnd heâs not that old.â
âYeah, and the sky isnât blue, and my boobs are real.â Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. âBeing paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.â
You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you werenât about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didnât even like her.
âCome talk to me when you find a man whoâll eat your ass without having to ask,â you said lifting your eyes. âAnd not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.â
Nicoleâs mouth snapped shut.
MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.
Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadnât just gotten read.
âWhatever,â she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.
You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.
You
just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm
he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm
and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm
james barnes (bucky)
Right. Iâm sorry, honey. | 10:59pm
I just donât like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm
You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like thisâŠ. heâd pull, youâd give him an inch, and then heâd act grateful like youâd done him a favour by letting him breathe.
âGirl.â MJâs voice cut through it.
You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldnât fully hide the exasperation either.
âMichelle,â you said back, tilting your head.
She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.
âJust remember this is a girlsâ night,â she said. âNo hate. Just⊠saying.â
âTwo minutes,â you muttered, eyes back on the screen.
Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. âIâm timing it,â she announced. âLike, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if youâre still in here, Iâm coming back and Iâm flushing your fucking phone.â
MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.
You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.
james barnes (bucky)
When are you heading home? | 11:02pm
Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm
It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.
You
im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm
and i literally slept over the other day đ pls stop | 11:05pm
You knew exactly why youâd put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.
You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.
Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didnât even look.
james barnes (bucky)
I will, sorry. | 11:06pm
Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm
Message me when youâre safe at Michelleâs please. | 11:07pm
You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didnât even want to fight it.
The second you got close, MJâs eyes slid right to you.
Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. âShame. Shame. Shame.â
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. âShame, shame, shame.â
They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didnât even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.
âYeah, yeah,â you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. âLaugh while you bitches can.â
You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.
Then MJ, from your left, âYou know I love you, right?â
You groaned into your drink on instinct. âMJ. Not right now.â
Darcy laughed beside you.
âI do,â MJ said anyway, undeterred. âI love you.â
ââMichelle, please.â
âHey, Iâm not trying to jump you. Iâm just asking⊠what are we doing right now?â
You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. âWeâre drinking right now.â
âMm-hm.â
Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.
âSweetie, weâre not judging you,â Darcy said, talking with her hands. âBut your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.â
You couldnât help the snort that came out of you.
Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. âNo, Iâm serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if heâs here right now. Somewhere we canât see. Just⊠posted up in a corner and watching you.â
âDarcy,â MJ said, exasperated.
âWhat?â Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. âMen do weird shit like that all the time.â
You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.
MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. âDarcy, please.â
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.
Then your shoulders dropped a little.
You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. âSo what should I do?â
âDump him.â
âDump his old creepy ass.â
MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.
âWow,â you said dryly. âThank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.â
Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. âYou asked,â she said.
MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. âThen take a break.â
You turned your head slowly. âA break?â
âA break,â she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. âNow hold on now. Not a breakup. Iâm not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. Iâm saying⊠maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.â
You frowned faintly, listening.
âBecause right now?â MJ continued, voice even, âthat man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think itâs cuteââ
You tilted your head. âItâs a little cute.â
ââbut itâs not healthy,â she finished. âHe needs to remember thereâs a world around him that doesnât revolve around you.â
Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediatelyâthe thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.
Still⊠the rest of it sounded reasonable.
A break wasnât a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.
âA break,â you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.
The conversation about a âbreakâ had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldnât quite scratch.
You knew you had to do itâsooner or laterâbut as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Buckyâs Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.
It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.
The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.
There he was.
Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.
He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.
He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.
When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.
The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.
âBuckyâplease... just give it to me,â you whimpered.
He didnât pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.
âI know, baby,â he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. âBut Iâm just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkinâ about her...â
He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . âSheâs so happy to see me, isnât she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.â
A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Buckyâs thick fingers probing your entrance.
He didnât rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.
Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.
âAnother one,â you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. âBaby, please... another one.â
He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didnât pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.
âAnother one?â he murmured.
He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. âLook at her... sheâs greedy, isnât she? Just begging for more.â
âBucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,â you whined.
He let out an amused, condescending huff, âI know, honey. I know youâre desperate.â
Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.
He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.
You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.
âTell me how it feels,â he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. âTell me how much you need me to fill you up.â
âI need... I need you,â you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. âPlease, Bucky, I canâtâIâm going toââ
âYouâre going to do exactly what I tell you,â he said hoarsely.
He didnât give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.
He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.
âUh-huh... okay,â you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.
âCum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,â he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.
âBucky, pleaseââ
âLook at me,â he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. âJust let go for me.â
As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. âFuck, fuck, fuckkkk!â
An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.
As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.
Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.
He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.
âGod, you taste so good,â he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. âYou are so weird.â
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. âYou love it,â he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. âNow, tell me how much you missed me today.â
âHa ha,â you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.
Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.
âHow was your day, doll?â he asked casually.
Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.
âI really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,â you breathed, your eyes locked on him.
You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.
Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.
Bucky didnât miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, âStill need me, huh? Good girl.â
With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long heâd been eating you out.
âYou ready for me?â he murmured.
You didnât even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.
Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.
You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.
He didnât go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.
âSo wet for me,â he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. âBeen thinkinâ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.â
âJustâfuck, put it in,â you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
âPatience, sweetheart,â he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.
You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.
âNeed to see my babyâs face while I fuck her,â he rasped.
As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.
He didnât let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.
Buckyâs brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. âGod, stretched you out so many times, but youâre still so tight for me... sâlike youâre tryinâ to squeeze the life outta me.â
He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. âYou like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing Iâm the only one who gets to do this to you.â
âYes... please, baby, all the way,â you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.
âI got you, doll,â he whispered.
And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.
You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.
He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.
âFeel that, baby?â he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. âFeel how much I need to be inside you? Youâre fuckinâ perfect... made for me.â
He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.
His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.
Buckyâs eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.
âLook at that,â he breathed, almost to himself. âLook how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. Sheâs so happy... sheâs gripping me so fuckinâ tight, like she never wants me to leave.â
You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.
âYou like being fucked like this?â he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. âYou like knowing I canât get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkinâ about burying myself inside you?â
âYes... yes, Bucky...â you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.
The frustration that had been simmering in Buckyâs chest finally boiled overâthe desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasnât enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.
The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.
Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.
For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.
But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.
He didnât like that. He needed you with him.
He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.
âThis house is always so big and quiet, baby,â he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.
You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.
âI miss you when youâre not here,â he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. âI hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.â
You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldnât form words, only broken moans and gasps.
Then his next sentence caught your attention.
âThink you should move in with me.â
He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.
You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didnât even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.
âIâll fuck you every morning when we wake upââ He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. ââand every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.â
He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.
âAnd you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I donât care.â His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. âJust come home to me. Let me take care of you.â
You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. âBucky, what the fuck are you talking aboâOh fuck!â
He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.
âFuck, yes,â he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. âThatâs it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.â
The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Buckyâs chest.
His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.
âAlmost there, doll,â he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. âSo close. Fuck, you feel so good.â
You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.
Something important.
It took you a second to remember itâthe empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadnât started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of⊠which Bucky knew.
Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.
âBaby,â you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. âRemember to pull out.â
He didnât seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.
He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.
âBucky.â You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. âDonât cum in me.â
It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.
âSheâs gripping me so tight, honey,â he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. âI donât think I can pull out.â
Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. âDonât you fucking dare.â
âI canât help it, doll.â His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. âIâll die if I donât cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?â
You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.
You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.
He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt itâhot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.
He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.
âFuck,â he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. âCouldnât help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.â
His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.
âYouâre gonna be the death of me,â he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. âBut what a way to gâ ow!â
The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.
His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that wouldâve been almost endearing if you werenât so overly irritated.
âClean. Me.â Your glare couldâve curdled milk.
It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.
Buckyâs mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.
He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.
âRight. âCourse. Yeah, I got it, doll.â He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. âShit. Let me justââ
You said nothing.
Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew heâd pissed you off.
You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess heâd made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.
You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.
And so began the silent treatment.
Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.
He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.
âYou know I love you, yeah?â
You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.
His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. âBut you know, sweetheart... if you hadnât been squeezing me so tight, I mightâve had a fighting chance. Howâs a guy supposed to think straight when youâre milking him like that?
You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. âAre you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?â
He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. âNo, noâIâm just sayingââ
âUh-huh.â You hummed, turning back to the TV.
He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. âI love you,â he murmured, trying a different angle. âYou know Iâd do anything for you.â
You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.
At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit heâd been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.
You had no idea where that came from.
His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. âAnd you know you love me too. Even when youâre mad. Even when youâre giving me the silent treatment like a brat.â
Your jaw tightened, but you didnât rise to the bait.
You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.
Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.
But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.
Let him think that.
âA break?â
The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you werenât staying, despite the way heâd lit up when you walked through the door.
Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. Heâd made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when heâd heard your knock.Â
Perfect timing, doll, I justâ
Except youâd cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldnât stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now thisâa weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if heâd just thrown the bowl at the wall.
He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.
âI donât understand,â he said, his voice low and carefully measured. âWhatâwhat does that mean?â
You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. âTime to spend away from each other while weââ
ââso youâre breaking up with me.â
It wasnât a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like youâd already handed him the pink slip.
âNo, Iâm not breaking up with you, Iâmââ
ââthen what are you saying?â His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.
He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, âBecause it sounds like youâre saying you wanna leave me. Like youâre done. Like Iâmââ
âIf you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!â
You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.
You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four.Â
When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.
âAÂ break,â you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, âmeans we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.â
Buckyâs jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.
âWhy?â His voice cracked on the single syllable. âWhy do we need that?â
You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, youâd rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadnât landed on a script that didnât make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.
âTo... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.â The words tasted like bullshit coming out.
He stared at you like youâd just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. âBut weâre not dependent on each other.â
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, you thought. Iâm not. But you sure as hell are.
You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp heâd nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.
âI mean, sweetie, câmon. Letâs be honest with ourselves right now.â
You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and thatâs when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.
âBucky, what areâhmphââ
Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.
What the fuck.
He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anythingâbefore you could even catch your breathâhis fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.
âMmphâBuckyââ
âI love you,â he emphasised.
Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.
âAnd you love me.â
Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.
âI need you, doll.â
And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldnât breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.
You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.
âWhat is wrong with you!â you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.
It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.
âDonât.â
The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.
Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.
âI donât understand where this is coming from,â he said, and the laugh that followed wasnât a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. âIâve done everything for you. Everything.â
You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadnât heard before. He wasnât looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.
âI buy you clothes.â Thud. Thud. âI pay for dinners.â Thud. âFor hair appointments. For nailsââ
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
ââIâve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.â His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. âI donât look at other women. I donât think about other women. I donât even notice other women exist unless theyâre blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?â
His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.
You opened your mouth to correct himâitâs a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakupâbut he bulldozed right over you.
âTell me.â He stepped closer. âWhat did I do?â
You scoffed.
Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.
And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.
You lifted a hand like it was obvious. âThe texts,â you said, flat.
His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like youâd just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. âWhat texts?â
You waved your hands around like you were crazy⊠because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.
âThe gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. âGood morning, doll.â âWhat are you eating for lunch, doll?â âDid you see the sunset, doll?â âThinking about you, doll.ââ You dropped your hands. âItâs a lot.â
He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. âYouâre breaking up with me because IÂ text too much?â
Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.
âOkay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?â You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. âWhen Iâmâwhen Iâm literally so distracted and canât form a coherent sentence?â
âSue me for getting lost in the moment,â he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. âI donât hear you ever complain when I say Iâm gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.â
âOh my God.â You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids.Â
Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. âI canât believe youâre breaking up with me.â
And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.
âFor the last time, itâs a break, Bucky,â you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. âItâs not forever. Just a few weeks⊠maybe a month or two⊠I donât know, weâll see.â
He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that youâd helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.
âIt doesnât have to be this big dramatic thing. I just needâI dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if Iâve eaten or if Iâm still mad or what Iâm wearing.â You waved a hand at his back. âLots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.â
He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. âCanât do a break, doll.â
You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. âWell, thatâs not really your choice toââ
He turned around.
And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.
You didnât even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.
âWhat the fuck!â
But Bucky didnât look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.
âOh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.â Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, âWhy do you have that right by the door?â
He ignored you.
âYou canât leave me if Iâm dead.â He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.
âBucky. Oh my God.â You rubbed your forehead. âPut that down!â
âNo.â His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler whoâd decided he was done with vegetables.
And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct youâd ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.
He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. âI swear Iâll kill myself. I will. Donât test me, doll.â
âOh my God.â
âI love you so much. I canât live without you.â He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. âI canât live without you. You know that. Youâve always known that.â
You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, âWeâve only been dating for seven months.â
Buckyâs eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.
But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. âSeven months and twenty-five days.â
âYou counted?â
âI know what Iâve got, sweetheart. And Iâm not letting it go.â His voice dropped, low and serious, âNot even if it kills me.â
You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.
His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, âIâm about to put a bullet through my skull and youâre laughing?â
You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, âI wanna say Iâm too old for this shit,â you said dryly, âbut youâre a hell of a lot older than me, so⊠what do we do now?â
âIââ He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. âThatâs not how youâre supposed to talk to me.â
Your brows knit together. âHow am I supposed to talk to you, then?â
The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.
âYouâre supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.â He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. âThatâs how this works.â
You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.
Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, âWell. I gotta go.â
âWaitâwhat?â
You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. âIâve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that Iâm probably gonna be late for.â
His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just⊠shifting.
âIâm about to kill myself,â he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, âand youâre leaving for a nail appointment.â
âYeah,â you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. âAnd you know how expensive Yelenaâs late fee is.â
âYou canât be serious.â His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. âIâm standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and youâre worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?â
âI am completely serious,â you said, ignoring the barb.
Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.
Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.
âFor fuckâs sakeââ
He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.
You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.
Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driverâs seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.
He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.
âIâll be back in a few hours.â Your tone was calm, almost kind. âWeâll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while Iâm gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.â
His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man whoâd just threatened to blow his brains outâ
But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.
In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.
Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. Heâll be fine. He always is.
âHe pulled out a gun?â
Yelena didnât look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.
The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months youâd been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.
Yelenaâs station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for âloyal customers only.â
âYeah,â you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. âI wonât lieâfor a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.â
Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. âI see a lot of white American men do that on the news.â She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. âWhere do they get such easy access to guns?â
You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. âWhen you figure that out, please let me know.â
She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension.Â
âSo,â she said, not looking up, âyou are done with this mad man, da?â
You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelenaâs eyes snapped to yours.
âGirl.â
âWhat?â you said defensively.
âYou have that look,â she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. âThat look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.â
You pointed a finger at her. âHeâs not ugly.â
Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, âDa. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.â
âIt is not that simple,â you said a bit hopelessly.
âThen make it simple so I understand,â she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. âExplain to me like I am child.â
You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating?Â
âSee, being with a manâitâs like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, Iâve invested a lot.â You gestured vaguely. âTime. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. Iâve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. Thatâs work, Yelena. Thatâs equity. And as a result Iâve grown very comfortable with him.â
She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. âAnd you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?â
âBut he wasnât threatening me,â you emphasised, straightening up. âHe threatened himself to keep me. Thereâs a difference.â
Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.
âThere is no difference,â she said flatly. âGun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.â
âI probably sounds insane.â
âIt is insane,â she corrected, picking up the glue again. âBut I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.â
She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. âOr maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, âI told her.ââ
You stared at her.
âThatâs a bit dramatic, donât you think?â you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.
Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didnât answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.
âHe must have a big dick, huh?â
The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. âYes he does.â
âOf course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.â She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. âBig dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.â
âBut heâs kind,â you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. âAnd thoughtful. And attentiveââ
âAnd crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,â she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.
You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.
She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. âYou are just as crazy as him.â
âExcuse me?â
âYou are,â she repeated, âYou like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.â She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. âAnd horny.â
You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.
You thought about the way Buckyâs texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.
You reached for it automatically, half expecting Buckyâs name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didnât recognize.
You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.
âHello?â
Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.
âHe what?!â
The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salonâs white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldnât bring yourself to care.
You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a womanâs perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.
âUh huh. Mhm-mhm.â
Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didnât realise youâd been holding.
âSeriously? Okay. Iâll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.â
You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. âWhat was that?â
You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.
âFool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?â
Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
âThat is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,â she said. âNot even in my country.â
âTell me about it.â
Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.
You still didnât know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your headâswearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.
The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.
But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.
The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.
Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.
He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.
His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasnât speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess heâd been a few hours ago.
Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didnât look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.
And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.
There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldnât even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.
The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.
Buckyâs head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.
The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.
âNow before you say anything,â he started. âI really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and Iââ
You didnât let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.
He made a surprised soundâa muffled mmphâbut it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.
The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, âNo break.â
His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. Youâd never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.
And thatâs how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.
Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, heâd shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.
You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.
âPretty,â he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.
You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. âYelena had a lot to say about us.â
âYeah?â He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. âLike what?â
You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. âJust very true things.â
âSuch as?â he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.
You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.
âThat weâre both crazy,â you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, âAnd i agree.â
A beat of silence.
Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. âWhatever you say, doll.â
Summary: Steve assigns a mission to you and the Bucky, knowing full well you donât get along. You donât know why, but one day Bucky decided he couldn't stand you anymore, and itâs been a battle since. What you didnât expect was for Starkâs tech to give out on a mission to one of the coldest regions on the planet. Or for the stereo system to be the last straw.Â
Words: 11.9k (I did this instead of work on my novel)
Warnings/Tags: No use of Y/N. Not canon compliant in the slightest. 40s inspired outfits and music (I did lots of research for this one but Iâm sorry if itâs historically inaccurate). Mean!Bucky, but also soft!Bucky. Enemies-to-lovers but really, theyâre idiots. Lots of pining. Forced proximity. Lack of communication because do we really think he knows how? Reader has abandonment issues. Reader is described to use a curled hairstyle briefly. Reader has an engineering background, but I donât so itâs not perfect. The pictures above are not meant to describe reader. Age gap (heâs 106âŠ). Symptoms of hypothermia. Hurt/comfort. Major groveling. Angst, always HEA. if I missed anything lmk.
Proofread by me... and only me lol. masterlist in pinned
PRIORÂ
It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It wonât even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else.Â
Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasnât like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily âsettle downâ in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating.Â
Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there?
Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together.Â
The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if heâd chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave.Â
Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isnât a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out.Â
And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand.Â
Turns out getting in and getting out wouldnât be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering.Â
âCover me.â He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadnât needed to pull the trigger once.Â
âWhat? No. You cover me.â You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasnât that you werenât capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didnât it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?
âNo. Iâll retrieve it, you stand watch.â His voice turned cold as you both approached the door.Â
âThat doesnât make any sense!â You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion.Â
But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.
You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall.Â
âIt makes sense because I know this place,â he drops his tone low to match the whisper, âI can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.âÂ
You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him.Â
You didnât respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark.Â
Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with.Â
It hadnât always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadnât had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the griefâthe angerâand thatâs how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for.Â
You hadnât always been great at making friends, but it didnât matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.
Bucky⊠was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasnât personal.Â
Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.
You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadnât been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission.Â
But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Janeâs. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders.Â
You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked âDid I do something?âÂ
But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And thatâs how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didnât find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didnât seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you werenât capable.Â
Thatâs when you started speaking up, and thatâs when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: âWhat the hell is your problem?â But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, âIâd rather not have a liability on a mission Iâm supervising.âÂ
The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far heâd come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve⊠but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently.Â
The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question.Â
âWere you even paying attention?â He looked astonished, unbelieving.
âYes.â No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you.Â
He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didnât remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: âLet's go.â
It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet.Â
Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet.Â
Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.
âItâs not starting.â Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine.Â
âIt has to start.â You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didnât listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, âScoot.âÂ
âI doubt itâs going to behave any differently for you.â He didnât budge.Â
Fine then.Â
You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees.Â
âYou could have justââ he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didnât turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place.Â
âWhat? Been that long since a woman came near you?â You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. Heâd shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation.Â
His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, âBeen so long since a man's been near you that you donât understand personal space?â
Okay, ouch, but fair.Â
âI asked you to move,â You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didnât want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadnât bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasnât even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still⊠feel that for another person.Â
You especially didnât like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany.Â
âAnd you could have explained why before you practically bent over in frontââ
âI did not bend over!â You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. âI crouched!â
âWell you might as well haveââ
âHas it really been that long that youâve forgottenâOW!â You hadnât expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadnât exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. âFuckââ you mumbled around it.
Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth.Â
âHey!â You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, âNow who doesnât know personal space!âÂ
âShut up and let me check it.â He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength.Â
âItâs just a burn.â You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires.Â
âWhyâd it do that?â His voice rasped, like he didnât like that this wasnât something he knew.Â
Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills canât help you with this.Â
Small victories.Â
You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, âThe internal mechanisms must still be functional, itâs the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but itâs too cold for the ship to respond to it.âÂ
Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring.Â
Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit.Â
After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, âIâm gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.â He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear.Â
Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve?Â
You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldnât be professional to eavesdrop but⊠then again, you didnât really give a fuck.Â
You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that youâve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear.Â
You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door.Â
âThereâs gotta be a quicker way out of thisâŠâ he sounded frustratedâno, aggravated. Beyond.Â
âItâs negative fifty degrees, sheâs not built for this and even I havenât adapted yet.âÂ
It wasnât often you heard him complain about comfort, you werenât sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you werenât built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in.Â
âDonât leave me like this, manâŠâ his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, âstranded...with her.â
With her.Â
With her?Â
You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldnât be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain.Â
Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half youâve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadnât disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite.Â
Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didnât care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know heâd throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasnât. Until he found something lacking in you.Â
You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest.Â
âSteve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since weâre so far outâŠâ he looked away, like the words physically pained him, âitâll most likely be tomorrow.âÂ
Tomorrow.Â
When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, âOkay.âÂ
His brows rose immediately, like he couldnât quite believe what heâd heard, âOkay? That's it?âÂ
You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. âShould we try to head into town?â You asked.
He still didnât look like he believed that was all you had to say, âNo. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.âÂ
Right.Â
Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, âWeâre going to need to check for supples⊠see if we have any MREs.â Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.
Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.
âWhatâs wrong?â Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent.Â
The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, âNothing.â Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man youâve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didnât sound like the best use of energy.Â
When you didnât get an immediate response, you turned to find the jetâs storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didnât know better.Â
He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening.Â
âYouâre freezing.â He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out.Â
ââm fine.â You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, âBuckyââ
âThatâs it?â He said again, eyes flickering between yours, âNo complaint, no insult?â
You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry.Â
He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasnât as blank as the soldier, who youâd only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just⊠turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you.Â
You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didnât even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured heâd be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didnât bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff.Â
So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didnât expect to find much.Â
âThought you werenât cold,â you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing.Â
He didnât miss a beat when he said, âIâm not,â and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing.Â
Your eyes widened, was heâŠ?Â
âWhy donât you go check the nook for any MREs?â He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.
âIâŠâ it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasnât even shivering?Â
As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasnât adding up, unless you just didnât understand some aspect of superhuman nature.Â
You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasnât as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.
A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadnât looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder.Â
What you didnât expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didnât like that they looked good.Â
He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, âThat all that was back there?âÂ
You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, âYeah, turns out they donât stock this ship regularly.âÂ
He only shrugged, âThis isnât one of the mains.â He didnât look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.
âYou changed.â The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing.Â
âYeah,â he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, âYou need more layers, especially for nightfall.â
You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didnât like the idea of wearing someone elseâs clothes either.Â
He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, âItâs this or hypothermia. You choose, doesnât affect me either way.â He growled.Â
And there it was.Â
You took the clothes with nothing but an, âIâm aware,â as you stalked off to change.
Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldnât do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didnât feel⊠charged.Â
The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You werenât sure if he was checking that you hadnât frozen over, or just silently cursing your name.Â
By the third hour in, you couldnât sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasnât just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing.Â
You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away.Â
âYou need more,â he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument.Â
You werenât even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie.Â
When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.
âBuckyââ
âDonât.â You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldnât move.Â
âThought it didnât affect you eitherââ
âShut up.â He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didnât meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant.Â
He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you werenât sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didnât even realize as you began to nod offâ
âNuh uh,â suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE.Â
You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, âNoââÂ
He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly.Â
âYouâre bigger,â you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, âyou need itââ
âYou need the energy,â he focused his hands on assembling the rations, âDigestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.âÂ
You knew that, youâd probably remember going over it in college if thinking werenât so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, âBut youââ
âIâm enhanced, doll,â his voice was gentler this time, âI can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.â Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin.Â
You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth.Â
Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now⊠dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth.Â
An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadnât expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didnât expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.
But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you werenât too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.
The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didnât once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didnât say anything more, didnât comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure youâre still with him with open concern.Â
Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasnât sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldnât sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just.Â
You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didnât stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosisâŠ
âOkay, come here.â
His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didnât even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. âWhat are you doing?â Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead.Â
âTrying to keep you alive, youâre losing color.â Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours.Â
âAre you notâŠ?â
He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, âI lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.âÂ
You werenât sure what to say to that. You didnât have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you.Â
He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, âHumor me,â in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. Youâd feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldnât find an ounce of it anywhere.Â
His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain.Â
You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back.Â
What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture.Â
You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one questionâŠÂ
ââŠWhy?âÂ
You were asleep before you could hear his response.Â
The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light.Â
The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasnât. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldnât be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didnât want to push the hospitality he gave⊠didnât want to overstay your welcome.Â
So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than youâd heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. Itâs safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms.Â
You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than youâd ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip andâ
You stood, took several steps back.
That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didnât know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy.Â
You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver.Â
One more time.
You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle toâŠ
Little more to the left.
Angle, andâ
Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasnât tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few⊠adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system.Â
Rock⊠country⊠rap⊠popâŠ
âWhat are you doing?â
His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadnât even heard him approaching.Â
You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was.Â
You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, âTrying to get us some music⊠maybe we wonât be bored to death.âÂ
Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. âWe donât need music,â he said.Â
You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. âWhat do you mean? I thought you liked music?â Sam had said so at least.Â
You knew you liked similar music, so you didnât really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood.Â
âWe have better things to be doing.â He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You werenât about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment.Â
You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, âSomeone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,â another jab at the stereo system, âYou said we canât go into town. So, no. We really donât have better things to do.â
He growled your name, but it was too late.Â
The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers.Â
You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then youâd sing something like this on the way home. Sheâd let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.
You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing alongâ
Until the music stopped completely.
You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you.Â
Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. Youâd think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.
But werenât you doing a nice thing? You didnât understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong?Â
You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door.Â
But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didnât care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it.Â
You turned to him with a fire in your throat, âWhat the hell is wrong with you?!â You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go.Â
You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasnât the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for.Â
It didnât exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didnât need it.
 âExcuse me?â it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you.Â
âDonât act like you didnât hear me,â you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, âWhat the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?âÂ
âYou know damn well I donât have a goddamn problem with the radio,â he snarled, matching your step forward, âmy problem is you. Always has been.âÂ
You could have acted shocked. You werenât, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and youâve never needed anyone. Never will.Â
âYeah, I got that. âYou ever going to tell me why?â You shout back, another step forward.
âBecause you go and do shit like this!âÂ
âLike what?! Try to give us something to do while weâre stuck here? Put on music we both likeââ
âYou remind me of the 40s!â
His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place?Â
You didnât have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra.Â
âDo you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it mattersââ
âWhat are youââ
âUh-uh,â he held up a finger to you, ânone of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend sheâs different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesnât matter. You know nothing. Youâre a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dotââÂ
You didnât think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything.Â
The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasnât like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didnât like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.
Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didnât really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved.Â
âYouââ it was your turn to point a finger, âare a piece of shit, James Barnes. You donât know anything about me or who I amââ
âYaâ seem pretty easy to read to me.â He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger.Â
âWell, news flash!â You mocked, âYou know fuck-all! And honestly? I donât believe thatâs the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, Iâve seen you!âÂ
âIâm allowed to!â He turned it on you, âYou donât get to take something you know nothing about and pretendââÂ
âIâm not pretending! Why would I be?â You scoffed, âIt was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!âÂ
âExactly, Iââ He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didnât, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.
It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns.Â
But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks.Â
âHeard you two needed a rescue,â She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst.Â
âBetter late than never, aye, tin man?â Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them.Â
âThank god,â you mumbled as you reached Natasha.Â
She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, âThat bad, huh?â she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.
You sighed, âConsider it a miracle we didnât kill each other.âÂ
You didnât bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didnât pay attention. Only returning a smile to Samâs teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didnât bother making small talk the rest of the flight.Â
When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didnât look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldnât get along, and yet the look on Steveâs face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day.Â
The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen. What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, âAre you sure?âÂ
You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention?Â
She shrugged, âItâs just⊠Iâve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and youâre not the combative type. This energy is⊠intense,â she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, âI just wonder if thereâs something moreâŠâÂ
You huffed, âThere isnât.â You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.
Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, âYou just seem riled up.âÂ
âIâm just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?â You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more.Â
âMaybe you need a distraction?âÂ
âI donât feel like going to the gym right nowâŠâ
âI didnât mean the gym,â Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother.Â
But you werenât sure what she was getting at now, âWandaâŠâ
âYou need a break,â She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, âMaybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.â She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, âGo do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.ââÂ
She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasnât in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didnât know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory.Â
You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didnât like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble.Â
Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steveâs voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didnât help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasnât doing much to hide his distress.Â
He sighed, finally lifting his head, âWhyâd you put us on that mission?â Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didnât like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time heâd set a record.Â
Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, âBecause I get it.âÂ
Well, if that wasnât the most vague answer possible. âWhatâs there to get?â Also, what could he possibly get?Â
There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, âYouâre different now, Buck. Youâre not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.âÂ
Bucky scoffed, turning away, âI donât see what that has to do with anything.âÂ
âIâm saying,â he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, âthat it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing⊠especially in a new time and place.âÂ
Buckyâs eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didnât hate you, he wasnât even the least frustrated by you⊠at least not how heâd portrayed it. He was just⊠struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought heâd never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest.Â
Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasnât sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl heâd seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you werenât sure it was pleasing at all.Â
And Steve was right. He wasnât the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didnât have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasnât mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone⊠alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling⊠hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked.Â
Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, âTalk to me, pal.âÂ
Bucky wasnât sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, âI said some horrible things, Steve.âÂ
He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didnât need anyone to add onto it.Â
When he didnât immediately respond, Bucky continued, âShe started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night⊠I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.â He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, âI held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I⊠I couldnât handle it.âÂ
âDid you try to make it right?â He asked.Â
âI didnât have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,â He looked back up at Steve, âI donât think sheâd listen anyway.âÂ
âIf you told her the truth, I bet she would.âÂ
âI wouldnât even know what to say⊠like you said, Iâm not who I was.â
Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, âYou donât need to be, I donât think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.âÂ
Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. âItâs been a year of this, thereâs no wayââ
âIâve never known you to not work for what you want.â Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didnât have a doubt about the statement.Â
And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. Heâd come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, âI think Iâd rather her hate me than lose her altogether.âÂ
Steve only had one response to that: âBut what if you didnât lose her? What if she didnât hate you at all?â
In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didnât feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you.Â
You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didnât chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasnât their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor.Â
You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldnât afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers.Â
Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured youâd know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner.Â
It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.
You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew youâd have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you werenât sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.
You cleared your throat, âYes?âÂ
There was a moment where he looked⊠unsure? You werenât sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, âI want to explain.â
Oh. Straight to the point.Â
You shrugged, âYou explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.â Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured heâd let you, and that heâd let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. Youâd watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldnât have to bother him, because it didnât have to affect him.
But he only stepped closer down the hall, âI mean that I want to apologize.â The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them.Â
You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, âExcuse me?â You must have misheard.Â
And yet, âI want to apologize.â He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. âMy behavior was hurtful and Iââ
âYou were honest.â You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didnât know how to navigate it, âNow we canââ
âBut I wasnât.â It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. âI wasnât,â he repeated, âIâŠâ he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction.Â
You couldnât remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, youâd bite. You gave him your full attention, âWhat do you mean, you werenât honest?âÂ
The question didnât seem to help, and you couldnât help but notice how he couldnât quite look at you. Heâd glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. âI called you infuriating, which you are⊠itâs just thatâŠâ he trailed off, going quiet.Â
You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, âThanks for the reminder, BarnesââÂ
âNo!â He stepped closer, then back again. âI meant thatâthat you are, just not in the way I said.âÂ
What?Â
You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words.Â
But he only kept going, âYou are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,â he said your name like a plea, âeveryone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and Iâm done forââ
âI walk in a room, and you leaveââ
âBecause I donât know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?â He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant.Â
But he couldnât possiblyâ
âYou walk in a room,â he repeated slowly, âand suddenly Iâm twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.âÂ
Oh.Â
But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, âBucky, this isnât funnyââ
âIâm not joking.â He said immediately, his face broken, âI wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things Iâve done, I donât think joking about this is one I could manage.â
Doll. Youâd heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. âI donât understand.â Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels.Â
âI know,â he nods, âI know. Iâve been horrible to you, and Iâm so unbelievably sorry. I⊠I donât have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didnât only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw youâŠâ his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, âevery time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you⊠but I donât think I ever even believed myself.âÂ
You stared, and stared⊠and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if heâd disappear. He didnât. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words.Â
He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, âPlease say somethingâŠâÂ
Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. âSo this whole time⊠every insultâŠâÂ
He was already shaking his head, âI didnât mean it. I donât even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time⊠suddenly any attention from you was enough. Iâd take whatever youâd give me.âÂ
That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he wasâŠÂ
You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, âYou idiot!âÂ
He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, âOkay, Iâm sorryââÂ
But you didnât let him, immediately stepping into his space, âYouâre telling me weâve been arguing andâand Iâve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when weâŠâ you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadnât actually said he wanted you, and you knew better than to get your hopes up.Â
He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head.Â
You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, âYou know I have no one, and Iâm okay with it. Iâm used to it, so trying to toy with me isnât going to workââÂ
You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didnât want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you werenât sure any man had ever given you. He didnât even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt.Â
And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.
Except that anger wasnât completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, donât make me regret this.Â
The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you werenât even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into.Â
And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, âYou have me. All of me. You have always had me.âÂ
note: this is my first time posting in a long time, and also my longest fic so far! I haven't gotten to write creatively for a long time (fuck you college) so this was honestly a challenge. I hope everyone enjoyed it. And if not, it will improve as I get back into the swing of things lol
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS
18+ | MDNI - masterlist
PAIRING: farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader
SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if youâre doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frighteningânot when itâs held in careful hands like his.
WARNINGS: pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader & have a salt-and-pepper stubble, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival (this man is disgustingly whipped); reader uses "jamie" a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (đââïž); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 26.2k
A/N: so... I wonât lie, Iâm a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many peopleâs cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope youâll enjoy!
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES
Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.
Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.
And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. Itâs embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.
You donât even know why this matters so much. You have never done this beforeâthe soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.
Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.
âBefore you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and sheâd come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.â
Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.
Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property heâd personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.
He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.
You remember smiling nervously. âSo⊠what exactly are we doing here?â
Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. âI was hoping I could court you properly.â
Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.
You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.
âOnly if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.â
No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.
Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, âmy pretty girl shouldnât have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff roomâ; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his auntâs friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.
Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?
Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.
The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, âdonât gotta sell it to me, doll. Iâll take you wherever you wanna go.â
You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. Itâs a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, theyâre such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.
Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like heâs been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.
There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appearsânot teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
âI thought the color looked nice.â The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.
Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.
âNobody said it didnât, baby.â
You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesnât let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.
âCâmere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.â He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.
The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.
Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.
âWatch your head.â
You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.
As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driverâs seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for youâthe way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.
âYouâre fidgeting.â He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. âWhatâs going on in that pretty head, hm?â
You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.
âNothing. Iâm just a little cold.â
Bucky hums under his breath like he doesnât believe you for even a second, yet doesnât comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.
In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.
âYou look lovely tonight.â
That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.
The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.
His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.
âThereâs my pretty girl.â
Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.
âI missed you so much, baby.â
You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.
His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. âYou okay?â
You nod eagerly.
âYou wore it.â The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.
Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.
âThought weâd look real cute if we matched.â
You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And thatâs the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesnât treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.
Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.
âHeatâs been on for a bit.â He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driverâs seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.
âI know itâs not the warmest of hoodies.â
When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.
âYou alright there, doll?â He asks with a small crease between his brows.
You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.
âYâknow, I think Iâm getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.â He murmurs against your skin.
From that point on, itâs an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize heâs genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.
And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.
âYou wearing the brown boots today?â
You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.
You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.
In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.
Itâs one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriendâs lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.
The contrast is cute rather than discordant.
You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you donât know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels⊠It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.
You donât notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.
âAlright, lovely?â He asks, voice unbothered.
You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesnât push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.
âHey,â his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. âWhat were you saying before I got up? About yesterdayâs meeting?â
Itâs such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People donât usually do thatâthey interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.
So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.
The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure.Â
âThere is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that heâs lazy and justââ You exhale tiredly. âShe believes he doesnât care about school.â
His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.
âAnd I tried to explain that it isnât that simple,â you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. âBecause itâs true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she⊠well, she went off on me.â
His brows draw together. âWent off how?â
Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.
âShe accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.â You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. âBecause students do well in English. Including Mark.â
You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.
âAnd the principal just let it slide?â His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.
You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. âShe has been teaching there forever. They just donât deal with her anymore. Alice described her asâah, sorry. Alice is theââ
âThe art teacher.âÂ
You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.
âYeah.âÂ
He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.
âI remember.â
âOh.â You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your lifeâespecially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.
âUm.â You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. âSo, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since sheâs close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because itâs easier than arguing with her.â
You hesitate for a second. âYears ago, there was this new physical education teacher...â Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. âShe refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didnât want her schedule disrupted.â
Your jaw clenches briefly. âHe told the principal⊠and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his âlack of professionalismâ, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.â
âWhat the fuck?â He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. âWaitâand they just expect you to take it?â His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.
âPretty much.â You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.
For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. Itâs in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachersâ group chatâthe one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memesâbriefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.
Buckyâs attention promptly lands on it too. He doesnât comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.
âWhat was that?â He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.
âNothing.â You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.
âThat didnât exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.â
You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. âJust a random picture.â You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. âI was on Instagram and forgot to close it.â
That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.
âA picture you donât wanna show me?â He asks gently.
You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between youânot to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.
âYou can tell me anything.â His voice is steady in a way that doesnât leave room for pressure, only reassurance. âYâknow that, right?â
You shiver at the proximity. You do know, thatâs the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.
âI just⊠saw something,â you confess weakly. âThat I thought would be cute to recreate together.â
Buckyâs expression softens instantly.
âWhat is it, sweetheart?âÂ
You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. âIâd like for us to take pictures like⊠couples do.â
He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.
âCâmere.â
You blink. âWhat?â
He nods toward his lap.
âCâmere, doll.â He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.
The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. Itâs humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if thatâs exactly where you are meant to be.
Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.
âYouâre thinking way too hard.â He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.
âIâm not.â You insist weakly.
Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.
âBaby,â he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. âYouâve taken six pictures of the table.â
Your face burns.
âIâm trying.â You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.
âI know. Youâre doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...â He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, âIâm definitely not complaining right now.â
The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.
The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and thatâs him.
A coy smile brightens your features. Itâs a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.
âThere she is.â A comment under his breath, meant for himself.
You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.
âThey came out pretty nice, huh?âÂ
You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.
âThank you, Jamie.â
The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.
âYou donât need to thank me.â His voice low but firmâa fact rather than a suggestion. âI love spending time with my girl. Yâhear me, baby?â
Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.
âYou ask me for something, Iâm gonna give it to you if I can.â He adds quietly against your mouth.
You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, itâs just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.
You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.
âI should probably go.â You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.
A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.
âIâll walk you to your car.â
By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driverâs side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kissâquick and sweet and still a little flusteredâbut before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.
âSend me those pictures later.â
You almost flinch in surprise. âYou want them?â
That earns you a look.
âSweetheart,â he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. âOf course I want the pictures we took together.â
You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.
Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. Itâs a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.
Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME
Buckyâs bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.
The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.
The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. Itâs clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.
There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone elseâs clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. Itâs like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe thatâs exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.
With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.
You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.
For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.
âHey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked overââ
Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.
On his flannel wrapped around your body.
His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.
âOh my God,â you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. âIâm so sorry, IâI saw it there andââ
The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.
Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.
âAre you apologizing for wearing my shirt?â He lifts an eyebrow.
Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Buckyâs eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.
âThere,â he murmurs. âBetter.â
When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. âYou keeping this one, sweetheart?â
âWhat?â The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.
âThe shirt,â he nods at it, still delighted. âThink itâs yours now.â
âBucky, no. I canât just steal it.â
âSure you can.â He shrugs easily.
Your eyes widen. âWhatâno!â
A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.
âAngel,â he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. âYouâre standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think Iâd be pretty stupid to ask for it back.â
You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.
âYouâre exaggerating.â
A quiet laugh falls from his lips. âYou were twirling around in front of the mirror.â
Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.
âI was not!â
âYou absolutely were.â
âI was simply checking how it fit.â
âMm-hmm.â
Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.
âLooks better on you anyway.â He murmurs.
âThatâs a lie.â You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.
âAinât.â
âItâs your shirt.â You retort weakly.
âNot anymore.â
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.
âYâknow,â he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. âI like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.â
Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
âI think that would get out of hand very fast.â You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.
He smirks down at you. âWould it now?â
âYou have a lot of nice flannels.â Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.
âMhm.â
âAnd your hoodies are comfortable.â The tip of your nose brushes his.
âThat so?â His brows shoot up playfully.
âAnd your jackets smell good.â You admit before you can stop yourself.
That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.
âOh, sweetheart,â he drawls. âYouâre in real trouble then.â
You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms donât allow you to stray too far from him.
âDonât make fun of me.â
âIâm not making fun of you.â His hands settle more firmly. âJust thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.â
His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.
âActually,â he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. âMight need to make a rule.â
You squint up at him suspiciously. âA rule?â
âYeah.â He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. âThink the second you walk through my front door, youâre legally required to put on one of my flannels.â
âLegally required?â You ask unimpressed.
âMm-hmm.â
You shake your head pensively. âI really donât think you can do that, Jamie.â
âSweetheart, I own the property.â His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.
âMeans I make the laws around here.â
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.
âNo exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I donât care. Flannel goes on.â He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.
âDonât even need to wear anything else underneath.â A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.
You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. âThis is the dumbest rule Iâve ever heard.â
âAnd yet,â his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. âHere you are.â
At some point, Bucky doesnât announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, heâs already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it outâdoesnât matter if youâre staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesnât demand anything from either of you. And then heâs crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.
Something unmistakably youâfamiliar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always useâmixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.
His obsession for your scent doesnât stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.
Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.
âWanna hear you, princess.â He murmurs against your collarbones. âLet me hear how good it feels, câmon.â
Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.
âJamie!â You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.
The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourselfâone of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.
âPrettiest tits Iâve ever seen.â He growls.Â
âJamie, itâsâoh my God.â Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.
âMhm, I know princess, theyâre so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?â You nod eagerly. Buckyâs dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.
âThatâs it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.â He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze.Â
Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for himânot a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly.Â
First, itâs his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.
âJamie...â You whine, your bodyâstill so sensitiveâlurching at his delicate teasing.
âLook at the pretty mess you made.â He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses.Â
You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.
âGonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.â He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. âMake you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.â
âShit!â You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. Itâs so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.Â
When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. âCâmon princess, time to make a mess on my face.â He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.
Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.
ââM gonnaâJamie!â You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.
When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.
âBreathe, angel.â He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. âYou did so good for me, lovely.â
You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about itâhe knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldnât be far from the truth.
Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Buckyâs body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on whatâs going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.
âWhat are you doing, doll?â He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?
Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. âPlease, Jamie.â
âPlease what?â One of his hands grasps your jaw. âUse your words.â
You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. âYour cock... please.â
âYouâre making a mess.â He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy.Â
âYou need my help, baby?â He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.
It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. âI know, I know. baby girl. Itâs big, hm?â He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.
âEyes on me, princess⊠There you go, thatâs a good girl.â Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isnât getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.
âHold on to me.â You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.
Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.
It only spurs him on because, âFucking hellâyes, baby. Your Jamie.â Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.
His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair.Â
âSheâs so tight.â He grunts. âKeep clenching like that and Iâll make you leak for days.â
Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. âPlease.â
He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.
âJamie...â You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. ââM so closeâoh my God, yes right there!â
âI know, princess.â He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. âFuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?â His lips twist smugly. âDonât worry sweetheart, this cockâs all yours.â
Your breath stumbles in your throat as though thereâs not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that heâs fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.
âTell me when youâre close.â He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. âSo I can fill my pussy up. Thatâs what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?âÂ
Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. Itâs not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.
âThatâs it.â He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. âJust like that, beautiful.â
Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriendâs name. Until thereâs nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.
Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you upâthe thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.
âOh, my pretty princess.â Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK
By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.
You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentrationâwhich is oftenâhe appears unapproachable to anyone who doesnât know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.
Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk togetherâjust enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.
And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.
And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.
It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.
Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.
Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what itâs like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?
So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purposeâan open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.
But itâs the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.
Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Buckyâs longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.
You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.
âBaby, believe me, youâre worrying over nothing. They already like you.â He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.
You glance over suspiciously. âTheyâve never met me.â
Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.
âSamâs heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.â
âThatâs not reassuring.â You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.
A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.
âYouâre meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.â
âThey could easily be the same thing.â You insist. âMeeting your partnerâs best friends is basically like meeting... I donât knowâtheir adoptive parents.â Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
âDonât laugh! Iâm serious. Thereâs judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I donât know about yet.â You hastily list with your fingers.
That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.
âBabyââ
âNo, because what if they hate me?â You whine, already spiraling. âWhat if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says âlanguageâ unironically.â
Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.
âSteve absolutely says language unironically.â
âSee? Iâm going to swear once and heâs never going to recover from it.â
His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesnât turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.
âYouâre one to talk anyway.â You quip before he can say anything.
His eyes go wide. âExcuse me?â
âBecause letâs talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.â You smile innocently, straightening up. âYou kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didnât know what to wear.â
Thereâs a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.
âHey, I wanted to make a good first impression.â He frowns.
âYou were debating a tie,â you repeat slowly. âFor bowling.â
âIt was a new environment.â He shrugs.
Your eyebrows shoot up. âIt was bowling!â
He simply shakes his head dismissively. âYou donât understand the social dynamicsââ
âYou were spiraling,â you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. âI remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that Iâve never seen you wear to this day.â
âI was being thoughtful.â He answers quickly.
âThatâs anxiety.â
âThatâs being prepared. And my first impression went fine.â
âYeah, because I talked you out of the tie.â
You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.
âI see how it is. I donât need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.â
Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.
âIt was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.â
âTo who? A bowling ball?â
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.
A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â
Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.
âSteve and Sam are gonna like you. Thatâs not even up for debate.â He says anyway, quieter now.
You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.
âAnd neither is the fact that youâre still nervous about a tie.â You add gently.
His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. âIt was a good tie.â
And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.
Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.
Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.
And then there is the hand-holding âincidentâ.
You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Buckyâs hand resting near yours on the booth seat.
His large, warm palm tilted upward.
Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think itâs excessive?
Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.
Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.
Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Buckyâs fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.
Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesnât mean hating cuddles.
Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.
You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.
His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.
âYouâre holding it wrong.â
Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.
âWhat?â
Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.
âThere,â he murmurs near your shoulder. âLess chance of slipping.â
The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesnât even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.
A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.
You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.
From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.
âSteve!â He whispers sharply.
The other man canât help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.
âWhat.â
âMan, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?â
Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.
âYeah,â he rasps out. âAnd?â
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST
Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.
One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.
And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.
âDid you come all the way over here just to start my car?â
His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.
âYou hate being cold, sweetheart.â
Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.
By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.
Eat something besides crackers today.
This oneâs got vegetables in it. Donât roll your eyes.
At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.
âJamie,â you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. âI can feed myself.â
âI know you can.â
The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas heâs putting away in your freezer.
âThen why are you doing all this?â
That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.
âBecause yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.â
Heat floods your face instantly. âIt was one time.â
âIt happened last Tuesday as well, baby.â
Your eyes squint at him betrayed. âYou remember way too much.â
âYou tell me things,â he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. âAnd I pay attention.â
Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days youâve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before youâve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around itânever demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, heâs already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.
âThree coffees, baby.â He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.
You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.
âThis is tea.â
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.
âSweetheart,â he starts patiently. âThat thing smells like melted tiramisu.â
Your smile is sheepish. âItâs been a hard week.â
The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheekâa gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.
âI know, princess.â He murmurs softly. âStill need water though.â
And somehowâimpossiblyâyou find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, youâve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody elseâs needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.
Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.
There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their childâs struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are âexperienced enoughâ to manage disruptive students, because âyou definitely donât look like you areâ. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your âoverly emotional teaching styleâ in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.
By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Buckyâs old sweatshirtsâthe same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.
You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting itâs late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.
Already driving
12:22am
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.
âHey there, princess.â He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.
And thatâs the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.
âIâm okay.â You quickly try to reassure him, but donât do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.
His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.
âYou ate dinner?â
The hesitation on your face answers for you.
His jaw clenches slightly. âSweetheart.â
âI wasnât hungry.â You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.
âI know, angel.â His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. âBut you had a long day.â
There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.
âHey,â he murmurs. âIâm not angry.â
Your shoulders visibly lower a little.
âSit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?â
And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.
You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.
âYou always think about me like that?â You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.
Bucky glances at you from where heâs adjusting the blanket around your legs. âLike what?â
âLike⊠this.â You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. âTaking care of thingsâof me, before I even notice whatâs wrong.â
ââCourse I do, princess.â He answers quietly.
Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Buckyâs eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw.Â
âYou spend so much time looking after everybody else.â He starts under his breath. âI just want... somebody looking after you too.â His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and thatâs when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.
âI wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You donât gotta hold it together with me.â
âAnd when it gets too much out there,â he adds after a beat. âOr here,â his knuckle gently brushes your temple. âIâll be right beside you. Iâll catch you. Every time.â
You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, werenât even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heartâthe hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.
Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.
âBucky!â You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. âStop laughing.â
âSweetheart,â he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. âWhyâre you wearing those heels out here?â
âI didnât think it would be this bad.â
âMhm.â
You narrow your eyes at him. âYouâre being mean.â
His grin only grows as he reaches you.
âFar from it, princess. Câmere.â
Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.
âBucky!â
âYou were getting stuck.â He smirks.
âI couldâve figured it out myself.â You mumble shyly.
âI know you could.â
His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.
âDoesnât mean Iâm gonna stand there watching you struggle.â Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.
This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you âhover too much.â Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.
âJamie, I can walk.â You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.
âI know you can, baby.â
âThen put me down.â
âNo.â
The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.
He looks down at you. âYouâre tired.â As if that is enough of an explanation.
You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.
âYou gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?â
Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learnsâgradually, unconsciouslyâthat Buckyâs strength never asks you to fear it. All thatâs left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you canât quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.
The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.
âPrincess,â he asks gently. âWhyâre you apologizing for being upset?â
You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Buckyâs expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.
âCâmere, baby.â
And just like always, you go.
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD
For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said thatâquite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to makeâimmediately catching when something is wrong.
Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of âhelpingâ him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you donât speak fluently yet. Still, that doesnât stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.
His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where heâs crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.
âWhatâs up, lovely?â One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.
âWhat?â He teases lightly. âMy girl misses me already?â
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.
âMaybe a little,â you mumble. âI just wanted to see what you were doing.â
His expression softens instantly at that. âCâmere, then.â
You step closer without thinking.
âYou wanna help?â
You hesitate under the weight of the question. âOnly if Iâm not gonna be in the way.â
The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.
âYou being here is the opposite of in the way.â
And there it is againâthat wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.
âYou wanna stay with me while I work?â He asks softly.
You nod silently.
âThen stay.â
Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.
After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.
âHold this for me.â
âPass me that small wrench, pretty girl.â
âSit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.â
At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.
One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.
âIâm fucking useless.â
Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.
âHey.â The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. âYou ainât allowed to talk about my girl like that.â
You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.
âBesides,â Bucky adds casually. âYouâre real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.â
You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.
Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet thatâs what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone elseâs discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.
The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.
Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.
His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.
Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.
âYou know,â you murmur thoughtfully. âFor someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.â
Bucky snorts softly without looking up.
âIâm working , sweetheart.â
âMhm.â
He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. âWhat?â
You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. âI think youâre pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.â
A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.
âYou surviving okay over there, pretty girl?â
âBarely.â
âYouâll make it.â
The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.
Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, âCareful, doll.â Without any real heat in it.
You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.
âMhm...â You hum mournfully. âIf my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.â
This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.
âOh, so thatâs what this is?â
You try to appear unbothered. âWhat?â
âYou being a needy girl.â
Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.
âI am not needy.â You insist.
His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. âNo?â
âNo.â
âMhm.â
You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunatelyâfor the both of youâyou are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend.Â
âMaybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.â You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.
The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.
âOh, youâre trouble today.â
You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.
âLooking at me like that while Iâm trying to behave...â
You swallow. âMaybe I donât want you to.â
His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Buckyâs frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.
âYouâre playing with fire, doll.â
You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. âI just wanted your attention.â
Buckyâs jaw flexes once. âOh, you got it.â
His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesnât, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
When he finally pulls back, itâs only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.
âTell me to stop.â His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.
âI need you, Jamie.â
And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.
âJamieââ
âCâmon, up sweetheart.â He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.
Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.
âFuck.â He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.
âJamie, please.â You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing.Â
âSo fucking sweet.â He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed.Â
See, Bucky is⊠well, particularly insatiable. Itâs not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. Itâs not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. Itâs also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because âTheyâre missing me, dollâ.
And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousinâs engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many timesâeven with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, âTry not making a mess on the seats, princessâ before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good heâd make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then⊠the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.
By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composedâhis jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further.Â
Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned âdessertâ.
You have always managed to get away with it beforeânever caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.
The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed whatâs happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Buckyâs head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.
Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.
âOh my Godââ You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. âBucky!â
ââM fine.â He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.
You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about âfucking shelvesâ and âthe motherfucker who put that damn thing there.â
âSweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.â He grits out to reassure you.
âWho cares, it hit your head!â You argue frantically. âMove your hand, let me see.â
There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.
âThere,â he sighs. âStill alive.â
You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.
âOh, baby.â
And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.
Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. Itâs almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarityâhe really likes this.
âYou poor thing,â you murmur mournfully. âDoes it hurt?â
Bucky blinks once, twice. âA little...â He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.
You frown. âOh, Jamie.â
He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.
âMhm.â
âDo you feel dizzy?â
â... Think I might now that you mentioned it.â
The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.
âYou need ice.â
âMhm.â
âAnd water.â
âProbably.â
âAnd you should sit down for a minute.â
At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.
âYouâre real sweet when you worry about me.â He murmurs, smitten.
You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. âSomeone has to take care of you.â
Thatâs all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.
Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.
âThereâs a bump.â You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.
âMhm.â He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.
âYou couldâve been seriously hurt.â
And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.
âAre you still feeling dizzy?â You fret.
Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.
ââŠLittle bit.â He decides finally.
Your eyes widen. âYou do?â
âMight need mouth-to-mouth.â He adds, entirely deadpan.
You stare at him in disbelief. âJames.â
âWhat?â A pause, thoughtful. âI got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.â
âYou donât have a concussion.â
âYou sure?â
âYes.â Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.
He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
âStay still,â you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. âIâm getting ice.â
Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as youâre close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.
âToo cold?â You ask softly.
âNah.â Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, âStill think you should kiss it better, though.â
You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â
âCanât believe youâd say that while Iâm injured.â He retorts, tone solemn. âI got hit real hard, doll.â
âYou said it was a flashlight.â Your eyebrow raises skeptically.
âStill couldâve knocked loose my precious brain cell.â
That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. Itâs soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Buckyâs hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.
âWhat am I going to do with you?â You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.
This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.
âKeep spoiling me like this.â
The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.
âThere,â you murmur. âBetter?â
Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.
âYeah,â he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. âWay better.â
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER
The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Buckyâs older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.
You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.
So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.
Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.
âYou donât gotta stay awake for me, doll.â
His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.
Buckyâs chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.
âIâm serious.â You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.
You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors⊠You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Buckyâs hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.
And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience.Â
Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.
âThere you go,â he murmurs quietly. âGo back to sleep, pretty girl.â The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Buckyâs eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.
The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. Itâs only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.
Solid, pleasantly warm, and⊠moving?
Memories crash into you all at onceâthe dinner, the movie... Buckyâs bed.
Your eyes fly open.
Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You canât believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.
Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Buckyâs hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.
âMorning, sweetheart.â
You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterdayâs stubble.
âIâm sorry.â The words come out before you can even think about it.
Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. âFor what?â
âFor falling asleep here.â
âYou were tired.â He frowns.
âI know but⊠I didnât mean to bother you.â
The second the words leave your mouth, something in Buckyâs expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.
âYou silly girl,â he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. âYou fell asleep during a movie. That ainât exactly a crime, yâknow?â
You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. âI just didnât wanna impose.â
Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.
âYou think Iâd rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?â
Your lips part slightly. âWellââ
âNo, baby.â His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. âIâd rather have you here with me.â
It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.
âI liked waking up next to you.â
The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.
âYou did?â Your eyes observe him wide with hope.
ââCourse I did.â A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. âI...â He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.
âIâd really like it if you stayed over more.â
âReally?â Itâs nothing short of a whisper.
âMhm.â His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.
âDonât really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, andâŠâ He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. âI wanna wake up with you in my arms.â
The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.
âWanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.â He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.
âWanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you werenât hungry.â His mouth barely brushes your cheek. âWanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.â
Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.
And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, âYou look good here, sweetheart. With me.â
The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.
âI liked waking up next to you too.â You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it.Â
Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinetsâbecause Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.
He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.
Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.
âMorning, baby.â
His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.
Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where heâs reading the newspaper like every morning.
âWhat happened?â
You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. âI still have to finish prepping activities for today.â
Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.
âShow me.â
You turn in surprise. âWhat?â
âShow me what you gotta do.â
âYou wanna help me lesson plan?â Your eyebrows raise in amusement.
âCorrection, I wanna spend my morning with you.â
So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for todayâs classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.
âThis all for one class?â
âMm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary reviewâŠâ You point at each group of items.
Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize heâs sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.
At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.
âThese kids gotta circle the adjective?â
You blink once. âYes?â
He glances down at the paper, then back at you. âThey know what an adjective is?â
âMost of them.â You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.
Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.
âWhen I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.â
âBucky.â
âIâm just being honest, sweetheart.â His finger taps the worksheet once. âThese little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.â
You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.
âIs that a frog?â
You grin at him. âThatâs the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âThe frog helps them read?â
âHe encourages them.â
Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.
âGood for him.â
After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.
By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.
âYouâre weirdly good at this.â Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.
Bucky glances up from the papers. âYou let me into your world,â he says simply. âFigured I should learn it too.â
He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.
A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.
âOh no.â
The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.
âNo, no, no, noââ
Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.
âWhatâs wrong? What happened?â
You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. âIâm so fucking late.â
He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.
âOkay.â He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. âHey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.â
But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheetsâ
Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.
âI canât believe this is happening,â you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. âWhy didnât my alarm go off?â
Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.
âSweetheart.â
You barely hear him.
âWhere are my tights? Fuckââ
The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.
âSit down for me.â
The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.
âI donât have time to sit down.â You argue weakly, still breathless.
âYou got thirty seconds.â
âBuckyââ
âThirty.â His thumbs stroke once over your arms. âThen you can go back to panicking all you want.â
And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.
Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.
âThis sweater okay?â He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.
You nod quickly. âYeah.â
âWhat about bottoms?â
âThe dark jeans. Not theâno, the other ones.â
A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. âDoll, you own six pairs of those.â
âTheyâre different.â
âMhm. Iâm learning.â
He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.
âIâll get the shower running.â You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. âYou stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.â
Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. âI donât have one minute.â
âYou do,â he calls back over the hallway. âYou just decided you donât.â
And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.
By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.
âSit.â He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.
âBuckyââ
He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.
âCâmere.â
You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
âYou need protein.â
You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. âIâm gonna be late.â
âYouâre already late,â he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. âNow, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.â
You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. âYou done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?â
That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. âYouâre bossy in the morning.â
He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.
He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.
âEvery morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.â He murmurs eventually.
Your answer is a tired sigh. âBecause Iâm always running behind.â
âNah,â he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. âYou just got it in your head that if you ainât running yourself ragged, youâre not working hard enough.â
The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.
âYou hear what Iâm saying, princess?â He mumbles softly.
âA little.â You nod reluctantly.
âYou donât gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.â
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.
âYou got everything?â
You finally look up, straightening just a little. âI think so.â
âThat usually means no.â
You groan softly. âPlease donât start.â
He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.
âYou forgot to fill this.â
âOh.â You frown.
âAnd your portable charger.â
âOh.â Your shoulders slump.
âAnd doll?â His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. âThis thingâs fighting for its life.â
Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.
âWhy wonât this stupid thingââ
Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.
âThere.â
Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.
You finally make it to the front doorâstill flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.
You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.
âText me when you get there.â
âI will.â His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.
âYou did good.â
You stare at him incredulously. âI overslept by almost an hour.â
âAnd you still got up,â Bucky comments simply. âStill got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. Thatâs what matters, baby.â
He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.
He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.
âNow go teach your little gremlins.â
âTheyâre not gremlins.â You roll your eyes fondly.
His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. âOne of âem tried to lick glue yesterday.â
âHe said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.â You mumble defensively.
âMhm.â He presses one last kiss to your lips. âTiny gremlins.â
You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.
á„«áĄ. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME
Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was âfor babies,â and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.
Thatâs when the shouting startsâtwo eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.
You donât even think before stepping in.
âHey!â You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. âThatâs enough.â
One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.
âYou canât tell me what to do.â
âI absolutely can,â you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. âGo cool off in one of the classrooms.â
He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.
âYou think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?â
You ignore that part. âWatch your language.â
That only makes him angrier. âYou gonna write me up?â He mocks. âGo teach somebody the alphabet or something.â
He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.
And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.
Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.
âThatâs enough.â
His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.
The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.
âYouâre done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.â He continues evenly. âYou understand me?â
The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.
âTry again.â
Silence.
Then finally, begrudgingly, âYes, sir.â
The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, itâs heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.
His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.
âYou shouldnât have stepped between them like that.â
You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. âWhat?â
Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. âHe was bigger than you,â he continues carefully. âAnd he was already angry.â
âHeâs a kid.â
âHeâs fifteen.â
âHeâs still a student.â
His jaw clenches briefly. âAnd if he had hit you?â
With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen downâthese are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon.Â
âHe wasnât going to, I had it under control.â You rebut tiredly.
âDidnât look like you did.â
The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parentsâ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.
Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?
Youâre wasting your time, this wonât pay bills.
âWell, I handled it anyway.â You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.
Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove.Â
âSweetheart, I know you were trying to help, butââ
âI did help.â You frown at his back.
âYou canât just jump between two angry teenagers.â
âIâm a teacher.â
âAnd Iâm saying you donât gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.â
That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.
âI know how to do my job.â You croak out.
Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.
âI didnât say you donât.â
But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.
You donât even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.
âSweetheart.â A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.
âItâs okay.â Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Buckyâs expression shifts into painful realization.
He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you wonât feel cornered.
âCâmere a second, baby.â
You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.
Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything overâapologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.
But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.
âWeâre not doing silence, okay?â
Your eyes fall on the floor. âI wasnâtââ
âYes, you were.â His voice stays gentle. âYou started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.â
âI was listening.â You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs.Â
âNo, angel.â He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. âYou got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody Iâm not.â
The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.
âIâm not mad at you.â He adds in a whisper. âI was worried for you.â
You swallow around the lump in your throat. âI know.â
âDo you?â His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.
âAinât no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.â His brows pinch faintly. âAnd if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.â
You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. âIt wasnât just that.â
Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer.Â
âThen help me understand.â
Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because âTeaching kids how to write their name isnât a real careerâ. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.
And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.
âBaby,â he mumbles, reaching for your hand. âI wasnât doubting you. I would never do that.â
You shrug weakly. âI know you werenât trying to.â
âBut I still made you feel that way.â
Thatâs what finally breaks you, because heâs not defending himself, nor minimizing it.
Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.
âCâmere, babygirl.â
You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.
âIâm so sorry, princess.â He whispers against your temple. âAnd I should neverâve raised my voice at you.â
âYou werenât yelling.â You answer shakily.
âYou still flinched.â
The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.
âI wasnât angry at you.â He mumbles urgently. âI was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.â His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. âCouldnât stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.â
Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh.Â
âThey were terrified.â You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter.Â
âI know why you stepped in.â he sighs. âYou love those kids like theyâre your own for eight hours every damn day, and you canât stand the idea of any of âem feeling helpless in a place thatâs supposed to be safe.â His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart.Â
âYou walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And youâre so fucking good at that, angel. You teach âem how to be brave enough to admit when they donât understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.â A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still canât believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you.Â
Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.
âYears from now those kids probably wonât remember every worksheet you gave âem, but theyâll remember how you were patient with âem. That you listened.â His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little.Â
âSo yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.â He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. âAnd baby⊠I got scared too.â
Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.
âYou matter to me more than being right in an argument,â the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. âSo if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember itâs only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.â
You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.
The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.
âWeâre gonna argue sometimes,â he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. âI canât promise weâll never get frustrated with each other.â
Your arms tighten around him at that.
âWhat I can promise you,â he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. âIs that Iâm not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.â
A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because thatâs the part you never learned growing upâthat the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.
Buckyâs thumb brushes beneath your eye. âAnd Iâm really, really sorry, sweetheart.â His voice full of genuine regret. âI hate that I made you feel small for even a second.â
You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. âYou didnât mean to, Jamie.â
âYet I still did it.â He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.
âNext time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.â His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. âNobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if thatâs what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. Howâs that sound?â
You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.
âThat sounds very therapist of you.â
Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. âProbably because Iâm thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.â
A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistentlyâas if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.
âAnd if I ever get loud again,â he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. âYou tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Donât sit there holding it on your own while Iâm thinking everythingâs fine.â
You nod slowly. âI can do that.â
âPromise?â He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.
âPromise.â You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.
His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his.Â
âYou okay now, babygirl?â The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.
He gets a simple nod as an answer, and thatâs enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.
âI got you,â he murmurs quietly against your forehead. âEven when we get things wrong, I still got you.â
Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.
Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.
âJamie?â His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.
âHm?â He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.
âYou alright?â
The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.
âCan I ask you something?â
âAlways.â His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.
âWere you scared of me?â
You almost flinch back. âWhat?â
âTonight.â He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. âOr before. At any point.â
You stare at him in genuine disbelief. âBuckyââ
âI know I ainât exactlyâŠâ He huffs. âMr. Friendly with strangers.â
You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.
âIâm serious, doll.â His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. âMost people think Iâm angry before I even open my mouth.â
You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.
âAnd then tonight happened,â he continues quietly. âYou flinched when I raised my voice andââ
âThat wasnât because of you.â You quickly correct him.
âBut I canât stand that your body reacted like that around me.â
You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. âJames Buchanan Barnes,â you whisper solemnly. âI have never been scared of you. And never will.â
His expression softens at the full name.
âYouâre the only person whoâs ever made me feel safe.â His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon itâs out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.
âYou know what I see when I look at you?â He shakes his head once. âI see a good,â you murmur softly. âGentle, patient man.â Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you.Â
âYou always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.â An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. âYou look at me like Iâm the prettiest girl in the world. All the timeâeven when Iâm exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.âÂ
âSo no, Bucky. I donât think thereâs anything about you to be scared of.â You sigh dreamily, lying back down. âYouâre my Jamie.â
He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.
âI love you.â He whispers abruptly, like he canât hold it back anymore.
Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. âI love you too, Jamie.â
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.
That night, he carefully rolls until heâs the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.
á„«áĄ. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER
You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Buckyâs flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Buckyâs old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.
âFound her near the south fence,â he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. âNo collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.â
Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.
Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Buckyâs lane.
He pretends to find it deeply offensive.
âThink she likes you moreân me now.â He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.
âShe sees you every day.â
âExactly,â he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. âAnd apparently that means nothing anymore.â
Tonight is no different.
âThereâs my pretty girl,â you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. âYes, there she is. Sweet baby.â Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.
âOh, you want more attention?â You gasp theatrically. âWhat a shocking development!â
From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.
âNeedy thing.â You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.
âYou say that like youâre any better.â
The sound of Buckyâs teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.
âYour daughter is biting me again.â Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.
âMy daughter?â He repeats, pulling you closer. âThat cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.â
âMmh, thatâs not true.â
âPrincess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.â
You frown. âShe was sick.â
âShe had dust on her nose.â
You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.
Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpineâs chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. âShe sits in front of the door when you leave, yâknow.â
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. âShe does not.â
âMhm.â His mouth twitches faintly. âWalks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.â
âThatâs dramatic.â You tell her with an exaggerated pout.
âSays the woman holding her like an actual infant.â
You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. â⊠Okay maybe a little.â
Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides itâs time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Buckyâs still looking at you.
âWhat?â You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.
âNothing.â He murmurs automatically, though itâs very clearly not nothing.
Your eyes narrow a little. âJames.â
His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.
âI keep picturing something,â he breathes out absently. âNot in a big, dramatic way. Just⊠small things stacked together.â
Your breath catches quietly.
âWaking up,â he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. âAnd not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers itâs there. A kitchen thatâs too full of noise for how early it is.â His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.
âAnd coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesnât matter how it went out there,â he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. âBecause thereâs still you here.â
You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like heâs visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.
Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.
âI donât know all the details yet,â he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. âBut I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. Thatâs the part my mind doesnât change.â
Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. âIf someday you decide you want kids, Iâll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.â His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. âMaybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.â
Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.
âAnd if you donât want that,â he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. âThen weâll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal weâve got. Those damn ducks already act like theyâre running the place anyway.â A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.
âYou wanna travel? Weâll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?â His hand squeezes your knee once. âFine too.â Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.
âAny future is right if youâre in it.â
Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.
âI love you,â he whispers, thick with emotion. âI just need you.â
You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.
âI love you too, Jamie.â You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.
And yet, you couldnât care less, because his lips are on yoursâsoft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.
Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.
âEverything else,â he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. âCan figure itself out around that.â
END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays itâs hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of datingâespecially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment đ„°? thank you so much for reading đ
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: You take a last-minute princess job at Morgan Starkâs birthday party expecting easy money and screaming children. You do not expect a grumpy Beast ruining your life with soft looks.
word count: 6.4k
warnings: fluff, mutual pining, awkward flirting, fairy tale references, mild language, bucky barnes being reluctantly soft.
a/n: not me showing up after months away from this website with the most random idea iâve ever had. i hope you guys like it :)
âYou know,â Sam Wilson says casually from the passenger seat, âmost people hear the words free food and say thank you.â
From the backseat, Bucky Barnes stares out the window with the expression of a man being transported directly to his execution.
âI did say thank you,â he mutters.
âNo, you grunted.â
âThat was a polite grunt.â
Sam snorts.
Beside him, Steve Rogers keeps both hands on the wheel, suspiciously calm for someone participating in what is very clearly an ambush.
The city lights streak across the windows while traffic crawls forward.
Bucky shouldâve stayed home.
He had a system at home.
A good system.
Coffee. Silence. Alpine curled beside him on the couch like a tiny judgmental loaf of bread. Maybe a movie he wouldnât pay attention to. Minimal human interaction.
Peace.
Instead, Sam showed up at his apartment an hour ago carrying cupcakes and bad intentions.
âYou canât stay inside that apartment forever with Alpine,â Sam says now, like heâs continuing an old argument. âThat cat is starting to absorb your personality.â
âShe likes me.â
âShe bites everyone else.â
âThat sounds like a them problem.â
Steve hides a smile.
Bucky leans his head back against the seat with a groan. âWhy am I even needed at this thing?â
âItâs Morganâs birthday,â Steve says.
Sam grins. âFamily event. It will be good for you.â
Bucky flips him off without looking.
The car goes quiet for a minute.
Not awkward quiet. Just familiar.
The kind built over years of near-death experiences and too many shared memories.
Outside, the city slowly shifts into larger houses, quieter streets, cleaner sidewalks.
Rich people territory.
Bucky already hates it.
âYou could try having fun,â Steve says eventually.
Bucky stares at him like he personally insulted his ancestors.
âWhy are you saying that like itâs easy?â
Steve glances at him briefly. âBecause staying miserable on purpose gets exhausting after a while.â
That lands harder than Bucky wants it to. He crosses his arms, glaring out the window again while they pull through the massive Stark gates.
Lights glow across the property ahead, warm against the dark evening sky.
Music drifts faintly through the air.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
He already wants to leave.
Sam unbuckles first and points at him before he can move. âAnd no disappearing after ten minutes.â
âI never do that.â
âYou vanished through a bathroom window last time.â
âIt was efficient.â
âYouâre impossible.â
Bucky pushes the car door open. âYet here you are. Voluntarily spending time with me.â
Sam throws an arm around his shoulders immediately, dragging him toward the house despite his complaints.
âThatâs because underneath all the grumpy murder grandpa stuff,â Sam says, âyou secretly love us.â
âI could bench press you into traffic.â
âBut you wonât.â
Bucky doesnât answer.
Mostly because Steve opens the front doors right thenâ
And somewhere inside the house, faint and warm and distant, he hears someone singing.
â 15 minutes earlier â
The dressing room is chaos.
Cheap rhinestones scattered across the counter. Someone in the hallway yelling about balloons. Someone else asking where the cake table went.
And Dylan is pacing.
âNo, no, no,â he mutters, tugging at the ridiculous blue Beast jacket stretched across his shoulders. âI canât do this.â
You pause halfway through putting on your gloves. âDylanââ
âIâm serious.â He points toward the door like the answer is waiting outside. âDo you know whose house this is?â
âYes,â you say carefully.
âItâs the Starks.â
You stare at him through the mirror. âTony Stark is literally paying us to sing to children, not dismantle a bomb.â
âThatâs worse.â
You snort despite yourself, adjusting the off-the-shoulder yellow gown. Itâs prettier than you expected when the agency shoved the costume bag into your arms this morning. Layers of gold satin spill around your feet, catching the light every time you move.
For one stupid second, you almost feel like Belle.
Dylan doesnât.
âI think Iâm gonna throw up.â
âYouâre not gonna throw up.â
âWhat if the Avengers are there?â
You stop.
Okay. Fair point.
The knot in your stomach tightens instantly.
You need this job. Rent is due in four days, your audition last week went nowhere, and the commercial you filmed still hasnât paid you. Which means you absolutely cannot afford to panic now.
So you grab Dylan by the shoulders.
âListen to me,â you say firmly. âYou need to calm down. Do you know how much weâre getting paid for this?â
âYes, butââ
âAnd if you ruin this for me, I will personally feed you to the Hulk.â
You smooth nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket. âWe go in there, smile, sing, wave at rich children, and leave with enough money to survive another month. Thatâs it.â
A knock hits the door before he can answer.
âPrincess Belle? Theyâre ready for you.â
Your stomach flips.
Dylan immediately pales again.
You squeeze his arm once before stepping away. âBreathe.â
Then you lift your chin, paste on a princess smile, and walk out.
The Stark house looks less like a house and more like a museum designed by someone with unlimited money and zero restraint.
Everything gleams.
Soft golden lights wrap around the enormous backyard. Staff members move through the crowd carrying trays of tiny desserts that probably cost more than your electric bill. Children run across the lawn wearing paper crowns and superhero masks.
And near the center of it allâ
âMama! Belleâs here!â
Morgan Stark barrels toward you at full speed.
You barely have time to crouch before she crashes into your arms, giggling wildly.
âOh my gosh,â you say in your best princess voice, warm and bright. âPrincess Morgan! Iâve heard so much about you.â
Her gasp is immediate. âReally?â
âOf course. The castle talks about little else.â
She beams.
And just like that, the nerves disappear.
Because this partâyou know this part.
You know how to soften your voice until children lean closer to hear you. You know how to make wonder feel real. You know how to turn exhaustion into magic for two hours at a time.
Morgan takes your hand immediately and drags you toward the other kids.
âBelle, can you sing?â
âCan you dance?â
âWhereâs Beast?â
âOh, heâll join us later,â you say smoothly, praying Dylan survives the next ten minutes. âBut for nowâŠâ You straighten dramatically. âWho would like to hear a story?â
A chorus of screams answers you.
Then you start singing.
And the entire party quiets.
Not because youâre loud.
Because youâre good.
Your voice carries softly through the backyard while the kids sit cross-legged around you, completely enchanted. You smile at each of them like they matter individually. Like this isnât just another exhausting gig at the end of a long week.
Across the lawn, Bucky looks up almost by accident.
And immediately regrets it.
Because now heâs looking at you.
Fairy lights glow softly above your head while children crowd around your skirts, completely enchanted by every word that leaves your mouth. You laugh at something one of them says, bright and easy and real enough that it reaches him even from across the yard.
And for one strange secondâ
You donât look like someone pretending to be a princess.
You look like one.
Then your eyes lift suddenly.
Find his across the crowd.
Bucky expects the usual reaction instantly.
The hesitation.
The recognition.
That brief flicker people always get when they realize who he is.
Instead, your expression softens.
Just slightly.
Like seeing him standing there alone somehow matters to you more than it should.
And the smile you give himâ
God.
Itâs small.
Almost shy.
But warm enough that he actually feels it.
Like sunlight slipping through something cracked open.
You hold his gaze for one tiny, suspended second longer than necessary before turning back to the children beside you.
But now your heartbeat feels different too.
Because there was something unexpectedly gentle in the way he looked at you.
Bucky watches Morgan stare at you like you hung the damn moon.
Watches you stay perfectly in character when another kid spills juice on the hem of your dress.
You donât even flinch.
âAccidents happen,â you tell the horrified child gently. âEven in castles.â
Something in his chest shifts unpleasantly.
Or pleasantly.
He hasnât decided yet.
Because normally, people trying too hard to be sweet annoys him.
But you kneel to talk to the children at eye level. You remember every single name they tell you. When Morgan grabs your hand during the story, you squeeze back automatically without breaking character once.
None of it feels fake.
Which is exactly the problem.
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, already irritated with himself.
Youâre midway through teaching Morgan and three other children how to properly curtsy when your phone starts vibrating inside the hidden pocket sewn into your dress.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Because only one person would call you repeatedly during a job.
âPrincess Belle,â Morgan says seriously, tugging your glove, âAmelia says princesses arenât allowed to eat chicken nuggets.â
You crouch slightly. âAmelia has clearly never met a princess after a long day.â
Morgan gasps. âYou eat nuggets?â
âIn alarming quantities.â
The children dissolve into laughter.
Your phone buzzes again.
Definitely Dylan.
âExcuse me one moment,â you say gently. âThe castle may be under attack.â
Morgan grabs your skirt dramatically. âBy who?â
You glance at the phone screen.
Dylan: I THINK IM DYING
ââŠthe French.â
You slip away before the kids can ask further questions.
The second you push through the side doors into the hallway, you answer.
âWhat happened?â
âI threw up.â
You stop walking. âWhat?â
âI told you I was gonna throw up.â
âOh my God.â
âAlso,â he says weakly, âI think I have a fever.â
You press your fingers to your forehead.
Of course he does.
Of course this happens at Tony Starkâs house.
âCan you still come out for the photos at least?â
A miserable pause.
ââŠif I move too fast I think Iâll see God.â
âGreat.â
âIâm so sorry.â
And the worst part?
He genuinely sounds devastated.
You sigh, leaning against the wall. âItâs okay. Stay in the dressing room. Drink water. Donât die before I get paid.â
âThatâs fair.â
You hang up.
Then immediately turn and nearly collide with Pepper Potts.
âOh!â she says. âThere you are. Morganâs asking forââ She stops instantly. âWhatâs wrong?â
You try to smile professionally.
It must fail horribly.
âThe Beast actor is sick.â
Pepper blinks once.
âOh no.â
âYeah.â
âHe canât come out at all?â
âHeâs currently fighting for his life in the dressing room bathroom.â
Pepperâs face cycles rapidly through concern, stress, and the specific exhaustion only rich parents hosting childrenâs parties can achieve.
Because unfortunately, the timing is terrible.
Kids are already gathering near the photo backdrop.
Morgan keeps asking when Beast is coming.
And somewhere nearby, you hear Tony Stark loudly saying, âI can absolutely do it.â
Pepper turns sharply. âNo.â
From the other room: âWhy not? I have range.â
âYou have an ego.â
âI can roar.â
âYou have to greet people.â
âI can greet people as Beast.â
Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose.
You almost laugh despite yourself.
Then another voice joins in.
ââŠTonyâs right, though.â
You glance toward the doorway and nearly choke on your own heartbeat.
Because standing there casually like this is a completely normal Tuesday are two actual Avengers.
Captain America himself stands beside a man you recognize from the News. Sam Wilson.
You suddenly become intensely aware that youâre dressed as a Disney princess while holding a phone that still has Dylan: I THINK IM DYING on the screen.
This cannot be your life.
Sam leans against the doorway easily, looking far too entertained by the situation already.
But itâs the man beside him that catches your attention.
The same man from earlier.
The one who looked at you across the backyard like heâd forgotten, for a second, where he was.
Dark hair. Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black Henley. Arms crossed tightly over his chest like he already wants no part in whatever conversation this is.
And yet somehow, standing this close to him now, you still feel that strange little pull from earlier.
Unlike the others, he isnât smiling. If anything, he looks like heâd rather walk directly back out the door.
Samâs eyes flick briefly toward you before landing on Pepper.
âAll due respect,â he says, âI think we found a better option.â
Bucky narrows his eyes immediately, like he already knows where this is going.
Steve nods slowly, already betraying him. âActuallyâŠâ
Almost on cue, Morganâs voice suddenly rings through the backyard.
âUNCLE AMERICA!â
Steve barely has time to react before a tiny blur in pink slams into his legs.
âThere he is,â Bucky mutters.
Morgan grabs Steveâs hand immediately. âCome see my castle!â
And Steve actually lets himself get dragged away.
âYouâre abandoning me?â Bucky calls after him.
Steve only throws him an apologetic smile over his shoulder before disappearing outside with Morgan.
Bucky looks deeply betrayed.
Sam looks delighted.
âYou were saying?â Sam asks.
Bucky glares at him. âI hope your wings fall off.â
Pepper is visibly trying not to laugh now.
Meanwhile, youâre standing there clutching your phone like your entire career is collapsing in front of you.
âI really donât want to cause trouble,â you say quickly. âI can just explain to Morgan that Beast got delayedââ
âMorganâs seven,â Pepper says softly. âSheâs been talking about this dance all week.â
Guilt hits instantly.
Bucky notices.
And unfortunately for him, Sam notices Bucky noticing.
Which means itâs over.
âBuck,â Sam says, suddenly far too smug, âyou wouldnât even have to talk much.â
âNo.â
âYouâd just stand there looking grumpy.â
âNo.â
âYou already do that recreationally.â
 âWhy donât you do it?â Bucky shoots back immediately.
Sam places a hand dramatically over his chest. âBecause Iâm beautiful in a completely different genre.â
âIâm gonna kill you.â
âSee? Beast energy.â
Bucky looks at you then.
Really looks at you for the first time up close.
The gold dress.
The nervous expression youâre trying to hide.
The way your hands twist together for half a second before you force yourself still again.
You look exhausted.
But somehow youâre still worried about disappointing a little girl.
And that annoying feeling in his chest returns.
Stronger this time.
Pepper steps closer carefully. âBucky,â she says softly, âcould you help us out? Just for a little while.â
He exhales slowly.
Looks toward the backyard where Morganâs laughter drifts through the open doors.
Then back at you.
ââŠI hate all of you,â he mutters.
Sam lights up instantly. âThatâs not a no.â
âIt should be.â
Pepper smiles hopefully. âBucky?â
He closes his eyes briefly like a man accepting his fate.
ââŠfine.â
The room goes silent.
You blink. âWait. Really?â
Bucky points at you immediately. âThis doesnât leave this house.â
Sam nearly folds in half laughing.
And ten minutes later, youâre backstage beside a very grumpy Beast while trying to adjust the dark blue coat around his shoulders.
The costume department clearly did not account for super soldiers.
The fabric pulls tight across his chest every time he moves.
Bucky notices you staring immediately.
You step closer carefully, adjusting the fur near the collar.
âIâm sorry if the costumeâs too tight,â you murmur. âThe actor who usually plays Beast is⊠significantly less built.â
Bucky huffs quietly.
âThatâs one way to say it.â
Up close, heâs unfairly intimidating.
Dark blue fabric stretched over muscle. Gloves hiding the metal hand completely.
Even the ridiculous Beast mask somehow makes him look dangerous.
Which feels deeply unfair for a Disney prince.
âYou know,â you say gently while fixing one of the gold buttons, âyou really donât have to do this.â
Bucky looks down at you.
Then toward the backyard where Morganâs excited voice carries faintly through the doors.
ââŠyeah,â he says quietly.
A pause.
âI kinda do.â
Before either of you can say anything else, the dressing room door swings open and Morgan storms in dramatically.
âBEAST!â
The little girl launches herself directly at Bucky.
Every muscle in his body visibly locks.
You almost panic for him.
But then, carefully, awkwardly, he catches her before she can crash face-first into the costume.
Morgan gasps, completely enchanted. âYouâre so tall.â
Bucky looks at you, and somehow you know that beneath the mask, he looks completely helpless.
You grin. âThatâs Beast.â
Morgan grabs his gloved hand immediately. âBelle said you were late because of a curse.â
Bucky looks down at her.
ââŠyeah,â he says after a second. âTraffic curse.â
You snort so suddenly you choke on air.
Morgan is already dragging him toward the doors with alarming strength for a seven-year-old.
You smooth your dress quickly before following after them, trying to slip back into character.
But itâs harder now for some reason.
Because this doesnât feel like part of the performance anymore.
You barely know him.
You know he looks permanently annoyed at the world. You know children somehow trust him instantly despite the terrifying resting expression.
And you know he agreed to wear a giant Beast costume for a little girl he clearly adores.
Which is doing unfortunate things to your brain.
The backyard erupts the second Morgan reappears with him.
âBEAST!â
Children swarm immediately.
Bucky freezes.
Again.
You quickly step beside him before the poor man fully short-circuits.
âOh dear,â you say brightly in Belleâs voice, slipping naturally into the scene. âThe Beast seems overwhelmed.â
âI wonder why,â he mutters under his breath.
You hide another smile.
The next twenty minutes become complete chaos.
Children asking Bucky impossible questions.
âDo you live in the castle?â
âCan you roar?â
âWhy are your hands so big?â
One tiny girl stares at him suspiciously before asking, âAre you hairy everywhere?â
You nearly inhale your own tongue trying not to laugh.
Bucky looks ready to walk directly into the ocean.
But somehow he stays.
He does the photos.
Lets kids hold his hands.
Even growls once after Morgan begs him to.
The children lose their minds.
Across the yard, Sam is recording the whole thing while Steve laughs so hard he has to sit down.
You catch Pepper wiping tears from her eyes at one point.
Probably from laughing.
Probably.
Then the music changes.
Soft piano drifting through the speakers.
Your stomach drops instantly.
The dance scene.
Morgan gasps dramatically. âNOW!â
Bucky goes still beside you.
âNo.â
âOh yes,â you say, smiling at him through clenched teeth.
âI donât dance.â
âYouâre literally a prince.â
âIâm literally not.â
Morgan grabs both your hands and shoves them together before either of you can react.
And suddenlyâ
Oh.
Your gloved hand lands against his.
His hand settles carefully at your waist.
The other wraps around your fingers.
You feel him hesitate.
Not because he doesnât know how to dance.
Because heâs trying not to hurt you.
The realization hits instantly.
âItâs okay,â you say softly before thinking better of it.
His gaze flicks down to yours through the mask.
The world around you keeps moving, kids laughing, phones taking pictures, Sam yelling something obnoxious in the background, but for one strange second, it narrows into just this.
The warmth of his hand.
The carefulness in the way heâs holding you.
The fact that he smells faintly like coffee under all the costume fabric.
âYou trust people too easy,â he says quietly.
You blink.
âThatâs a weird thing to say during a Disney dance.â
âYou didnât answer.â
You should probably make a joke.
Instead, your eyes catch briefly on his gloved fingers resting against your waist.
Gentle despite the strength behind them.
Then Morgan yells, âKISS HER!â
Both of you jump apart instantly.
âNope,â Bucky says immediately.
âAbsolutely not,â you add at the exact same time.
The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.
Bucky Barnes keeps one hand at your waist, the other holding yours carefully as he guides you through the slow steps.
Too carefully.
Like heâs afraid to press too hard.
Like heâs constantly aware of himself.
His hand tightens at your waist without warning, pulling you just a little closer each time. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the heavy costume layers. And whenever he leans down to hear you over the music, a shiver runs all the way down your spine.
The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.
You glance up at him just as he looks down at your feet.
ââŠam I doinâ this right?â he asks quietly.
His voice comes out rough and muffled beneath the Beast mask, low enough that you almost donât hear it over the music.
The question catches you completely off guard.
Because he sounds genuinely unsure.
You blink once. âYou know how to dance.â
âThat wasnât the question.â
Something warm twists painfully in your chest.
His grip tightens slightly at your waist.
âDonât wanna mess this up.â
You smile softly. âYou know, most princes are a little more confident during the ballroom scene.â
âYeah, well.â He exhales quietly. âPretty sure this prince skipped rehearsal.â
That pulls a laugh out of you.
Buckyâs gaze lifts at the sound immediately.
Not to the children.
Not to the crowd.
Just you.
And for one strange second, the dance stops feeling like part of the performance at all.
Then, quieter this time:
ââŠseriously, though,â he murmurs, thumb shifting faintly against your waist, âIâm not crushinâ your feet, am I?â
Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard.
âNo,â you whisper. âYouâre perfect.â
This is getting dangerous. Because somewhere between the dancing and the quiet way he keeps looking at you, this stopped feeling like part of the job.
You clear your throat quickly and pull back just enough to look over his shoulder.
âMorgan!â you call brightly.
Across the dance floor, Morgan gasps dramatically like sheâs been summoned by destiny itself.
âPrincess Morgan,â you say sweetly, already stepping away from Bucky before your brain completely melts, âI believe the Beast owes you a dance.â
Morgan screams.
Actually screams.
Bucky looks at you immediately.
You give him your most innocent Belle smile.
His eyes narrow under the mask. âYouâre ditching me.â
âI would never.â
âYou literally are right now.â
Morgan crashes into him before he can argue further, grabbing both his hands excitedly.
âCâMON BEAST!â
Bucky looks at you one last time over her head.
âYouâre trouble,â he says flatly.
Your pulse jumps embarrassingly hard.
Before you can answer, Morgan drags him away into the crowd of children demanding another dance.
The second heâs gone, you exhale.
Hard.
Then across the dance floor, Morgan spins dramatically beneath Buckyâs arm while he awkwardly tries to keep up without stepping on tiny children.
And despite the giant Beast costume and permanent grumpy expression heâs laughing.
You watch him crouch slightly when she talks so he can hear her better through the music. Watch him steady her automatically every time she nearly trips over her dress. Watch one huge gloved hand settle carefully at her back while she spins herself dizzy.
The Beast mask should make him look ridiculous.
Instead, somehow, it only makes the contrast worse.
Big and intimidating and visibly dangerous even under layers of fake furâ
Yet impossibly gentle with her.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
âWell,â a voice says beside you, âyouâre lookinâ at him exactly the same way the kids are.â
You nearly jump.
Sam Wilson grins knowingly as he reaches for a cupcake from the dessert table.
âI am not.â
âHm.â
âI donât even know him.â
âThatâs never stopped anybody before.â
You glare at him.
He grins wider.
Somehow, hours later, Morgan Stark still has enough energy to power a small country.
âBelle,â she says for what must be the twentieth time that night, âare you gonna stay forever?â
You smile tiredly, smoothing a hand over her hair. âI donât think your dad has enough snacks for that.â
Tony points from across the yard. âI absolutely do.â
Pepper immediately says, âNo, we donât.â
Morgan giggles.
And beside her, the Beast exhales dramatically before lowering himself onto one knee with the exhaustion of a war veteran returning from battle.
âIâm old,â he mutters.
You laugh softly. âYou danced with children for two hours.â
âI fought in actual wars that were easier than this.â
âYouâre doing amazing, sweetie,â Sam calls from somewhere behind him.
The Beast lifts a gloved hand without looking and flips him off.
Morgan gasps.
You gasp louder. âBeast!â
Sam nearly collapses laughing.
âSorry,â the Beast says flatly. âThe curse slipped.â
Morgan thinks this is the funniest thing sheâs ever heard in her life.
Honestly?
You do too.
A little later, Pepper gently steals Morgan away, leaving you alone beside the Beast for the first time all evening.
And suddenly the silence feels⊠different.
Not awkward exactly.
Just noticeable.
You become very aware of the night air against your skin. Of the weight of the wig pinned to your head. Of him sitting beside you with the Beast mask pushed up, revealing his face.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
Because heâs unfairly handsome.
You look away immediately.
âSo,â you say, mostly to stop your brain from malfunctioning, âthanks again for saving my job tonight.â
He huffs quietly beside you. âWasnât for your job.â
Your eyes flick back to him.
âMorgan?â
âMorgan,â he confirms.
A beat passes.
Then, quieter:
ââŠyou too, I guess.â
Your heart does something deeply irritating.
The corners of his mouth twitch slightly like he regrets admitting it already.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
âCareful,â you murmur. âYouâre almost being nice to me.â
âThatâs the mask.â
âOh, right. Of course.â
âThe fur changes a man.â
That earns another laugh out of you.
And again, that look crosses his face.
That brief pause like he wasnât expecting the sound but likes it anyway.
You notice it this time.
From across the yard, Steve walks by carrying three children at once somehow.
âYou surviving?â he asks.
The Beast sighs. âBarely.â
Steve grins, eyes flicking briefly between the two of you.
You suddenly get the horrible feeling everyone here knows each other too well.
Including whatever this weird thing currently happening between you and the grumpy fake prince is.
âSo,â you say carefully after Steve leaves, âdo you always volunteer for emergency Disney prince duty?â
He snorts softly.
âFirst time.â
âYou seemed pretty experienced.â
âI wasnât.â
âYou handled the kids well.â
For a second, he doesnât answer.
His gaze drifts toward Morgan laughing beside Pepper near the cake table.
Then he shrugs slightly.
âTheyâre easier than adults.â
You blink.
ââŠthatâs actually the most concerning thing anyoneâs said to me tonight.â
That finally gets a real smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Gone almost instantly.
But you saw it.
And unfortunately for your sanity, now you want to see it again.
âCake!â Morgan announces like a war cry.
The children erupt instantly.
You barely have time to laugh before Morgan grabs both your hand and the Beastâs clawed one at the same time.
âCâmon!â
Bucky visibly braces himself.
Morgan leads you directly toward a tiny plastic table surrounded by miniature pink chairs.
Bucky stops walking immediately.
âNo.â
Morgan gasps. âWhat?â
âI canât fit in that.â
âYou have to sit with Belle!â
Children nearby immediately begin chanting:
âBEAST! BEAST! BEAST!â
Bucky looks personally betrayed by every child present.
You press your lips together hard, trying not to laugh while lowering yourself carefully into one of the tiny chairs.
The skirt of your dress spills around you in soft yellow satin.
Across from you, Bucky stares at the chair like it insulted his family.
âYouâre doing great,â you tell him helpfully.
âI hate you.â
âThatâs not very princely.â
âThatâs because Iâm not a prince.â
Morgan points dramatically at the seat.
Bucky sighs like a man moments from death.
Then lowers himself carefully into the tiny chair.
The plastic creaks ominously.
Every child at the table gasps.
You fully choke on a laugh.
Bucky turns toward you slowly through the Beast mask.
Morgan shoves paper plates toward both of you proudly while Pepper begins passing out cake.
And honestly?
Itâs cute.
Ridiculously cute.
Children talking over each other excitedly. Frosting everywhere. Morgan sitting between you and Bucky like she personally arranged a royal wedding.
Then Morgan accidentally gets blue frosting across her own cheek.
âOh no!â she gasps.
You laugh softly, grabbing a napkin. âHold still, princess.â
While you wipe frosting from Morganâs face, you completely miss the tiny streak of blue icing that ended up on your own cheek.
Bucky notices immediately.
And unfortunatelyâ
Now he canât stop looking at it.
Youâre talking to Morgan about castles or books or something, but heâs not listening anymore.
Because thereâs frosting on your face, near the corner of your mouth.
And somehow that feels more distracting than the dress.
Than the dancing.
Than literally anything else tonight.
âYou got somethinâ there,â he says suddenly.
You blink. âWhat?â
He gestures vaguely toward his own cheek with one giant clawed glove.
ââŠthere.â
You try wiping it away blindly.
âDid I get it?â
âNo.â
âGreat.â
Bucky stares at the stupid oversized Beast gloves for a second like heâs reconsidering every decision that led him here tonight.
Then, carefully, he reaches across the tiny table.
His claw brushes softly against your cheek.
Warm despite the gloves.
You stop breathing entirely.
He tries wiping the frosting awayâ
Except the giant fake claw only smears it worse across your skin.
You stare at him.
He stares at the disaster he just created.
Then, very flatly:
ââŠI made it worse.â
From somewhere behind him, you hear Sam make a noise suspiciously close to choking.
Your laugh slips out before you can stop it.
Soft at first.
Then brighter.
âItâs okay,â you manage between laughs. âYou tried.â
And before you can think better of it, you lean forward slightly.
âThere,â you murmur.
Your fingers brush gently against the corner of his mouth, wiping away a streak of blue frosting Morgan mustâve gotten on him earlier.
The second you touch himâ
He freezes.
Completely.
Your smile falters just slightly.
Because suddenly youâre very aware of how quiet he got.
How still.
How carefully heâs looking at you now.
Like your hand against his face means something bigger than it should.
Morgan looks between both of you while happily shoving cake into her mouth.
ââŠyou guys are weird.â
Sam immediately loses his mind laughing somewhere behind the table.
And Bucky?
Bucky canât even argue with her.
The party finally begins to quiet down sometime after cake.
Children are asleep on couches inside the house. Half-deflated balloons drift lazily across the backyard. Someone turned the music low enough that it blends into the warm night air instead of filling it.
And Morgan Stark is fully asleep in Bucky Barnesâs arms.
It happens slowly.
One minute sheâs still talking sleepily about whether Belle and Beast would survive a zombie apocalypse and the next, her head slips against his shoulder mid-sentence.
Out cold.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks down at her carefully, adjusting his hold automatically so she settles more comfortably against his chest.
The Beast gloves are gone now.
The mask too.
And without them, he somehow looks softer and more dangerous at the same time.
Dark hair messy from wearing the costume all night. Sleeves pushed up slightly. Tired eyes watching Morgan with this quiet kind of patience that makes something ache in your chest.
Pepper appears beside you with the expression of a woman whoâs one minor inconvenience away from sleeping for three days.
âOh no,â she whispers fondly. âSheâs done.â
Bucky huffs quietly. âYeah.â
Pepper reaches for Morgan carefully. âIâll take her upstairs.â
For a second, Morgan stirs slightly against him.
Then tiny fingers grab weakly at the front of his shirt.
âNo,â she mumbles sleepily. âBeast stays.â
Your heart actually hurts.
Bucky goes very still.
Pepper looks dangerously close to emotional already.
And after a tiny pause, Bucky murmurs:
âAlright. Iâm stayinâ.â
Morgan settles instantly.
You swear Pepper might love him a little for that.
Eventually, between the three of you, Morgan is successfully transferred upstairs without waking again.
And thenâ
The silence.
Just you and him standing alone beneath strings of warm lights while the last few party guests drift out through the gates.
The yellow skirts of your dress brush softly against your legs every time the wind moves.
Bucky looks at you for a second too long.
Then looks away.
Then back again.
âYou know,â he says quietly, voice rougher now without the mask muffling it, âthat dress is kinda unfair.â
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.
Because he says it like it slipped out accidentally.
Like he didnât mean to say it aloud.
Heat crawls up your neck immediately.
So naturally, you deflect.
âGood thing the costume covered your face then.â
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Then his gaze shifts briefly past you.
Toward the tables scattered across the backyard.
Most of the candles have burned low by now. Half-empty glasses abandoned beside crumpled napkins. Flower centerpieces beginning to droop after hours in the heat.
And right in the middle of one arrangement there is a single rose.
Bucky tilts his head slightly. âThought Belle was supposed to have a rose.â
You blink, caught off guard by the comment.
Then laugh softly. âYou know the story?â
He gives you a look.
âSteve made me watch animated movies for cultural rehabilitation.â
A laugh slips out of you instantly. âThat cannot be a real sentence.â
âIt absolutely is.â
âYou poor thing.â
âI survived.â
âBarely.â
You laugh again.
One large hand closes around the stem of a red rose tucked between candles and gold ribbon.
And without ceremony he pulls it free.
You stare as he turns back toward you, holding it out casually like this isnât doing very dangerous things to your heartbeat. You shake your head, smiling as you take the rose carefully from his hand.
His fingers brush yours for half a second.
Warm.
Gentle.
And somehow that tiny touch feels worse than the dancing did.
 âYou just stole from Tony Stark,â you murmur.
âHeâll survive.â
âYouâre a criminal.â
âIâve been told.â
And for one soft, dangerous second the fairy tale feels a little too real.
And suddenly the air feels too warm.
The fairy lights above you blur softly while your heartbeat pounds hard enough to be embarrassing.
Because thereâs something very unfair about the way he looks at you now.
Not like Belle.
Not like part of the performance.
Like you.
And the worst part?
You think maybe he doesnât even realize heâs doing it.
A nervous laugh escapes you quietly. âYou flirt a lot for someone who looked physically offended to be here earlier.â
âI was physically offended.â
âYouâre doing better now.â
âThatâs debatable.â
You smile.
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth.
And there it is.
That terrible, dangerous pause.
The kind that changes things.
Your heartbeat stumbles.
One more inch andâ
Bucky steps back first.
Like the thought alone startled him. He glances toward the house, jaw tightening once when he realizes he doesnât know how to do this anymore.
Doesnât know how to stand in soft light with a beautiful girl dressed like a princess smiling at him like heâs someone safe to be around.
Not after everything.
Not when she still looks at him with warmth instead of caution.
Someone like you should probably meet someone normal.
Someone uncomplicated.
Not a man who spent half the evening hiding behind a Beast mask because it somehow felt easier than being himself.
And maybe thatâs why, after a long pause, he just says quietly:
âYou should get home. Itâs late.â
The words hit harder than they should.
But you still smile softly. âYeah. Probably.â
Neither of you move right away.
Then finally, you step back.
âGoodnight,â you say gently.
Bucky nods once.
âGoodnight, sweetheart.â
The nickname lands directly in your chest.
And then you leave.
Just like that.
No number exchanged.
No big moment.
Bucky watches until your taillights disappear through the gates.
And something in his chest feels suddenly, violently empty.
ââŠyou are the dumbest man alive.â
Bucky closes his eyes immediately.
Of course Sam Wilson is still here.
âI donât wanna hear it.â
âYou didnât even ask for her number!â
Bucky drags a hand down his face tiredly. âSam.â
âNo, seriously,â Sam says, horrified. âWhat was your plan here? Just suffer forever?â
Bucky glares at him. âIâm serious.â
âAnd Iâm devastated for you.â
âI donâtââ He exhales sharply. âSheâs sweet.â
Sam blinks once.
ââŠthatâs your argument?â
âShe deserves someone normal.â
âNone of us are normal.â
âThatâs different.â
Sam opens his mouthâ
Then pauses suddenly.
His eyes drop toward the patio floor near Buckyâs boots.
ââŠhold on.â
Bucky frowns. âWhat.â
Sam points dramatically.
And there, half-hidden beneath one of the chairs, sits a pair of gold heels.
Tiny.
Definitely not his.
Bucky stares at them for a second.
Then something in his expression shifts almost immediately.
Because he remembers you wincing every few steps near the end of the party. Remembers you carrying the shoes in one hand while walking barefoot through the grass. Remembers the yellow dress brushing around your ankles while fairy lights reflected softly against your skin.
A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Sam looks deeply offended by the existence of this emotion.
âOh my God,â he says. âI thought she was Belle, not Cinderella.â
Bucky shoots him a look while bending to pick up the heels carefully.
Theyâre ridiculously delicate in his hands.
Sam watches the whole thing with growing horror.
âYou are gone,â he says.
Bucky ignores him, thumb brushing absently over the gold strap.
Then, before he can think too hard about why heâs doing it, he glances toward the gates one last time.
Like maybe youâll magically come running back for them.
Sam stares at him for a long moment.
Then slowly reaches into his pocket.
Bucky narrows his eyes immediately. âWhatâs that.â
Without answering, Sam holds out a small business card.
The princess company logo printed across the front.
Warnings: Mild language, parental disownment, mentions of canonical fighting and injuries
Prompt: âIâm not giving up on youâ from this list
Summary: Y/N discovered Earth when Steve and Bucky were children, and she remained there for almost two decades before leaving again. Decades later, she returns to discover that Steve is alive, and she begins to hope that Bucky might be alive, too.
A/N: As is frequently the case, this story got away from me. Over two months after I first started what I thought would be an angsty drabble, I finished this. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Thank you for all the ways you support my writingâthrough reading, liking, commenting, and reblogging, you encourage me to continue writing despite my incredibly busy life.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Steve is droning on, pointing to various parts of the buildingâs blueprints on the screen, and you occupy yourself by sliding your stylus back and forth through the loop built into your tablet case. Thereâs no real reason for you to be in this meeting. Itâs not even your departmentâSteve had specifically requested you to come up from your office. Youâd been hard at work on a project, too. Ever since heâd been discovered in the ice, youâve been scouring historical documents, looking for any trace of every soldier that came into contact with Johann Schmidt or Doctor Erskine. Itâs a pointless task, especially since itâs already been done ten times over. But still, you canât help but search again. Thereâs a small part of you, you think, that is hoping maybe youâll find Bucky is still alive out there.
âWhat do you think, Y/N?â Steve asks.
The question yanks you out of your own irritation and you look up from the tablet, blinking at him. All around the table, eyes are fixated on you, waiting to hear your thoughts on whatever heâs been saying.
âWhat?â you reply, your fingers still holding the stylus, which is currently halfway through the loop.
âWhat do you think of the plan to infiltrate the compound?â
âWhat compound?â
Steve sighs, and your stomach sinks. Youâve disappointed him, and you look down at the tablet again. The screen is black. Itâs probably dead, considering you forgot your charger at home and you hadnât bothered to borrow one this morning. You slide the stylus back into place before dropping your hand to the table beside it.
"Iâm sorry,â you say, not looking up. âMy mind was elsewhere. I didnât realize youâd be asking for my feedback, since missions arenât exactly my forte.â
âSheâs got a point,â Tony interjects. âWhy is she even here?â He leans back in his chair and throws a piece of candy in the air, catching it with his mouth. Youâre not even sure where he got the candy from. He didnât have it a minute ago, and he has no bag with him, at least not that you can see. Youâre fairly certain thereâs a sign on the door that says thereâs no food and drink in the meeting room, too, though you suppose rules can be bent for the person who designed and built the meeting room.
Steve scowls at him. âSheâs here at my invitation.â
âBut why?â Itâs Natasha who asks, and she leans forward over the table, her eyes narrowed. âHer clearance isnât high enough for any of this.â
You stand and gather up your tablet and water bottle. Your contraband water bottle. âI think thatâs my cue.â You force a cheerful politeness into your voice as the team of superheroes looks your way once more.
âY/Nââ Steve begins, but you shake your head.
âI have work to do,â you tell him. âIâll see you later.â The soft-close door swings shut behind you and you head down the hallway with quick steps, hoping that Steve will get the message to stay put and not come after you. He needs to finish the briefing and make sure his team is prepped and ready for whatever mission heâs theyâre going on.
An infiltration, you think, pressing the button for the elevator. You scan your ID badge and the circle around the button turns green. Humming begins inside the shaft as the carriage makes its way up from the 3rd floor to the 23rd.
Why would Steve pull me into an infiltration briefing?
The elevator chimes and you step inside, scanning your ID again and standing in place so that JARVIS can scan your retina, too. When the automated voice confirms your clearance, you press the button for your floor and step even further into the elevator, settling with your back against one of the mirrored walls.
The doors are about to close when a pale hand sticks through the narrow gap between them and theyâre forced open again. Itâs Natasha, and you straighten, moving away from the railing and holding your tablet a little tighter against you. She presses her watch face against the scanner, then pauses as JARVIS scans her retina as well. When sheâs prompted to choose a destination, she presses the button to close the doors instead.
âSo,â she begins once the elevator begins to move, âYouâre friends with Steve.â
Reluctantly, heart pounding, you nod. âYes.â
âHeâs never mentioned you before, but he said the two of you go way back. When did you meet?â
The truthâs going to come out one way or another, you think, and you steady yourself with one hand on the railing.
âWe met when we were kids.â
âWhen you were kids,â Natasha repeats. She narrows her eyes, her casual attitude beginning to melt away. âHow old are you?â
âOne thousand, three hundred years old.â
She stands a little taller and gives you a quick once over. âDoes Steve know?â
You nod. âYes. Heâs known for a long time.â
Natasha stares at you for several long moments. When the elevator chimes to announce your arrival, she reaches over with one hand and stops it, never looking away from you as she presses the red button. The carriage lurches to a stop and you grip the railing with one hand to keep your balance.
âWhere are you from?â
âYouâve never heard of it.â Thinking about your home planet is painful. Every moment since your last departure has been a reminder that you will never be welcome back. Your family has disowned you and your leaders have banished you to Earth, though you doubt theyâre truly keeping tabs on you. You can go anywhere in the universe, except home.
âTry me.â
You tell her, first using your native language, and then translating it to the most human equivalent there is. Nothing changes on Natashaâs face, but you know humans well enough that you can read even the smallest of tells. Sheâs worried and afraid. Sheâs a little bit angry, too. Natasha has never heard of your home, let alone your kind. She has no knowledge to draw from, and after her experiences with the unknown, you donât blame her for her reaction. If someone you considered to be a close friend had hid something like this from you, youâd be upset as well.
âMy home was about four thousand light years away from Earth.â
âWas?â She raises an eyebrow slightly, saying nothing more.
âNew York is my home now.â
âWhyâd you move?â
âThey decided I had spent too much time away,â you reply. The elevator is still and quiet around you, so you speak softly. Itâs not a story that youâre excited to tell. âMy family felt that I was too influenced by humans and life on Earth, so they disowned me. When our leaders found out that I planned to return here, they decided to make it a one-way trip. If I get within a light year of my home planet, my ship will be incinerated. Not that it matters now. Iâm unable to power my ship.â
She doesnât answer, but she reaches over and restarts the elevator. It lurches once, then moves just a few feet up before it stops again. Thereâs another chime before the doors open on your floor.
Hesitantly, you step past her and out into the hallway. Natasha follows you out. She falls into step beside you as you walk to your office at the far end of the floor.
âYou have more questions,â you note, glancing at her as you turn a corner.
Natasha stays silent. She only speaks again once youâre in your office and the door is closed, though she waits until youâre seated at your desk to lean against the door, effectively preventing any escape. Not that youâd planned on running from her. You wouldnât get very far if you did.
âHow did you meet Steve?â
Surprised at her softened tone, you look up from your tablet. You take a second to plug it in, waiting for the screen to show that itâs connected properly before you answer,
âIt was my first trip to Earth, and Iâd landed in New York. At the time, I still had the ability to change my form, so I changed into a human child. Steve found me only hours after I got here, and he took me home so his mother would feed me. I think Iâd made myself too skinny and he thought that my family couldnât afford enough food.â
âDid he know you werenât really human?â
You shake your head and set your water bottle on a coaster. âNo. Sarah caught on quickly, though.â
âHis mom,â Natasha clarifies, and you nod.
âHuman food made me sick. I wasnât used to eating it. At first Steve thought I was a sick little kid like him, and Sarah ran with it, but once she got me alone, she started asking questions. I answered honestly. I had no reason not to, though in retrospect, I should have been more cautious about revealing my identity. I got lucky.â
âWhat did she do?â
You shrug a little. âNothing.â
Your gaze drifts to the faded black-and-white photograph on your desk. Itâs framed in a simple, dark wood frame, tucked behind a small piece of museum glass. In the photo, you, Steve, and Bucky are sitting at Sarahâs kitchen table. A vase of wildflowers and a small cake sits in the center of the table, and you can see the blurry swish of Sarahâs skirt in the background as she ducks out of view. You donât remember who took the photo or what you were celebrating, but itâs the one piece of your âchildhoodâ on Earth that still exists. Every other piece of evidence of your existence has been destroyed, either by your or by the leaders of your planet.
Steve had given you the photo shortly after youâd arrived at the Tower, cold and wet after running from your apartment in Brooklyn. As soon as youâd discovered he was alive, youâd returned to Earth, but you hadnât gotten up the nerve to see him until soon after the Battle of New York. Then, after one horrible nightmare that heâd been taken away from you again, youâd sprinted to the Tower in the dead of night. Steve had been awake and standing in the lobby, like heâd been waiting for you. Heâd had a nightmare, too, though heâs never told you what it was.
âHow did Steve find out?â she asks.
âI think Bucky found out first,â you reply. âHe was always shrewd, and he could read me better than anyone. One day Steve just started asking questions about my home planet, just as easily as he was asking about the weather.â You shrug a little. âNeither one of them seemed to think it was strange that I wasnât like them, but they treated me like I was. Sarah, too.â
âWhen did you leave?â
You look down at your desk. The small antique clock youâd found at a thrift store last Christmas ticks steadily and you stare at it. The glass is a little dustyâwith all your work combing through historical records, you havenât given your office a proper clean, and youâve barred the cleaning crew from entering your space. Your eyes feel hot with tears, and a lump grows in your throat. Natasha doesnât say anything. You can feel her watching you and you shift in your seat, hating the fact that sheâs seeing you so weak, especially now that she knows your secret.
âAfter Bucky fell from the train, I was counting on Steve to make it home. The three of us had made plansâŠâ You sniffle and suck in a sharp breath. âSteve had promised to take care of me if Bucky didnât make it back alive.â
âBut then Steve went in the ice,â Natasha finishes before you can, and you nod, closing your eyes. âYou were all alone.â
A tear streaks down your cheek and you wipe it away, embarrassed. Natasha steps closer and you open your eyes to see her holding out the box of tissues from your desk. Taking it, you wipe your eyes and nose with one, then set it aside. You still canât look up at her.
âYou loved him, didnât you?â she quietly asks. âBucky.â
Sheâs figured out the last part of the secret, and you nod.
âMore than anything.â
âIâm sorry.â
Nodding, you force yourself to look up. âI left the day after Steve went into the ice, and I vowed I would never come back.â
âBut you did.â
You nod again and push your rolling chair away from the desk. Reaching down, you press your thumb against the scanner on the bottom drawer, then open it and pull out a small box. Itâs the size of a ring box, but inside is your most prized possession. Natasha stares at it when you place it on the desk and close the drawer. Again, her year of training make it so her expression betrays nothing, but you can sense her interest and excitement.
âI came back twice before Steve was found. When I heard he was alive, I came back a third time. My ship runs on a specific kind of energy, and by then I had been exiled from my home planet, so there was no way to get a new crystal.â
You open the small box to reveal the dull, lifeless crystal. At one point, it had been a beautiful purple. The topmost point had been amethyst, which then faded to a pure, snowy white at the bottom point. Now, it was entirely pale gray, and it was no longer transparent, but rather cloudy and unpolished. Only a few inches in height, the crystal had once fit snugly in the amulet you wore at all hours. The amulet had let you travel any place youâd desired, and it had been able to power any ship, even if it wasnât one from your home. With regular renewal, crystals could last hundreds of thousands of years. Yours would never ben renewed again, and now it was simply a reminder of everything youâd lost. Some time ago youâd stopped wearing the amulet, and it was now tucked away in a dresser drawer. You liked keeping it at home where you could look at it when you were feeling nostalgic, and you kept the crystal in your desk at work lest anyone see them together.
âMay I?â Natasha asks, reaching with one hand toward the box.
Reluctantly, you nod, and she gently removes the crystal, holding it between her thumb and pointer fingers. She inspects it in the artificial light of your office, looking at it from all sides and holding it with the utmost care. Finally, she places it back in the small box.
âDoes anyone else know about you and that crystal?â
âOnly Steve, and now you,â you add. âBucky, but heâs gone.â
âLetâs keep it that way.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYouâre not going to tell Director Fury?â
âFury doesnât need to know everything,â she replies. âThe less people know, the better.
You nod. You agree completely, and youâre thankful that sheâs choosing to be discreet about your identity.
âThank you,â you tell her, but she doesnât acknowledge your gratitude. Instead, she perches on the side of your desk. Natasha carefully closes the box and picks it up with the same hand, then inspects it from all sides, just as she had done the crystal.
âSteve made it for me,â you volunteer. âThe frame, too.â You pick up the picture and turn it so she can see.
A small smile appears on her face and she puts the box down, then gestures toward the framed photo in your hand. You nod and hand it to her so she can look at it more closely.
âThis is you?â
You nod. âBack when I had the ability to change my appearance at will. I allowed myself to age with them.â
âWhat about now?â she asks.
Shrugging a little, you take the photo from her and put it back in its place, then do the same with the box. The bottom drawer clicks shut and you give it another little tug, ensuring that the lock is doing its job.
âI age just as much as anyone else, I suppose.â
âHow long does your kind normally live on Earth?â
You donât know how to answer that. If you were at home, you could live hundreds of thousands of yearsâmillions if you chose a safe career and didnât do anything risky. Here on Earth, thereâs no telling how long you might live. Thereâs also no telling how you might die.
âI donât know,â you say after a moment. âIâm the only one here.â
âItâs not so bad.â You give her a small smile. âI have Steve. And now you, I guess.â
Much to your surprise, Natasha smiles back. She stands and taps once on your desk with her index finger. âDonât be a stranger. You have the clearance to visit our personal floor, so make sure you do. I donât want to hunt you down, but I will if I have to.â Thereâs a twinkle in her eye when she says this, and you know she means it. Her genuine interest in your friendship warms something inside of you, and you find yourself smiling a little more.
âNoted.â
A year later, you find yourself watching two helicarriers burning in midair. Pieces of them fall to the river belowâthe river thatâs only twenty minutes from your SHIELD-owned apartment. You stare dumbfounded at the newscast on the TV screen, declaring that classified documents from SHIELD have been released to the public, that Captain America is engaging in unauthorized warfare against SHIELD leadership and operatives, and that Nick Fury has been killed. Natashaâs true identity, along with every crime sheâs ever committed and every secret sheâs ever been a part of, is out there for everyone to see. If you were her, youâd be furious. Youâd also be on the run.
Tears burn in your eyes. You have no idea if your true identity is listed in the documents that have been released, and you have no idea whatâs happening to Steve. Heâd come to you the day before, but heâd been in a rush. Something had been wrong, and the tension Natasha held onto told you that it was more than just a minor emergency. If you had known the magnitude of the crisis, you would have offered to help, despite that fact that Steve had very adamantly insisted that they were fine and that he needed you to stay out of it. Though you have no fighting experience, there must have been something that you could have helped with. Now, all you can do is wait and hope that your friends will make it out of this alive.
You watch for hours, scouring every news channel you have along with social media and your news app. You read every single SHIELD document you can find in between updates. Much to your relief, your identity doesnât seem to be mentioned anywhere. There are very few tidbits of information out there on what happened above the Potomac, but you eventually find out that Steve is alive. Heâs hospitalized, but heâs alive, and youâre out the door in less than five minutes.
Itâs the middle of the night, but a kind veteran named Sam finds you standing in the lobby, arguing with the employee at the front desk. Sam convinces her to let you in, claiming that youâre Steveâs sister. You donât argue, especially because it might as well be true.
In the elevator, Sam doesnât ask who you are. He doesnât ask for any piece of information about you, but when you start to enter the room, spying Steveâs sleeping form from the dim hallway, Sam grabs your arm.
âHeâs been through a lot the past few days,â he gently tells you. âNot just physically, but emotionally, too.â
You swallow thickly and nod. âHe came to my house yesterday. I knew something was wrong, but he made me promise to stay put until it was all over. I couldnât wait any longer.â Sam nods and lets go of your arm.
âYouâre Y/N, right?â Shocked that he recognizes you, you nod, a bit more wary than before. âI recognize you from the picture on his phone,â Sam continues. âYou, him, and Bucky, youâre sitting at a table together. Itâs his wallpaper.â
You hadnât known that. Itâs a bold move on his part, having the picture displayed in a place where practically anyone could see. The last time youâd seen Steveâs phone, the wallpaper had been a picture of the mountains youâd visited during his last mandated vacation. He hadnât wanted to go, but youâd lured him away from New York and the capital with the promise of beautiful views. The views hadnât disappointed, and both of you had ended up having a really great time.
âBuckyâs alive,â Sam says, and you feel dizzy. He grabs you by the elbow and steers you over to the wall, where you grab onto the rough plastic railing for support. âI donât know where he went, but heâs out there. Heâs not the same as you remember him, though.â
âWhat are you talking about?â you ask, tears filling your eyes again. You try to take a deep breath, but it stutters in your chest and you feel out of control.
âI donât know everything, youâll have to talk to Steve about it once heâs up and moving, but I figured you should know. Heâs already seen one person from his past today when he wasnât expecting it, so donât be shocked if he seems surprised to see you.â
Your mind is whirling with the implications of what heâs just told you. Bucky is alive? How? Where is he, and why isnât he with Steve?
âWhy didnât he stay?â you ask, your voice cracking. âIf heâs alive, and heâs seen Steve, why didnât he stay with him?â
Samâs expression is serious, and it makes your stomach twist into a million knots. You feel like you canât breathe.
âHe was the one that Steve was fighting, Y/N. I donât know what happened to your friend since the war, but heâs not the same person you remember.â
âWhat? No, he wouldnâtââ
âHeâs the one that put Steve in the hospital,â Sam tells you, and you shake your head.
âNo. No, Bucky would never do that. He would never willinglyââ
Sam puts his hand over yours on the railing. You meet his eyes and it feels like your heart drops through the floor when he says,
âWe donât think it was willingly.â
Holding back tears, you look through the window into Steveâs room, staring at him. The right side of his face is red and purple, bruised from his eye socket all the way to the hairline near his ear. It looks like he has stitches on the other side of his face, but itâs too hard to tell from a distance.
âCan I go in now?â you ask quietly, pulling your hand out from under Samâs. When he nods and steps aside, you enter Steveâs room in silence and take the chair beside the bed. You sit there for a long time, waiting for him to wake, but heâs still unconscious when you have to leave for work in the morning.
Sam calls you later that afternoon and you message your supervisor to let her know that youâre taking the rest of the day off. Technically, everyone at SHIELD is supposed to be on callâemergencies like the classified documents being released are an all-hands-on-deck situationâbut you donât care. All you care about is making sure that Steve is okay and finding out more about Buckyâs miraculous reappearance.
âYou look like shit,â you say, standing in the doorway to Steveâs hospital room.
He looks up from the folded shirt heâs putting into a duffel bag on the bed. The bruises youâd seen yesterday are starting to heal, leaving him more green-blue than purple-red, and the stitches on the side of his mouth are already looking rather redundant. Heâs no longer in the hospital gown, just a pair of navy sweatpants, and you can see a myriad of other bruises on his chest, back, and arms. If you were in his shoes, youâd be in bed, whining about the pain and asking for room service. Then again, Steve has always pretended to feel better than he actually does.
âI thought I told you to stay home where it was safe,â he replies, ignoring your comment.
You step into the room and give Sam a tight smile when he brushes past you, closing the door behind him to give you and Steve some privacy.
Steveâs still hooked up to the heart rate monitors, and they beep steadily as you stand a few feet into the room, watching him pack up the few belongings someone had obviously brought him, probably Sam.
âDid you get discharged?â you ask.
âSomething like that.â
Sighing a little, you drop your bag on the chair where youâd spent most of the night. âYou should really wait until the doctorâs clear you, Steve. Who knows what youâll be up against if you go out there. You canât half-ass something like this.â
âSomething like what?â he asks, pointedly not looking up at you. Thereâs an edge to his voice, like heâs daring you to challenge his actions of the past twenty-four hours. You know that thereâs always more to the story than youâre told by your higher-ups at SHIELD, and thereâs always more to the story than the media says.
âSomething like finding Bucky.â
Steve freezes, then very slowly puts the pair of boxers heâd been packing back down onto the bed. âSam told you?â
You nod and step a little closer. âWas it really him?â
He looks up, meeting your eyes, and you know the answer. Steve is just as confused as you are, if not even more, considering what Sam had told you about the fight. Heâs hurt, too, and not just physically. Bucky was someone that Steve always trusted to have his back, and now heâs been betrayed.
âDo you have any idea what happened?â you quietly ask, and Steve shakes his head.
âNo. Something⊠Something happened to him, Y/N. Heâs still Bucky, but heâs confused. If Natashaâs intel is right, then Buckyâs been killing people for decades now, important people, people like JFK.â
You stare at him, dumbfounded. âThatâs insane, Steve. Bucky wouldnâtâ Are you saying that Bucky is the one who assassinated JFK? You have to know how crazy that sounds, right?â
âOf course I know how crazy that sounds!â he snaps, and he grabs a pair of rolled socks from the bed, stuffing them into the bag before zipping it closed. He rips the electrode pads from his chest and tosses them on the mattress. One of them slides off, but he ignores it as he grabs a sweatshirt and pulls it over his head. You catch the wince on his face before he can hide it.
âI can think of things that sounded even crazier when I first learned about it, though,â he says, suddenly a lot calmer. âYour hometown, to start with.â
Itâs the first time that Steve has ever mentioned your home planet, and you freeze.
âWhat?â
âListen, Y/N, there are other planets out there. We know that, and you and I have both known that for longer than most people. Loki controlled people with the Tesseract just a few years ago. Whoâs to say that Buckyâs not being controlled by someone, or something, else?â
âIf what youâre saying is true,â you slowly say, grabbing your bag, âthen heâs still probably dangerous, and theyâll do anything to keep him under their control. Steve, if they can control him, then they can control anyone.â
âHeâs still our friend.â
You nod and take a deep breath. You learned long ago that itâs pointless to try and talk Steve out of something if heâs already set his mind on it. âPromise me that you wonât do anything stupid. And that youâll check in occasionally,â you add.
âI will.â Steve comes around the bed and pulls you in for a hug. You close your eyes and cling to him as gently as you can without putting pressure on the bruises covering his midsection.
"Be safe, Steve. I canât lose you again,â you murmur. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
âIâll do my best. Stay out of trouble while Iâm gone, okay?â
Pulling away, you look up at him and give him the cheekiest smile you can muster. âHow can I, when the trouble always follows you?â
Steve chuckles, then slings his duffel over his shoulder and slips out into the hallway. You follow him out, but stop a few feet from the door and then watch him head into the stairwell. A few minutes later, Sam reappears with a cup of coffee in hand.
âHe leave?â he asks, shaking his head in disapproval.
âWe both knew he would.â You pause. âOr at least, I did. I donât know how long the two of you have been friends.â
âNot as long as you.â
âI should get going,â you say, shouldering your work bag. âThanks for calling me, and for last night.â
Sam nods. âListen, if you ever need to talk, Iâm around. I work with the VA.â
You raise your eyebrows. âI didnât know Steve went to the VA.â
âHe doesnât, but that doesnât mean you canât stop by anytime you wanna talk.â
âThanks, Sam.â You take the card he holds out with a tired smile. âIâll see you around."
Bucky shows up at your apartment a week later. You open the door with a toothbrush in your mouth and foam dribbling from the sides of your lips, then stop in your tracks.
He keeps his head ducked low beneath a baseball cap, glancing over his shoulder in both directions before shouldering his way into your living room. Silently, you close the door behind him. You turn and stare at him with wide eyes.
âI donât understand,â you murmur after a minute. You swallow the toothpaste in your mouth, warning labels be damned, and grip the toothbrush tightly in one hand. He doesnât reply. âIs it really you? How are you here? How are you alive? Are youâ Are you okay?â
You step closer, and Bucky responds by stepping backward, moving smoothly around the glossy white coffee table that had come with the furnished apartment. His boots leave muddy tracks on the matching white carpet.
âBucky?â
âI donât remember him, but I remember you,â he says. His voice is rough, like he hasnât spoken in a while. âWhy?â
âI donâtâ I donât know.â You swallow thickly and search his face. There are a thousand questions running through your head, but as you stare at him and take in the dark circles under his eyes, the tear near the neckline of his shirt, and the dirty, stringy appearance of his hair, you finally settle for,
âAre you hungry?â
Bucky stares back at you, and his expression reminds you of Natashaâs. Heâs still Bucky, and he still has human tells, but someone has tried very hard to remove them. If what Steve said at the hospital is correct, then it wasnât Buckyâs doing.
âĐĐ°,â he finally replies, and you nod, then turn your gaze toward the hallway. You decide not to acknowledge the way heâs lapsed into Russian.
âThe bathroom is the first door on the right. You can clean up in there if you want. Thereâs soap and towels, and I think thereâs an extra toothbrush under the counter. I was going to make chicken for dinner, if thatâs okay?â
He nods once, robotically, and you wait for a second before heading to the kitchen.
Let him move at his own pace, you tell yourself.
Once in the kitchen, you set your toothbrush next to the sink and lean against the countertop, gripping it on either side as you stare at the fridge. A photo of you and Steve from your vacation together is pinned to the front with a magnet shaped like the White House. Samâs card is next to it.
Thereâs a crash in the bathroom and you jump. You hadnât even heard Bucky move, but you hurry out of the kitchen to make sure heâs okay.
You find him standing in your bathroom, holding the door to the lower cabinet. The top hinge is still attached to the door and it swings a little as he leans it against the bathroom wall.
âAre you okay?â you tentatively ask, hovering near the open doorway.
âYes.â
Bucky doesnât meet your eyes and he stays tensed. You spy the plastic-wrapped toothbrush in his other hand.
âThe door locks,â you tell him, then add, âToothpaste is on the counter. You can use anything you want in the shower, I donât mind.â
You close the door and force yourself to start cooking. Youâre aching to see him again, to touch him and to hear his voice. Itâs been decades, and now heâs only a few rooms away, but it still feels too far.
By the time youâre putting the chicken in the oven, Bucky is standing in the kitchen again. The baseball cap is gone completely. His hair is damp and hanging limply in his face, dripping onto his shoulders. Now that heâs clean, the poor condition of his clothes is even more noticeable and you glance at him a few times before saying,
âSteve left some clothes here. You can wear them if youâd like. He wonât mind.â
He stares at you and you look forward again, standing still for a moment under his gaze before you pull a knife from the knife block and reach for the cutting board. Only a millisecond passes before youâre pinned with your back against the counter with a heavy weight pressed against your front. Youâre bent backward from the pressure. Bucky twists your wrist, prying the knife from your hand and you let out a cry at the twinge of pain from his grip. He says something in Russian, low and threatening, and you stare back at him with wide eyes, shocked. Your heart pounds in your chest.
âIâm sorry!â you cry. âItâs for the potatoes!â
Though he continues to stare at you with a frightening ferocity in his eyes, Buckyâs grip loosens slightly, and you hear him set the knife down on the counter to your left, next to the stove. The heat radiating from the oven warms your legs and you shift a little underneath Buckyâs weight to move away from it. You let out a heavy breath and close your eyes for a second in a poor attempt to relax.
âPotatoes?â he asks, sounding unsure.
Opening your eyes, you nod and watch him carefully as you answer,
âItâs Sarahâs recipe.â Your voice trembles against your will, and you swallow thickly to try and steady yourself.
He releases you and steps back. Thereâs a flicker of recognition in his eyes. âSarah.â
âSteveâs mom,â you reply. âShe used to cook for the three of us all the time. You liked her potatoes, but I think you liked her beef stew better.â
Bucky doesnât give you a response this time around, so you tentatively reach for the knife. He wraps his hand around yours, holding it still.
âIâll do it.â
Raising your eyebrow at him, you wait until he gives you a firm nod before you nod back.
âOkay. You do it.â
He releases you again and you move out of the way, allowing him space at the counter. His movements are stiff and unpracticed, but you watch for a second as he pulls one of the washed potatoes from the towel youâd spread on the counter and puts it on the cutting board. He stares at it for a second before beginning to dice it. Bucky moves quickly and the knife cuts are clean and precise. You try not to think hard about why heâs suddenly so practiced with a knife when before leaving for the army, his kitchen skills were present, but limited.
While he dices the potatoes, you set the table. Youâre very aware of his presence just a few feet away, but you try to focus your mind on the task at hand.
Something behind you begins to sizzle and you turn, then stop and blatantly stare as Bucky adds the potatoes to a hot skillet. You hadnât heard him take it out of the cabinet, but youâre not surprised that heâs already done cutting up the vegetables. You are surprised, however, that he remembered how to cook the potatoes the way Sarah had done. Heâd only made the recipe twice, and both times youâd done most of the work while he teased you and tried to pull your attention away from cooking. The memory makes you smile to yourself as the ghost of his gentle, enamored touch on your waist slides just out of reach.
Bucky looks at home in your kitchen, even if heâs still in dirty, ragged clothes. He stands taller than before, and his movements are mechanical, but for a moment, heâs the same man as before. You still love him.
âHow did you find me?â you ask quietly. Youâre still holding the forks in one hand.
âPhone records.â
âBut I changed my name. How did youââ
âYour voice is the same.â
His answer makes you tear up and you take a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling to try and keep yourself from crying in front of him. The idea of him sitting somewhere, listening to phone call after phone call until he found you is more than you can bear. How long had that taken? How long has he been searching for you?
âI missed you,â you tell him. Your voice breaks and you set the silverware on the edge of the table. âWhere have you been all this time? I looked for you. When I found out that Steve was still alive, I came back and I looked everywhere.â
He averts his eyes, then turns back to the stove and shifts the potatoes around in the pan with a spatula. You watch him in silence, clasping your hands in front of you as you wait for a response. You can give him time if he needs it, even if not knowing makes it feel like something is terribly wrong.
If everything was okay, he would tell me right away, you think. Why else would he be avoiding it?
âI donât know.â
You frown. âYou donât know where you were?â
He shakes his head after a minute. âThey kept me inside most of the time. Iâ When I started to remember things, they would wipe me, and thenâŠâ He trails off with the spatula in the pan, the tip pressed against the potatoes just for a few moments before he pulls it out.
Steve was right. Someone did this to him.
âAnd then what?â you prompt. You watch him carefully, looking for some sign that heâs going to finish the sentence. Anger burns in your chest for a second, but you stuff in down. He doesnât need your anger or your vengeance right now.
Eyebrows furrowed, he clenches his fist around the spatula handle, and you hear a crack. You step closer and reach for his hand.
âLet me take that,â you say, ready to pry the spatula from his hand. You donât want any plastic poking through his glove and cutting his skin, though you know itâs probably not likely. The idea of him getting hurt any further, however, makes you sick to your stomach.
Bucky relinquishes the spatula without argument and you carefully take the pieces, tossing them into the trash can.
âLet me see your hand, I want to make sure it didnât go through your glove.â You reach for his hand again, but he pulls it away, going so far as to step away from you. Surprised, you look up at his face, and thereâs fear in his eyes, along withâŠ.
Shame?
âItâs okay, it was from the dollar store,â you tell him. You gesture toward the trash, where the broken spatula has fallen to the bottom of the otherwise empty bag. âI can get a new one, and I have a spoon we can use to stir the potatoes that will work just as well.â
âNo.â
When you reach for him again, Bucky repeats himself, this time louder.
âNo. Donât touch me.â
You freeze, hand trembling at his sudden change in tone. Bucky has never shied away from your touch before, and heâs never talked to you so angrily, at least not before the war.
âIâm not going to hurt you. Iâd never hurt you.â
âDonât touch me, Y/N.â
He uses your name and itâs like youâve been doused in cold water. You drop your shoulders and hold your hands up in surrender. You donât want to argue.
âOkay. Okay, I wonât.â You pause for a second. âCan you⊠Can you take off the glove at least? So I can make sure it didnât cut you?â
âNo.â
âJamesâŠâ
âI canât.â
âYou canât what?â
âI canât take off the gloves.â
âAre you⊠My loveâŠâ Your heart squeezes inside your chest, so tight that you struggle to inhale as deep as you need to, and it feels like you canât catch your breath. âI will love you no matter what your hands look like. Scarring wonât bother me.â
Thereâs confusion in his eyes, then realization, and then something else you canât identify, but you donât care, not as long as the anger on his face is gone.
âAre you in pain? Does it hurt?â
Reluctantly, Bucky nods. âYes.â
You press a hand to your chest and nod back as tears well up in your eyes. Another deep breath. This one comes easier.
âThen weâll find a doctor. Somehow, I donât know. Maybe Steve could help us, or Sam. Depending on how long your handâs been injured, there are surgeries. They can help you with the muscles and maybe the nerves, and they can do skin graftsââ
âNo doctors.â
âI canât stand the thought of you in pain.â
âI know.â Bucky pauses, staring at you. âIâll be okay.â
You stare back for a moment before taking another deep breath, relieved that the pressure in your chest has loosened even further and itâs much easier this time. âAre you sure?â
He nods. You let the room fall silent as you stare at each other, him by the stove and sizzling potatoes and you by the table with the delicate china you only bring out for guests. Itâs a set youâd first seen in the 40s, right after Bucky had left for Europe, and youâd bought it on a whim. The original set was long gone by the time youâd returned to Earth for the last time, but since then, youâd been able to track down individual pieces. Youâve filled in the gaps with pieces that are similar enough that the trained eye wonât notice at first glance.
Buckyâs eyes fall to the plate by your fingertips and he frowns again. âWhat is that?â
âItâsââ You glance down at the table and pull your hand away before looking back at him. âItâs china. From the 40s.â
He doesnât say anything, but he opens up one of your cabinets and pulls down one of your normal plates. Itâs a plain white one youâd found at a thrift store for 75 cents, and itâs got a chip along the outer rim.
Did I freak him out by bringing out the china? Was it too much all at once? Youâd thought the sight of something familiar and old-fashioned would be comforting to him, but the sinking feeling in your gut tells you that you were wrong.
The oven timer chimes and before you can bustle him away to check on the chicken, Bucky is opening the oven door and pulling out the roasting pan with one hand. You stare in horror, but he doesnât even flinch as he holds it up for you to see.
âIs it done?â he asks.
You stare at the golden-brown skin of the chicken for a minute, watching steam rise into the air and feeling the waves of heat coming from the open oven, before you finally manage a nod. Swallowing dryly, you watch in silence as Bucky sets the chicken on the stovetop, closes the oven, and turns it off. He turns off the burner for the potatoes, too, all without missing a beat.
âIf your hand is hurtâŠâ
Suddenly, almost violently, Bucky yanks off the leather glove on his left hand and throws it to the floor. He shoves his hand in your face and you flinch back, wide-eyed at his outburst. Your heart rate has picked up again. Itâs not his first sudden mood swing since heâd knocked on your door, and it feels like youâre on a roller coaster you canât get off.
What happened? This isnât like him. This isnât like anyone.
âMy hand isnât hurt,â Bucky grits out.
You stare at the metal fist in your face, trying to process the sight. Finally, you stammer, âDid⊠Was this from the war? Because I never heard anything aboutâŠâ You trail off, unsure if mentioning it would anger him further.
âNo,â he says, a bit terse. âThey did it to me.â
The mysterious âtheyâ. Who is he talking about?
You swallow hard and stare at the shiny silver metal. You can see the reflection of the florescent lights on the ceiling. When youâve looked it over completely, you ask, âDoes it still hurt?â
Bucky seems taken aback by your question. His fist loosens and he lowers his hand from your face. âWhat?â
âSome people have phantom pain from prosthetics. Does yours still hurt?â Youâre secretly amazed at how calm you sound, but it seems to do the trick.
âAll the time,â Bucky answers. His voice is quieter and some of his anger has faded away.
You hold out your hands, hovering them near his. âCan I?â When he nods, you gently take his metal hand between yours and inspect it, running your fingers over the smooth, cool surface. He lets you turn his hand over in silence, though you feel him watching you.
âHow far up does it go?â you ask.
âTo my shoulder.â
Your heart aches at his answer and you look up, meeting his quiet, steady gaze. His sudden anger has finally died away.
âWill you let me see?â
He looks away. In the split second before his gaze turns elsewhere, you see shame in his eyes again. Itâs heavyâmuch too heavy for one person to carry all alone.
âIâve changed too,â you softly tell him, hoping that your honesty will spur his. âIâm here for good.â
âWhat?â
You offer him a weak smile, a bit sad as your heart squeezes at the memory. âI was exiled.â
He shifts, moving closer to you as eyebrows furrow. âExiled?â
Over the next hour, you tell him the story. You leave out no details, and you only stop when you hear his stomach growl and you realize that the chicken Bucky had taken out of the oven has grown cold.
Bucky is quiet as he slices up the chicken and places pieces onto the two plates. He puts significantly more on the plain plate heâd taken from the cabinet, but only after you tell him to. He ate a lot even before he left for war, and just by looking at him you can tell that he probably eats even more now.
âI looked for you,â you say as he sets the pan back on the stove. He pauses with his back turned to you, listening.
âI looked for you, for Steve, for the men in your regiment. I even looked for anyone who might have been near Schmidt or Erskine.â
He stiffens. âWhy?â
You shake your head and admit, âI donât know. I just thought⊠Once they discovered Steve was alive, I realized that there was more at play here than just regular life and death, and if Steve survivedâŠâ
The rest of your sentence goes unsaid, but not unheard: Maybe you did too.
âI canât stay.â
âIâll come with you.â
âYou canât. Itâs not safe for you.â He glances toward the window as a truck rumbles by. âIf they found you with me, I donât know what theyâd do. If they discovered you arenât humanâŠâ
âThey wonât.â You stand. âWeâll be careful.â
He shakes his head, then turns to face you. Thereâs a strange darkness in his expression and it makes you nervous. âDonât underestimate them.â
âHow can I when you havenât even told me who they are?â you ask.
âWeâll be okay. I trust you to keep us safe, Bucky.â
âYou should eat.â Bucky pulls out his chair and sits, putting his plate in front of him as you move the china one out of his way. He grabs the knife and fork and starts to eat in silence. After a few seconds, you do the same.
âIâm not giving up on you,â you say after youâve pushed your plate away.
His hands pause just for a moment before he goes back to eating.
âBucky.â When he doesnât reply, you try again, âJames.â
Bucky shudders a little, his eyes closing for a moment. He inhales shakily before opening his eyes again. He stares at the plate, then starts to cut off another piece of chicken, but his movement have slowed considerably and you know that heâs listening to you.
âIf youâre just going to leave again, why did you come back?â
âI had to see you.â
His answer is quiet and strained, and it feels like youâve been stabbed. You reach over and grab his right hand over the knife he was using to cut his food, and his hands still completely.
âIf you leaveâŠâ You try to keep your voice from shaking. âIf you leave, then I have to grieve you all over again. Please donât put me through that.â
âItâs not safe for you,â he repeats. âI wonât be able to keep you safe.â
You scoff. âI have a hard time believing that. Youâre one of the most capable humans I know.â
âĐŻ ĐœĐ” Ń ĐŸŃŃ Đ±ŃŃŃ,â he mutters, and then he shakes his head. âNo. You canât come with.â
Bucky stands, collecting his plate, then yours. He takes them over to the sink and gingerly sets them down before stepping back to stare at the photos you have taped to the trim around the window that looks into the living room of your apartment.
When SHIELD had first given you the apartment, youâd thought the opening in the wall was strange. Why would you need a glassless window between two rooms? But over the past few months, youâve made good use of the windowâs trim and of the ledge. Photos and postcards are taped around its circumference, and the ledge is cluttered with trinkets youâve picked up at markets and in shops around the city. A vase of flowers from the grocery store is starting to wilt and drop petals on the ledge.
âYou have a life.â
âI do,â you admit, but then you add, âBut itâs not the one I wanted.â
He frowns.
âI wanted a life with you.â
Buckyâs shoulders drop. You watch him for several long moments, watching him struggle to keep up the walls heâs using to keep you out so he can stick to whatever plan heâs got in his head. Heâs a lot like Steve in that respect. Itâs part of why they made such a great team.
Slowly, you stand from the table and close the distance between the two of you. You slip your hand into his prosthetic, wondering if he can even feel your touch. He looks over at you, though youâre not sure if itâs because he can see you out of the corner of his eye or if he feels your hand in his.
âI wanted to be with you when we were kids, and that hasnât changed, even if it means being constantly on the run. I wasnât made for a domestic life, James. You know that as well as I do. If I was meant for it, I wouldâve been born a human in some tiny little town here on Earth, but I wasnât. I was born on a planet full of adventurers and universe-travelers. I was born into a life that promised me a world bigger than four walls and a hallway.â You gesture toward the front door. âAnd when I found you, I thought that Iâd get to experience this world with someone I loved. Please donât take that away from me again.â
âThey erased my memories of you,â he admits, so quietly that the hum of the refrigerator almost drowns him out. There are tears in his eyes. âI would have found you sooner if Iâd remembered.â
You squeeze his hand before remembering that itâs made of metal. âI know.â
âI canât say that I missed you. I canât say that I still love you the way you remember.â
âI know.â You search his face, trying to figure out what heâs trying to say.
âIâm not the man you fell in love with. Iâve done terrible things, Y/N.â
âYou can tell me about them when youâre ready, but nothing will change the fact that youâre the love of my life.â
âYou donât know that.â
You shake your head at him, wishing you could communicate everything youâre thinking and feeling with a single word. When none come to mind, you step in between him and the sink so youâre filling his entire field of vision.
âYour name is James Buchanan Barnes.â
âI know,â he says.
âAnd Iâm in love with you.â
He shakes his head in response, then pries his hand from yours, answering your question as to whether or not he knew youâd been holding it all this time.
âNo, youâre not, not anymore.â
Jabbing your finger against his chest, you scowl. âYou donât get to make that decision for me. Thatâs not how this works. If I say that Iâm in love with you after all these years, no matter what youâve done or said, then Iâm in love with you, and you just have to accept that. There is nothing you could do that would change the fact that I have waited all these years just in case I found you again. There is not a single man out there that could hold a candle to you, Bucky. Not a single one.â
You stare into his eyes, waiting for him to reply. Finally, he reaches up and takes your hand in his, lowering it from his chest. When itâs by your side again, he doesnât let go. Instead, he pulls you closer ever so slightly until your chest is up against his.
âYou waited for me,â he says, sounding slightly mystified.
âI told you I would,â you reply. Tears well up in your eyes at the memory of your last goodbye. You can feel your heart breaking preemptively at the thought of having to say another one.
Suddenly, Bucky wraps his arms around you in a crushing hug. Heâs crying, and his shoulder shake as he sobs into your shoulder. You hug him back, reaching up to stroke his hair as best as you can from inside his vice-like grip. Your heart is well and truly broken now, but relief fills you alongside the grief. Youâve finally broken through the walls heâd been clinging to since entering your apartment.
âIâve got you, sweetheart,â you murmur, your voice trembling with tears of your own. âItâs okay.â
Once your tears are dried, as well as his, Bucky takes you to your bedroom and helps you pack a bag. You take very little with you. Most of the bag is filled with plain, sturdy clothing and basic toiletries, but you carefully pack up postcards, photos, and you wrap a few of your favorite trinkets in socks and underwear to keep them from breaking. The amulet from your dresser drawer is packed too. It hurts to know that youâre leaving the crystal behind, but you know that it will be safe in your office in New York.
You bring along two booksâone of them is your favorite, and the other is one that you Bucky used to read aloud to you before heâd been drafted. You donât know if it was his favorite, but he liked it enough that youâd listened to him read it three times through. You secretly hope that reading it again will jog his memory. After a little convincing, Bucky changes into the clothes Steve left behind while you finish packing.
Bucky raids your cupboards for nonperishable snacks and he takes all the cash you have, which admittedly isnât very much. The two of you make a plan to meet up after youâve dropped your house key off at Natashaâs apartment.
When you get there, sheâs not home, which is exactly what youâre hoping for. You let yourself in and say hi to the cat she pretends not to have before sliding the key into your hiding place. She wonât find it right away if youâre right about her routines, but sheâll know where to look once itâs discovered youâre missing. Sheâll take care of your place, just like youâd take care of hers. You stop by an ATM, too. It doesnât allow you to empty your account completely, and you know it would be suspicious if you tried, so you withdraw as much as you can before tucking the cash into your wallet.
The overpass Buckyâs chosen for your rendezvous is crumbling and has been out of use for at least five years, but itâs still nearby a main road. It wouldnât have been too obvious for him to pull out of traffic to park his bike underneath the overpass. You try not to wonder where he got the motorcycleâit looks far too nice compared to the clothing he was wearing when he first showed up. The knowledge that itâs stolen is at the back of your mind as you approach him on foot, but when he meet your eyes, you know that itâs for the greater good.
âAre you ready?â he asks, handing you the backpack heâd held onto for you while you ran your errands. You nod before setting it on the ground and pulling your wallet from your jacket pocket. You tuck it carefully inside one of the small zipper pockets before slipping the straps over your shoulders and clipping the chest strap into place. Buckyâs ready for you when you stand, and he carefully lowers a helmet over your head. His fingers are nimble and gentle as adjusts it, then pulls the tinted visor down to shield your eyes.
You swing your leg over the bike and settle into place behind him, tentatively wrapping your arms around his waist. When he pulls you closer, tightening your grip just a little, you smile underneath the helmet and rest your head against his back. The bike roars to life then, and after a few moments, Buckyâs feet come off the ground and youâre heading back into traffic. He didnât say where you were headed first, but you trust that he has a plan. It wouldnât matter either wayâyou could drive in aimless circles for the rest of your life and youâd be happy, as long as you were with him.
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warnings ۶ৠ18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.
synopsis ۶ৠbucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you.
a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony starkâs guest room fix that problem rather loudly.
evieâs input ۶ৠnot beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.
so you picked the dark blue one.
dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.
now, standing in tony starkâs guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. âthis is a hate crime,â you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. âagainst me, specifically.â
the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.
natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. âif youâre dead in there, say something,â she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.
you glare at her through the mirror. âiâm suing you.â
âfor making you look hot?â
âfor elder abuse.â
âyouâre younger than me.â
âfor emotional elder abuse.â
her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. âyeah. youâre wearing it.â
âyou didnât even pretend to think.â
âi did think. silently. very sexy of me.â
you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. âitâs too much,â you say, quieter.
âitâs a pool party.â
âexactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.â
âtragic.â nat takes another sip. âpeople might also have necks. horrifying world.â
you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone youâve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.
bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and youâll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.
even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. youâve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for natâs sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.
âheâs already here,â nat says.
you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. âwho?â
âthe pool boy.â
âtony has a pool boy?â
âno, but if he did, iâd respect his commitment to the theme.â nat watches you through the mirror. âbarnes. heâs outside with steve and sam.â
your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. âthrilling.â
âhe asked where you were.â
âto insult me?â
âprobably to write a poem.â
you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. âiâm putting clothes on,â you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.
natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. âyou can wear whatever you want. but if youâre changing because barnes might see you, iâm going to be annoying.â
âyouâre already annoying.â
âi have levels.â her hand squeezes your shoulder once. âheâs one guy.â
âheâs a large guy.â
âstill one.â
âthatâs debatable. he has the surface area of three men.â
she smiles into her glass. âcome outside.â
you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.
bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably wonât even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. âfine,â you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. âbut if i cry, iâm pushing you into the pool.â
nat opens the door, smug and fond. âdeal. i swim beautifully.â you hate her. you follow her anyway.
sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tonyâs summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.
everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.
and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.
of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailorâs bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.
you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. âhey, finally! we were about to send a search party.â
âi was in the bathroom for seven minutes,â you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.
âseven minutes in woman time,â tony says, lifting his drink. âso either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.â
ârich men shouldnât speak,â you say, and tony points at you like youâve wounded him.
âsee, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.â
that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.
then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.
you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.
he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.
just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.
you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. samâs laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tonyâs glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.
natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.âdrink?â she asks.
âyes.â
âalcoholic?â
âaggressively.â
tony hears that and brightens. âfinally, someone with taste.â
you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. âfor the lady with the aggressive liver.â
âthank you. sorry about your personality.â
âaccepted. i bought another one.â
sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. âDamn. Look at you.â
your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. âis that surprise?â
âthatâs respect,â sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. âlittle fancy thing going on. i see you.â
âitâs swimsuit technology.â
âno, thatâs a whole look. hey, buck.â sam turns his head before you can stop him. âyou seeing this?â
murder becomes briefly understandable.
buckyâs shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. âyeah,â he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. âi see it.â
that is worse than silence. you swallow. âfantastic. all votes counted.â
sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. âyou okay over there, terminator?â
buckyâs mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. âfine.â
âsounds painful.â
âsam.â
âwhat? iâm checking on my friend.â
âcheck quieter.â
you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.
Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. âyou getting in?â sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. âor did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?â
âboth can be true.â
âcome on. clintâs cheating and i need a witness.â
you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.
Buckyâs head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.
Fine. Your chin lifts. âiâm a terrible witness,â you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. âi lie under pressure.â
Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. âperfect. weâll frame clint together.â
The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. âvery athletic,â clint calls.
you wipe water from your eyes. âiâm preserving my mystery.â
âyour mystery is that you suck at catch.â
âmy mystery is that i havenât drowned you.â
That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.
It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.
Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.
Thereâs a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. âyou alive?â sam asks, splashing water near your arm.
You blink back to him. âunfortunately.â
âyou looked like you were plotting.â
âI plot as cardio.â
âthat explains the stamina.â
Buckyâs jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. âteach me to throw better,â you say.
He narrows his eyes. âthis a trick?â
âiâm asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.â
Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. âokay, elbow up. no, less like youâre threatening the ballâs family.â
âI am threatening its family.â
âgentle. release here.â His hand taps your wrist.
Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. âattempted murder.â
âself-defense,â you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. âyou had criminal energy.â
âYou hit me in my innocent head.â
âno jury would convict her,â sam says, wiping his eyes. âthat was art.â
A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.
Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.
Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.
Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. âi need another drink,â you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.
Sam calls after you, still laughing about clintâs tragic head injury. Natâs sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.
Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.
Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.
âcareful,â he says.
One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Buckyâs fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. ârelax, barnes.â You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. âyou donât have to touch me longer than necessary.â
The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. âWhat?â he says, quiet.
You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. âNothing.â
His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. âThat didnât sound like nothing.â
âYouâre very observant.â
âDonât do that.â
A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. âDo what?â
âAct like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.â
You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. âyou looked away,â you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.
Buckyâs face tightens. âWhen?â
You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. âForget it.â
You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. âWhen?â he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.
You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead youâre wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. âWhen I came out,â you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. âWhen sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, youâve been consistent.â
His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say youâre imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.
Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Buckyâs name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. âDrink,â you say, dropping onto a stool.
He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. âHydration adjacent.â
âyour discretion is unsettling.â
âiâm multifaceted.â
You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.
Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.
Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it âlight snacks,â which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.
That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?â nat asks.
âNo.â
She hums, sipping from her straw. âDo you want to lie about it?â
âDesperately.â
âGo ahead.â
You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. âIâm having a nice time.â
âTerrible lie. Try again.â
âI enjoy sunlight.â
âWorse.â
âBucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.â
Natashaâs mouth curves. âAlmost funny enough to pass.â
You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tonyâs towels have better career prospects than you. âHe looked at me like he wished Iâd worn a tarp.â
Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. âThatâs what you saw?â
You glance at her, defensive already. âI have eyes.â
âUnfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.
Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. âHeâs been weird all day,â nat says.
âHeâs always weird.â
âWith you, yes.â
âThatâs very comforting.â
She nudges your knee with hers. âYou two are exhausting.â
âThere is no two. Thereâs me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.â
âBroad?â
âDonât make me defend my vocabulary. Iâm injured.â
âYou slipped.â
âEmotionally.â
Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. âSlow down.â
You glare. âThis is theft.â
âThis is friendship.â
âFriendship would let me make poor choices.â
âI let you buy the swimsuit.â
âThat was attempted murder.â
Her hand squeezes your knee once. âHeâs looking again.â
Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. âGood for him,â you say.
Natâs smile turns small and unbearable. âYouâre allowed to like being looked at.â
âBy normal people, maybe.â
âBarnes is many things.â
âNormal does seem optimistic.â The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another personâs eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.
Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Natâs terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development.Â
Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tonyâs obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. âYou ever think about joining a league?â
You stare at him. âFor what, pool homicide?â
âFoam football. Youâve got raw talent.â
âI injured one man.â
âThatâs how legends start.â
You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Buckyâs fork scrapes softly against his plate.
You glance up. His eyes are on Samâs shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.
Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier.Â
After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.
You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.
You stand.
âComing in?â sam calls from the pool.
âApparently.â
Buckyâs head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. âYou coming?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks back. âWhat?â
âIn the pool.â You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. âThat large wet rectangle behind you.â
Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Buckyâs eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. âIâm fine here.â
âTragic. Weâll notify the rectangle.â
That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Buckyâs mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. âYou scared?â you ask.
The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. âOf you?â
âOf fun.â
âTerrified.â
âFigures.â You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is âmorally participating.â The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.
You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.
Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.
âDuck!â Sam shouts.
You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.
The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.
The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.
Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.
Buckyâs hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. âCareful,â he says again.
The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. âYou need a new line.â
His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. âYou need to stop slipping.â
âIâm sure the tiles are honored you blame me.â
âWasnât blaming you.â
âNo, youâre just leaping into pools now. Very casual.â
His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someoneâs wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. âEverybody alive?â
Bucky does not look away from you. âYeah.â
âYou sure? That looked like a rescue.â
âWilson,â Steve says, warning plain in his voice.
âWhat? Iâm just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.â
Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. âIâm fine,â you say, trying to step back.
Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. âFine,â he repeats, almost to himself.
You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. âIâm getting out,â you say, mostly to the water.
Buckyâs brows pull together. âAgain?â
âTry to survive it.â
Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.
The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tonyâs expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.
A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. âstealing dessert before dinnerâs fully over?â
You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.
Buckyâs voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.
âTell tony,â you say. âHeâll have me arrested by the pastry police.â
Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.
âI was checking on you.â
âVery heroic. Iâm eating a tart.â
âSo I see.â
âThen your work here is done.â
The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.
You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. âMove,â you say.
âTalk to me.â
Your laugh is small and mean. âAbout dessert?â
âAbout what you said outside.â
âIâve said many beautiful things today.â
His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. âAt the pool steps.â
The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. âI said you didnât have to touch me.â You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. âSeems clear.â
âNo.â His jaw tightens around the word. âIt doesnât.â
âIt really does.â
âIs that what you think Iâm doing?â
There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. âStanding in a kitchen?â
âTrying to stop touching you.â
A humorless sound leaves you. âArenât you?â
Buckyâs hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. âYou think thatâs why I looked away?â
Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. âIâm very tired of talking about where your eyes go.â
âIâm not.â
âCongratulations.â
His voice lowers. âLook at me.â
âNo.â
He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. âPlease.â
That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. âHappy?â you ask.
His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. âNo.â
That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.
Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. âI looked away,â he says, each word measured like it costs him, âbecause if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.â
You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. âKnow what?â
His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. âDonât do that.â
âIâm asking.â
âYou know what.â
âI really donât.â
His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. âThat I wanted you.â
The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.
Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.
âYouâve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,â you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.
His eyes cut back to yours. âIt does.â
You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. âYou walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like Iâd lost my damn mind.â
âThat thing?â
His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. âThe swimsuit.â
âYou hate it.â
His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. âI hate that Sam got to tell you first.â
That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. âHe was being nice,â you say.
âI know.â in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.
âHe looked at you like a friend,â Bucky says. âThat made it worse.â
You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. âWhy?â
His eyes come back to yours. âBecause I didnât.â
The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Buckyâs expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.
âFantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.â He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. âPretend Iâm rich furniture.â
âTony,â Bucky says, voice tight.
âGone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.â Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.
The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. âPeople are going to come looking.â
âLet them.â
Your eyes flick to his. âThatâs a bad idea.â
âYeah.â
âYouâre agreeing?â
âTrying something new.â
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Buckyâs face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.
âI thought you were embarrassed,â you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. âOf looking. Of me.â
His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. âJesus.â
You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.
âHey.â His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towelâs edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. âNo. Iâm angry at myself. Not you.â
âYou keep looking away.â
âI was trying to be decent.â
âThat felt awful.â
His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. âI see that now.â
âGreat. Character development.â
He huffs, but thereâs no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. âIâm sorry.â
You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is.Â
This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. âI donât want your pity apology,â you say.
His thumb stops. âPity?â
âYes.â
âYou think Iâm standing here half naked in Starkâs kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?â
âWhen you put it like that, it sounds stupid.â
âIt sounded stupid before.â
You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. âCareful.â
That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Buckyâs hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.
He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.
Bucky watches the movement. âThere,â he says, voice rougher. âNo pity.â
You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. âThat was unsanitary.â
âPool waterâs worse.â
âComforting.â
His hand stays around yours. âYou always do that.â
âWhat?â
âMake a joke when youâre shaking.â
You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tonyâs floor.
âIâm cold,â you say.
Buckyâs eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. âYeah?â
âYes.â
âWant me to get you dry?â
There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. âI can manage a towel.â
âI saw.â
âYou saw me almost fall.â
âI saw a lot today.â
A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. âYou looked away for most of it.â
âI looked back.â
That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. âI looked back all damn day.â
You try to swallow. It takes effort. âBuckyâŠâ
The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.
âPeople are asking about dessert,â she says.
You stare at her helplessly. Buckyâs hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. âThey can wait.â
Natashaâs brows rise. âCan they?â
âYes,â he says.
Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Natâs eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. âRight,â she says. âIâll tell them the kitchen is occupied.â
âNat,â you hiss.
Her mouth curves. âWhat? By wet people.â
Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. âRomanoff.â
âRelax, Barnes. Iâm leaving.â She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. âUse one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.â
Your soul leaves your body. âWhat?â you choke.
Tonyâs voice carries from outside. âI do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.â
Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. âIâm moving.â
Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. âWhere?â
âInto the ocean.â
âPoolâs closer.â
âToo many witnesses.â
His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. âGuest roomâs closer too.â
You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. âThis is a terrible idea,â you whisper.
âProbably.â
âPeople are outside.â
âYep.â
âYou were ignoring me two hours ago.â
His mouth tightens. âI was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.â
âAnd now?â
His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. âNow I heard what you thought.â
Your chest aches. âAnd?â
He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. âAnd Iâm done letting you think it.â
The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Buckyâs mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. âNo,â you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes darken. âNo?â
âYou donât get to kiss me like Iâm fragile after making me feel insane all day.â
The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.
Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. âGuest room.â
Buckyâs forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. âYeah.â
He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tonyâs absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.
What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.
You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. âWhat?â
You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. âNothing.â
He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. âTry again.â
Your fingers tighten around his. âIâm wet.â
His brows lift a fraction. âFrom the pool,â you snap, heat flooding your face. âDonât look at me like that.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYour face did.â
âMy face is having a day.â
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.
Then he reaches for the towel. âCan I?â
You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.
He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.
Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. âDonât hide from me.â The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.
You try to laugh. It barely forms. âThatâs ambitious.â
âI can be patient.â
âYou? Since when?â
His mouth twitches. âSince about three seconds ago.â
You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. âIâm going to look at you,â he says.
Your face burns. âThat sounds like a threat.â
âItâs a warning.â His thumb moves over your wrist. âA fair one.â
âVery gentlemanly.â
âTrying.â
You swallow. âDonât try too hard.â
His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.
You donât. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.
Your eyes sting again. âOh,â you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. âYou actuallyâŠâ
Buckyâs gaze snaps back to your face. âYeah.â
âYou looked away.â
âI was an idiot.â
âThatâs established.â
His smile is brief and strained. âFair.â
His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuitâs edge. âYou thought I didnât like this?â he asks, voice dragging lower.
Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. âYou looked like you were suffering.â
âI was.â His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. âSweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.â
That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. âYou recovered fast.â
âI didnât recover. I panicked.â
The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. âThat was panic?â
âSteve asked if I was having a stroke.â
Your mouth opens. âHe did not.â
âHe did.â
âWas he concerned?â
âVery.â
You laugh fully this time, and Buckyâs hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. âSam complimented you,â he says.
You blink, following the turn. âYes.â
âYou smiled.â
âHe was nice.â
âI know.â
There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. âYou hated that?â
âI hated how easy it was for him.â Buckyâs voice goes rougher. âHe could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.â
You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. âWould it?â
âYeah,â he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. âMaybe.â
That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. âYou couldâve said something,â you murmur.
âI thought I had time to figure out how.â
âFigure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?â
âHow to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.â
Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. âToo much?â
The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. âNo,â you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. âContinue.â
His laugh is quiet. âContinue?â
âYou heard me.â
âI did.â One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. âTrying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.â
Your knees feel untrustworthy. âYouâre taking suggestions?â
âFrom you?â He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. âAlways.â
The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. âYeah?â His lips brush your ear now. âThat where it goes when I say that?â
âShut up.â
âBeen trying all day.â
âTo shut up?â
âTo keep from saying worse.â
His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.
âBucky,â you whisper.
He hums against your neck. âThat sounded nice.â
âDonât get smug.â
âToo late.â
You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.
Your entire body pauses.
Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.
âOh,â you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. âThatâs, um. Thatâs there.â
He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. âYeah. Itâs been there.â
Your mouth parts.
âAll day,â he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. âYou want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.â
A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.
His thumb strokes your cheek. âNo. Look at me.â
You do, barely.
âIâm gonna say things,â he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. âAnd youâre gonna believe me this time.â
Your throat works around nothing. âThatâs demanding.â
âYeah.â
âUsually people ask.â
âI spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.â His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. âIâm done asking me.â
That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.
His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.
The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Buckyâs hands on you.
Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.
What if someone comes in?
Buckyâs hands move to your hips.
What if the door isnât locked?
He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.
What if this changes everything?
His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.
He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.
âYou were hiding under that towel,â he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
You swallow. âIt was cold.â
âLiar.â
Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.
He does it again.
Lower this time.
Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?
âBuckyâŠâ
His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. âYeah?â
You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. âThatâsâŠâ
âWhat?â
You glance away. âYou donât have toâŠâ
He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. âDonât.â
The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.
His expression is serious again. âDonât say I donât have to. I know I donât have to.â
âI didnât meanââ
âI want to.â His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. âI have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.â
Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.
His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. âSince before that.â
The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.
Buckyâs thumb slides along your inner thigh.
âYou thought I didnât wanna look.â He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. âYou thought I looked away because I didnât like your body.â
Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuitâs edge.
Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.
His mouth lingers there. âI looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.â
âBucky,â you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.
His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. âWanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.â
âHe was helping.â
âI know.â His teeth graze your thigh. âStill wanted to.â
âYouâre terrible.â
âToday?â His eyes flick up. âYeah.â
His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.
You nod, too fast.
His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. âWords, baby.â
That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.
âTake it off,â you say.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second.
You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.
The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.
You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.
He does not.
His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.
âDonât hide,â he says again, rougher now.
âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
âYouâre staring.â
âYeah.â His thumbs slide higher. âI missed a lot today.â
Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. âYou canât just say that.â
âI can.â He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. âI am.â
The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.
It does.
It also makes you throb.
Buckyâs hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.
âHey.â
You glare, but there is no force behind it. âWhat?â
His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. âCome here.â
âI am here.â
âCloser.â
âThere is physically no closer unless I climb you.â
His expression changes.
Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.
Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. âThen climb.â
Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. âYouâre very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.â
âI had a hard day.â
âYou had a chair.â
âI had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.â
âThat must have been so difficult.â
He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. âIt was.â
There is no joke in his voice now.
Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.
âShit.â His forehead drops to your collarbone. âDo that again and Iâm gonna embarrass myself.â
That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.
âBaby,â he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.
The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.
Buckyâs head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.
âYou like this?â you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. âOr are you going to look at the curtains?â
His eyes open.
You may have gone too far.
His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. âSay it again.â
Your lips part. âWhat?â
âWhat you said outside.â
The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.
âYou donât have to touch me longer than necessary,â you murmur, quieter now.
Buckyâs jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. âThat.â His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. âEvery time you thought that today, I want it back.â
You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.
It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.
âLong enough?â he mutters against your mouth.
You clutch at him, face burning. âShut up.â
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.
âAnswer me.â
You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. âNo.â
âNo?â His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. âStill not long enough?â
You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. âBuckyâŠâ
âThatâs not an answer.â
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. âFuck, sweetheart.â His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. âYouâre soaked.â
âPool,â you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.
He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. âYeah? Pool did this?â
His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.
âGuess I owe the pool an apology,â he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. âBeen mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.â
Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.
âBucky,â you whimper, turning your face into his neck.
His fingers curl.
Your body goes liquid.
âThere,â he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. âYeah, right there?â
You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.
âUse words.â
A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.
âOh, you like that.â His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. âAll that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.â
âI hate you.â
âNo, you donât.â His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. âYou hated thinking I didnât want you.â
That one splits you open more than his fingers.
You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.
âYou hated me looking away,â he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. âHated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.â
Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.
âI didnâtâŠâ You try. Fail. âI didnât wantâŠâ
He kisses under your ear. âLiar.â
âBucky.â
âYou did.â His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. âYou wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.â
Your nails dig into him.
âThere,â he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. âThat one.â
You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.
âGod, do that again.â
You do. Harder.
His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. âNo, no, no, donât stop.â
Buckyâs hand tightens at your back. âIâve got you.â
âYou keep saying things like that,â you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.
âYeah?â
âItâs annoying.â
He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. âCum, then complain.â
That should not work.
It works.
The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.
âThatâs it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.â
Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.
Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.
You whine.
The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.
Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. âGreedy.â
âShut up.â
His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
His eyes darken. âSaw that.â
âYou see too much.â
âNot enough.â His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tonyâs laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. âIâm making up for it.â
A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. âBy staring at my vagina?â
His brows lift.
Your face burns. âDonât.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYour face again.â
âMy face likes you.â
âYour face is an idiot.â
âYeah.â He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. âItâs got company.â
The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.
He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.
Bucky stops.
Your eyes fly open.
He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. âMove your hand.â
Your fingers loosen over your lips. âTheyâll hear.â
âLet them hear the pool wasnât the reason you left.â
Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.
âBucky,â you whisper, scandalized.
He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. âMove it, baby.â
Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.
He smiles against your skin. âThank you.â
Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.
You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.
Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.
His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.
âPlease,â you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.
Bucky hums into you.
Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.
âSorry,â you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. âDo it again.â
âWhat?â
His teeth scrape your thigh. âPull my hair again.â
You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.
His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.
Bucky groans into your cunt.
The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.
âBucky, I canât,â you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.
He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. âCanât what?â
âAgain. I canâtâŠâ
His mouth curves, wet and wicked. âYou can.â
âYou have too much confidence.â
âI have evidence.â His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. âLook at you.â
âNo.â
âYeah.â He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. âYou gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?â
âI was making a point.â
âYou made it.â His lips brush yours. âVery persuasive.â
You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you donât pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.
Buckyâs mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. âYouâre gonna cum on my hand, then Iâm gonna fuck you. If thatâs what you want.â
If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a manâs hand between your legs.
âI want it,â you say, voice shaking.
His forehead touches yours. âYeah?â
âYes.â Your grip tightens around his wrist. âI want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I canât think about any of it.â
Bucky stares at you.
For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.
His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.
âThatâs it,â he mutters against your cheek. âThereâs my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.â
You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. âI was wounded.â
âYou were jealous.â
âYou were avoidant.â
âI was hard enough to see God.â
A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. âThatâs vulgar.â
âYou asked for honesty.â
âI did not ask for theology.â
He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.
âYeah, baby. Give me that one too.â His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. âNeed it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.â
Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.
Your body gives in.
The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.
âToo much,â you gasp.
He stops at once.
The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.
âYouâre impossible,â he murmurs.
âYour fault.â
âYeah.â His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. âIâm starting to like that answer.â
You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.
Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.
Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.
âYou really wanted me?â you ask, hating the softness in your voice.
His expression tightens. âAll day.â
âBefore today?â
He presses a kiss to your palm. âYeah.â
âHow long?â
A pause.
The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.
âLong enough to act stupid about it.â
âThat could be any amount of time.â
âMonths.â
Your chest squeezes. âMonths?â
âMaybe longer.â
âYouâre terrible at flirting.â
âI panicked,â he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.
You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.
He looks down between your bodies. âI need these off.â
âFinally, a smart idea.â
His hands go to the waistband, then pause. âCondom?â
Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tonyâs guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. âUnless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I donâtâŠâ
Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.
A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. âVery prepared seduction, Barnes.â
âI was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.â
âYou did great.â
He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.
Then he lifts his head. âI have one in my wallet.â
You stop laughing.
His brows draw together. âDonât look at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike youâre judging.â
âI am judging.â
âIâm a grown man.â
âWith pool-party condoms?â
âOne condom. Singular. Emergency.â
âWhat emergency did you anticipate?â
He gives you a look. âApparently this one.â
You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. âWallet,â you say.
Buckyâs eyes darken again.
He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
âDonât,â he warns.
âYou left your emergency outside?â
âI didnât plan to need it indoors.â
You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.
âIâll go,â he says.
âYou are not going outside like that.â
His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. âFair.â
You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. âRobe.â
âIâm not wearing Starkâs sex robe.â
âGuest robe.â
âSame thing.â
âYou want the condom or a philosophical debate?â
Bucky points at you. âStay there.â
You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. âWhere would I go?â
âKnowing you? Window.â
âOnly if things get worse.â
He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
He narrows his eyes. âThat smile says something.â
âIt says hurry.â
That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.
This is real.
Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tonyâs guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.
Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone elseâs hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.
Voices rise in the hall.
You freeze.
Sam: âBarnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?â
Bucky, low and deadly: âMove.â
Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: âThat is Egyptian cotton, by the way.â
Natasha laughs. âLet him live.â
Sam again, audibly grinning: âIs there a fire?â
Bucky says something too low to hear.
A beat of silence.
Then Sam barks out, âOh my god.â
Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.
The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.
You stare.
He points at you again. âDonât.â
âI said nothing.â
âYouâre laughing with your whole face.â
âI would never.â
He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cottonâs lineage. âWilson knows.â
âOh no.â
âTony knows.â
âTony knew before we did.â
âSteve looked proud.â
That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.
âLaughing at me?â he asks.
âYes.â
His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. âThatâs brave.â
âIâm very brave.â
âYou slipped twice today.â
âPhysically brave and spatially cursed.â
His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. âYou okay?â
The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.
âYes,â you say. Then, more honest, âNervous.â
His hand stills on your thigh. âAbout me?â
âAbout you seeing me.â
His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.
âI see you,â he says. âI want you. Same sentence.â
Your throat tightens. âThatâs unfairly effective.â
âTrying to be clear.â
âTerrible habit.â
His mouth brushes yours. âCan I keep seeing you?â
You nod. âYeah.â
His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. âCan I keep touching you?â
Your legs part wider around him. âYeah.â
His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. âCan I fuck you?â
The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
âYes,â you breathe. âPlease.â
Buckyâs eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.
The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.
Bucky notices. Naturally.
âStill judging my emergency condom?â he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.
You look up at him. âLess now.â
âThought so.â
The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.
The first press against your entrance is almost too much.
He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. âTell me if you need slow.â
You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.
âI need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,â you whisper.
A short laugh leaves him, strained. âSweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.â
âThen stop hanging.â
His hips push forward.
The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.
âOkay?â
You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. âMore.â
His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.
âFuck,â he breathes, almost helpless. âYou feelâŠâ
You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.
He lowers his face to your neck. âIâm gonna lose my mind.â
That is better.
You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. âDo that again and this ends fast.â
âMaybe I want that.â
He lifts his head, eyes dark. âNo, you donât.â
Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. âAnnoying.â
âYou want me to take my time now.â He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. âYou wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?â
Your hands twist in the sheets.
He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. âIâm looking.â
You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.
âBucky,â you moan, and his name sounds ruined.
His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
âThere?â he asks, already doing it again.
You nod, frantic. âThere, please, there.â
âYeah, baby.â His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. âKnew youâd sound pretty begging.â
Your face burns. âIâm not begging.â
He thrusts harder.
The words vanish.
âThat sounded like begging.â His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. âPool made you mouthy. My cockâs fixing it.â
The filth of it makes you clench.
Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. âShit, you like that.â
âYouâre so smug.â
âIâm inside you,â he says, breath hot against your mouth. âI earned a little.â
You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.
âOh, thatâs it.â His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. âThereâs my girl.â
My girl.
You fall apart a little just hearing it.
His eyes sharpen. âYeah? That one?â
âBuckyâŠâ
âMy girl,â he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. âMine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when sheâs trying to make me jealous.â
You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.
âNo?â His thumb presses harder on your clit. âYou didnât like me jumping in after you?â
âYou looked ridiculous,â you gasp.
âYeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasnât thinking clearly.â
A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.
You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.
Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. âNo.â
âTheyâll hear.â
âGood.â
âBucky.â
His eyes are dark, almost feverish. âSpent all day watching you think I didnât want you. Let them hear me prove it.â
Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.
âYou close?â
You nod, helpless.
âSay it.â
âIâm close.â
His mouth brushes yours. âAsk me.â
Your eyes open. âWhat?â
âAsk me to make you cum.â
The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.
âYouâre impossible,â you whimper.
âAsk.â
His hips slow.
That is evil.
You grab at his shoulders. âDonât slow down.â
âAsk me, baby.â
A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.
âPlease,â you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. âPlease make me cum.â
Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.
His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.
âWanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didnât have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I havenât been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.â
Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.
Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.
It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.
âThatâs it,â he groans. âThatâs it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.â
You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.
âWhere?â he rasps.
The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.
âInside,â you breathe. âYou have the condom, inside, please.â
He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.
Then he softens by degrees.
His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.
Outside, someone cheers again.
Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. âIf thatâs about us, Iâm moving to Siberia.â
You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. âThat was my plan.â
âWe can carpool.â
âAfter you get off me. Youâre heavy.â
He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. âYou wound me.â
âYou crushed me.â
âYou wrapped around me.â
âYou were available.â
His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.
He kisses you once, gentle and quick. âIâm gonna move.â
You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.
Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. âYeah?â
âDonât start.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYour face is speaking.â
âMy face has been through a lot today.â
He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Starkâs guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.
When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.
âYou donât have to do that,â you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.
His eyes lift.
Right.
You both hear the echo.
This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. âI want to.â
The answer settles over the old wound quietly.
You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.
He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.
You lift your head. âDonât insult it. Weâve all grown.â
Buckyâs mouth twitches. âI owe it an apology.â
âYou owe me an apology.â
âI gave you one.â
âI want another.â
He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. âFor what?â
âFor being weird at the pool.â
âIâm sorry.â
âFor looking away.â
âIâm sorry.â
âFor making me think you hated it.â
His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. âIâm sorry.â
You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.
âAnd for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,â you add, quieter.
His arm tightens.
A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.
âYou looked beautiful,â he says, voice low. âYou looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And thatâs on me, not you.â
Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. âYou need to stop saying decent things after sex. Itâs confusing.â
His lips press to your hair. âWould it help if I said something indecent?â
âYes.â
âYour thighs almost killed me.â
A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. âBucky.â
âIâm serious. National threat.â
âYouâre so stupid.â
He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. âYeah, but you like me.â
You go still for half a second.
He feels it.
The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Buckyâs hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.
âYou like me too,â he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.
You close your eyes. âMaybe.â
âMaybe?â
âDonât get greedy.â
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. âToo late.â
A knock hits the door.
Both of you freeze.
Tonyâs voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. âAs the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.â
You bury your face in Buckyâs chest.
Bucky sighs. âGo away, Stark.â
âGladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.â
Footsteps retreat.
Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. âI hate everyone.â
Buckyâs hand slides possessively over your hip. âWant me to get your clothes?â
The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.
Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.
âEventually,â you say.
He hums. âEventually sounds good.â
âYou canât keep me in Tonyâs guest room forever.â
âNo,â he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. âBut I can try for another ten minutes.â
âThatâs ambitious.â
His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. âI can be patient.â
âYou said that before.â
âI lied.â
You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.
Summary : After dating for six months, Bucky is now your emergency contact. Yelena, your best friend, finds out the hard way.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her) | Best friend! Yelena
Warnings/tags : Kinda Tower fic!!! Fluff with angst if you squint. Protective!Bucky x chaotic!reader, Reader is ex-red room and thinks of Yelena as a sister, established relationship, mild injury, mild concussion, alcohol concussion, tipsy reader, mentioned bar fight, reader beats up harassers, Bucky being down bad. Set after Thunderbolts (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 8.2k
Note : I love a platonic buddy cop Bucky and Yelena dynamic. Enjoy!
Yelena had been your emergency contact for as long as you had a life outside the Red Room.
It just made sense. Back when you just had started to be free, neither of you had exactly known how to be people in the ordinary way everyone else seemed to manage. You knew how to run on little sleep, how to disappear into crowds, how to take apart a weapon by touch alone. You knew how to lie without blinking, how to hide injuries beneath sleeves, how to make one fake passport stretch across three countries and four very bad decisions. You did not know how to list a dentist, or pick a primary care doctor, or fill out forms that asked for a ânext of kinâ as if your family was simple enough to write on a dotted line.
So you wrote Yelena.
You wrote her number.
You wrote her most recent address
Again and again and again, on medical forms, on paperwork, on apartment leases, on job applicants and anything that asked who should be contacted if something happened to you.
It had always been Yelena.
Once, a hospital called her at two in the morning after you dislocated a shoulder in a rooftop in Queens, and she had arrived in the ER in pajama pants, combat boots, and a face so flat with irritation it was almost comforting.
âYou are lucky I love you, sestryonka,â she had said, watching a nurse snap your arm back into place.
âYou are not much older than me,â you murmured under your breath, not even flinching.Â
Another time, when you had been grazed by a bullet and insisted it was âbasically nothing,â she had threatened to staple your mouth while a doctor stitched you up because, apparently, your pain scale was âmade by idiots, for idiots.â
That was Yelena. She was not gentle, not exactly. But she was there for you. Every time a hospital called, she came.
She was your best friend and your sister in every way that mattered. You had not shared parents or a childhood in the traditional sense, not even in the sense that Natasha had been to her. Still, you had shared training rooms, handlers, bruises, and survival. You had shared the particular feeling of being made into weapons by the same machine and then escaping with pieces missing, only to decide, stubbornly and badly, that you were going to be normal people anyway.
Yelena had been your emergency contact because she was the person you trusted to be there.
She was also the person who understood, better than anyone, that your definition of an emergency was not normal.
âYou do not have to stab every man who deserves it,â she had told you once, bailing you out of jail in the early hours of Saturday morning. The cops had let you off on self-defense later, which was true but Yelena found it pleasantly shocking, especially considering how bad the wound you left was. She had her suspicions: mostly that you mustâve tampered with the documents, but who was she to judge?Â
âI donât stab every man who deserves it.â
âNo,â she said, dry as dust, âonly because there are not enough hours in the day.â
Which was probably why, for years, she had answered the emergency calls with the patience of a saint who had accepted her role in your life as sister, accomplice, and getaway driver.
Then Bucky Barnes happened.
â
You and Bucky lived next to each other in the Tower because Valentina had decided the New Avengers needed a base, a schedule, and probably several court-mandated group therapy sessions.
Not just you two, really. All the new avengers, after the Void incident, got crammed into one still-in progress building with too much fragile glass, too many cameras, and far too many sharp objects for people who pretended they were âdoing better.â
You noticed Bucky because it was impossible not to.
He was quiet, but not empty. He was always careful, and you always saw him against a wall. He was always watching doors, windows, reflections, and hands. He moved through life like a man who had learned the world could turn on him without warning.
You understood that.
Maybe he noticed you for the same reason.
You both had old ghosts in different rooms. You might have had different handlers, but they did the kind of damage.
The first kiss happened after a mission.
You had made it home. You had showered. You had told Yelena you were fine, which made her stare at you like you had insulted her intelligence. Then you went to the training room because your body was still buzzing with murderous adrenaline and there was nowhere else to put it.
You hit the bag until your knuckles ached.
That was when Bucky said your name.
You stopped and turned. He stood by the door in a black Henley and sinful grey sweats, hair loose, brows furrowed as if he understood.
âIâm fine,â you said, pretending your knuckles werenât bleeding through the wraps.
His mouth curved up, but he was not really amused. âYeah. I know that one.â
You looked away.
He came closer, giving you every chance to tell him to leave.Â
You didnât.Â
You just stood there, breathing hard, throat tight.
Bucky stopped in front of you. Suddenly, the room felt smaller.
You told yourself it was because he was being a good leader. That was all.
He was checking on his team. Emulating Steve, maybe, in that painfully earnest way he did when he thought no one noticed. He was just making sure everyone made it back from the mission in one piece.Â
That was what leaders did, right? They noticed when a member went too quiet. They followed them to the training room. They stood too close with that gentle, worried crease between their brows and made it almost impossible to breathe normally.
It was definitely not because he was getting closer to you.
Definitely not because, over the last few months, he had started caring about you in ways that felt too intense to be casual. He had stitched you up when Yelena hadnât been around, sitting close enough that his knee touched yours while his fingers worked carefully over your skin. He had found you in the common room after a nightmare once, shaking in the dark with your knees tucked to your chest, and instead of asking too many questions, he had disappeared for two minutes and come back with one of his too-big hoodies. He had handed it to you without a word, then sat beside you until the sunrise turned the windows gold.
It was definitely not because you had almost kissed him three times in the past two weeks.
Not in the kitchen at two in the morning, when you had both reached for the same mug and ended up standing too close, his eyes dropping to your mouth before he looked away.
Not in the elevator after the Berlin mission, when the power had flickered and his metal hand had caught your waist on instinct, steadying you even though you didnât need steadying at all.
Not in the hallway outside the med bay, when he had brushed blood from your cheek with his human thumb and froze afterward, like he had only just realized he was touching you.
No. This was not that, right?Â
Bucky Barnes was merely being responsible.Â
He was your teammate. Your leader, technically. He cared because he cared about everyone. That was all.
Except he was looking at you like you were not everyone.
âYou donât have to pretend with me,â he said.
That almost broke you. So, naturally, you tried to get mean about it. âIâm not pretending.â
Buckyâs eyes did not change. âOkay.â
You hated that. You hated his stupid patience, his awful gentleness, the way he didnât push and somehow made you feel more transparent because of it.Â
Anyone else would have argued. John or Ava would have told you to sit down. Alexei would have made some loud, affectionate declaration about strength and soup. Bob wouldâve given you a self-help book and hoped it fixed you. Yelena would have stared at you until you confessed out of irritation alone.
But Bucky just stood there.
âI said Iâm fine,â you snapped, turning away from him. âYou can go back to bed.â
âI could.â
âGreat.â
âIâm not going to,â he tilted his head.Â
You let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. âOf course youâre not.â
His brow furrowed. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âIt means youâre doing the thing.â
âWhat thing?â
âThe good man thing.â You gestured vaguely at him, at his stupid stance, the stupid caring voice, the stupid beautiful blue eyes that kept finding every crack in you no matter how hard you tried to cover them up with plaster and concrete. âThe checking-on-the-team thing. Youâve done it. Congratulations. Iâm checked on.â
Buckyâs teeth tightened, just barely. âIâm not here because of that, and you know.â
That made your throat close, looking away too fast.
âDonât,â you said.
His voice dropped to almost a whisper. âDonât what?â
âDonât say things like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike you want to give me hope.â
The words left you before you could stop them.
Bucky could only stare at you, and for one terrifying second, you thought he would step back. You almost wanted him to; it would have been easier if he did. It wouldâve been easier if he proved you right, if he retreated into duty and all the safe, noble reasons a man like him would follow a woman like you into a dark room after a bad mission.
But he didnât move. He only said your name, not like scolding you. Instead, it sounded like he was trying to give you a rope, a lifeline, something to reach out to so you could get yourself out of the well you had willingly jumped in yourself.
Your eyes burned, and you hated him a little for it.Â
Not really, but almost.Â
Because Bucky had always gotten to you in ways no one else had, not even Yelena. Yelena knew your damage because hers had grown beside it, root tangled with hurt twin root, rotten as a result of the same poison in the same soil. She understood you like a blade understood a knife made in the same forge.
Bucky was different.
Bucky looked at you like he knew what it was to be made into a weapon and still wanted to touch whatever soul was still left underneath. He looked at you like he was not afraid of your pain, because he had spent a lifetime bleeding on his own. He didn't meet your defenses with force. He just stood there, ruinously patient, until your walls began to feel dumb for being up at all.
You shook your head and stepped back.
âI donât need this.â
âI know you donât,â he said. âThatâs not why Iâm here.â
Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Bucky took one careful step closer.
âYou can push me away,â he said. âYou can tell me to leave. If you really mean it, Iâll go.â
Your chest ached.
âBut donât lie to me because you think itâs easier.â
You swallowed hard.
His eyes dropped briefly to your wrapped hands, to the tremor you had not been able to hide, then came back to your face.
âI know easier,â he said quietly. âEasier doesn't mean it helps.â
And that was it.
That was the stupid, gentle thing that finally cracked you open.
Your shoulders lowered by half an inch. Your breath went thin. You looked down at your hands, at the loose wraps, and suddenly the whole room felt too bright, too much like the place you had been trying to run from inside your own head.
âI hate when it comes back,â you whispered. âI hate that they still get to have me like that.â
His face changed, not out of pity. Instead, it was recognition.
His hand lifted carefully, like touching you was sacred and dangerous all at once. When you didnât move away, his fingers settled against your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.
Bucky didnât look shocked by the confession. He looked like he had been waiting for you to stop holding it alone.
âLook around,â he said, voice almost rough.
You swallowed. âBuckââ
âNo,â he insisted. âJust look.â
So you did.
Past him, past the punching bag still swaying faintly from where you had been hitting it, past the mirrored walls and polished floor and bright lights. Beyond the training room doors was the rest of the tower. You could see the hall that led to the common room where Yelena kept pretending she didnât leave snacks out for you when she knew you hadnât eaten. The kitchen where Alexei made too much food and called it portion control. The hallway Ava drifted through like a ghost when she was tired. The pool table where John had taught Bob how to play when he was close to relapsing, just so he could take his mind out of the drugs he was craving.Â
You were here, in the strange, broken, impossible home all of you had built because none of you knew what normal looked like.
âYouâre safe,â Bucky reassured. âYouâre in the tower. Youâre surrounded by the only people in the world who could maybe come close to understanding you.â
Your throat tightened when he stepped a little closer, his hand still on your face.
âWe protect each other,â he said. âWe look out for each other. Because weâve established, pretty clearly, that none of us can be left alone without causing some kind of international incident, right?â
A broken laugh slipped out of you despite trying to hold it back.
Buckyâs mouth gentled, but his eyes stayed serious.
âThey donât have you,â he said. âNot anymore.â
Your breath shuddered as his thumb moved once over your cheek.
âWe have you,â he said, smaller now. âYelena has you. The team has you.â
He hesitated, as if the last part would cost him something. As if saying it out loud was more dangerous than any mission he had ever walked into. But because it was you, he said it anyway.
âI have you.â
Oh.Â
Bucky looked at you like he meant every word.Â
It was not duty, not leadership, not the good man thing you had accused him of earlier. He was simply standing there in front of you, asking for nothing, offering everything, and trying very hard not to look terrified by how much he wanted you to believe him.
You stared at him.
His hand was still warm against your face. His body was close enough now that you could feel the heat, close enough that you could see the rapidly healing little cut on his forehead from the mission, the bruise blooming near his neck, the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and then dragged themselves back up like he was trying to be good.
He was trying so hard.
That was what undid you: the way Bucky Barnes, who could have taken apart the whole room without breaking a sweat, held you like you were sacred and waited for you to choose.
So you did.
âBuck,â you whispered.
His breath caught. âYeah?â
You rose onto your toes and kissed him first.
Just like that.Â
You were aware of how warm, aching, and sudden it was. Your hands held the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. For half a second, Bucky went completely still, like his body had forgotten what to do with being wanted.
Then he made a small sound against your mouth, not quite a groan as much as a sigh of relief. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, while his metal hand settled at your waist like he needed to anchor you without trapping you. He kissed you back like he had finally snapped, but softly. He had been holding himself back for weeks, maybe months, and now that you had crossed the distance first, he still refused to rush you.
You pulled him closer, and he came willingly.
The kiss deepened, enough to make your heartbeat trip, enough for his breath to turn uneven against your lips. Your hands moved up his chest, and Buckyâs fingers flexed at your waist before he forced them to be gentle again.
You felt that too.
When you finally pulled back, barely, his forehead rested against yours.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. The punching bag had stopped swinging. Your hands had stopped shaking.
Buckyâs eyes stayed closed, his breath warm against your mouth.
âI have you,â he whispered again, like a promise.
âI know,â you whispered back. âI know.â
You kissed him once more, smaller this time.Â
When you finally pulled away, Bucky looked wrecked.
Yours, though neither of you had said it yet.
You touched his stubble with your thumb.
âWe donât have to talk about it tonight,â you said.
His eyes closed for half a second.
âMmm,â he hummed, then he kissed your forehead, right between your brows.
And when he took your hand and led you out of the training room, neither of you let go.
â
It took a week for anyone to mention it.
A full week.
Which, considering you all lived on the same floor and had the collective subtlety of a grenade launcher, was honestly impressive.
You and Bucky had not exactly been hiding it well, anyway. He stood closer now. His hand found your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. You wore his shirts more often than your own clothes. He had started looking at you across rooms with this horribly longing expression that made you want to throw a magazine at him and kiss him stupid in equal measure.
The whole thing came apart in the common room on a Thursday evening, because John Walker had the social grace of a brick through a window.
You were reaching over the counter for the ketchup when John looked up from his steak, frowned slightly, and said, âYou smell different.â
Every single person at the table froze.
You turned your head. âExcuse me?â
John, apparently realizing too late that this was a weird thing to say out loud, gestured vaguely with his fork. âNot bad. You just smell like Barnes.â
Bucky stopped chewing.
Yelenaâs eyebrows shot up.
Ava looked down into her mug like she could already see where this was going and wanted no part in preventing it.
Alexei leaned forward with immediate interest. âLike Barnes how?â
John shrugged. âI donât know. His soap? Cologne? Whatever old men use.â
Bucky looked offended. âOld men?â
Before you could save the conversation, Bob, who had been peacefully munching on his fries at the end of the table, said, âOh. It might be because they were making out in the sauna earlier.â
What followed was utter catastrophic silence.
Your hand tightened around your mug.
Bucky stared at Bob like he had just launched a missile.
âYou saw us?â you hissed.
Bob looked up, mildly confused by everyoneâs reaction. âYeah.â
Buckyâs voice went very careful. âAnd you didnât say anything?â
Bob thought about it. âYou both looked busy.â
John dropped his fork with a clatter. âIâm sorry, what?â
Alexei slapped both hands onto the table. âIn the sauna?â
âIt wasnâtââ you started.
Bucky said at the exact same time, âWe were notââ
Yelena pointed at both of you. âOh my god.â
You looked at her, bracing yourself for the protective sister routine. Maybe an interrogation, or a threat. Instead, Yelena broke into the most smug, delighted grin you had ever seen.
âI knew it.â
Buckyâs head turned toward her. âYou knew?â
âObviously.â She leaned back in her chair, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. âYou two have been making eyes at each other for months. It was pathetic.â
âItâs really not,â you said.
Ava hummed, because apparently this was a good time to speak up. âIt was a little.â
You felt betrayed. âAva.â
Alexei looked between you and Bucky with shining eyes. âThis is beautiful. Two damaged assassins finding love in luxury wellness room.â
Yelena waved a hand. âWhatever. You two are perfect for each other.â
That, weirdly, was what shut you up.
Bucky froze beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel him looking at you, you could feel that private warmth that had started between you in the training room and somehow survived a week.Â
âYou think?â you asked, more vulnerable than you meant to.
Yelenaâs eyes softened just slightly. Then, because she was Yelena, she ruined it immediately. âYes. You are both dramatic, emotionally constipated, and terrible at pretending you are not in love.â
Alexei looked near tears. âI support this union.â
âThere is no union,â Bucky said, ears pink.
You glanced at him, half joking. âNo?â
His mouth opened, but closed almost immediately.Â
âYet,â Bob said under his breath.Â
Yelena made a triumphant noise. âHa!â
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face while the entire table erupted, everyone talking over each other at once. John was asking when it started. Alexei was demanding to know who kissed who first. Ava calmly said she had assumed it happened months ago because Bucky had stopped looking like a kicked dog whenever you walked into a room. Bob asked if the sauna was now off-limits for everyone else.
And through all of it, Buckyâs hand found yours under the table.
You looked at him.
He looked mortified. Happy, though.
So happy it made your chest hurt.
You squeezed his hand back and smiled into your drink while Yelena loudly declared, âFinally. Maybe now the sexual tension in this Tower will stop clogging the ventilation.â
â
For six months, Yelena thought the whole thing was very funny.
At first, anyway.
It was funny when Bucky started leaving his jackets in places you could âaccidentallyâ find them, as if anyone in the tower believed you just happened to keep ending up swallowed in navy cotton that smelled like him. It was funny when you and Bucky tried to sit normally on the couch and still ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, your knee hooked over his, his hand resting on your thigh like he had forgotten other people had eyes. It was especially funny when Alexei called him your American house cat and Bucky looked personally wounded while you gave him doe eyes, trying to convince him that you both should adopt an actual house cat.
Yelena teased him mercilessly. She teased you worse.
But mostly, she liked it.
Because in the end, Bucky was good for you. He understood the coldness you wrapped yourself in after bad missions. He didn't flinch when you woke up violently from nightmares. He never asked you to be smaller than you were.
And, irritatingly, you were good for him too.
You made him laugh more. Not loudly, not often, but enough that Yelena noticed. You made him less haunted in the mornings. You made him complain about normal things, like burnt toast and John stealing his protein powder and Alexei singing in the shower. You made him human in little ways he had forgotten he was allowed to be.
So, yes, for six months, Yelena thought it was cute.
Until one night, when she decided it wasnât.
It was one of your nights.
You had it once a month or so. You called it âme time.â
Everyone else called it, âthe night you went out alone to random bars, played darts against biker gangs, wagered full-grown men out of their cash, and came home at two in the morning smelling like beer and smuggled cigars.â
Bucky hated those nights, and not because he wanted to stop you. He knew better than to try. You were not a houseplant. You were not fragile. You were a former Red Room operative with excellent aim and a deeply concerning fondness for humiliating men named things like Tank and Moose at bar games.
Still, the second you left, Bucky became useless. He checked his phone. He checked the windows. He made coffee and forgot to drink it. He stood in the kitchen like a widower in a war film, staring at nothing until Yelena threw a peanut at his head and told him to sit down before she sedated him.
Yelena didnât worry. At least, not openly. She knew you. She knew you liked the adrenaline, the anonymity, the very specific joy of walking into a place where everyone underestimated you and leaving with an ego boost and cash in your pocket. It was stupid, yes, but not unusually stupid for you.
Besides, you always came back.
So once a month, everytime you went out for your âme time,â Bucky and Yelena would hang out together and pretend they were not both slightly empty without you.
They played cards. Sometimes they watched terrible action movies just to complain about the fight choreography. Sometimes they made food neither of them admitted you usually supervised. They never called it waiting up. But they were definitely waiting up.
The two of them were embarrassing without you. Truly embarrassing.
That was how they had ended up at the kitchen island playing heads-up poker with ammunition.
Yelena had dumped a box of bullets onto the counter and divided them into two little piles like poker chips.
âThis is bad gun safety,â Bucky scolded.
âThese are not in gun,â Yelena said, dealing the cards. âSo it is fine.â
âThat is not how it works,â Bucky complained, but took the cards anyway.
âYou are losing,â Yelena insisted. âStop distracting.â
âIâm not.â
âYou have three bullets left,â she pointed out.
Bucky looked down at his sad little pile, and Yelena smirked. âVery tragic.â
âIâm distracted.â
âYes,â she nodded. âBecause your girlfriend is not here and you are useless without her.â
He gave her a look over his cards. If this was how she was going to act, then two can play at that game. âYouâve checked your phone six times.â
âI am monitoring,â She sneered.
âYouâre useless too.â
She kicked him under the counter, and he just glared at her.
This, somehow, was what they had become.
Two people with probably the highest body count in the tower, sitting in the kitchen past midnight, playing poker with loose ammunition because neither of them knew what to do with themselves when you werenât there.
Yelena tossed a card down. âRaise.â
âWith what?â Bucky sighed. âYou have all the bullets.â
She slid one bullet forward. âI am generous.â
Bucky opened his mouth, but his phone rang before he could answer. He looked at the screen to see: Unknown number.
He furrowed his brows before he picked it up.
Yelena saw it and sat straighter, all the teasing draining out of her face.
âBarnes,â he answered.
What followed was a couple of seconds of terrible silence as he listened to the voice on the other side.Â
Then his eyes flicked to hers. Yelena was already standing.
âWhat happened?â he asked, her voice low.
Her chair scraped back. âWhat is it?â
Bucky lifted one hand slightly, as if to say wait. His fist clenched slightly. âIs she conscious?â
Yelenaâs stomach dropped. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and threw Buckyâs at him before he had even ended the call.
âMetro General,â Bucky said into the phone. âIâm on my way.â
He hung up. âItâs her,â he said.
âI figured that out, genius.â Yelena shoved her arms into her jacket. âHow bad?â
âForehead cut and a possible concussion,â he repeated back the information. âAwake, but mostly being difficult, apparently.â
Yelena exhaled through her nose. âSo alive.â
âYeah.â
âGood,â she said, âI can kill her myself.â
They moved fast. Bucky barely remembered to grab his keys. Yelena scooped the ammunition back into the box with one sweep of her hand, because even in crisis she was not leaving loose bullets on the kitchen counter for her papa to find and turn into a story.
They hit the elevator together and the doors slid shut.
For two floors, neither of them spoke.
Then Yelena frowned. âWait.â
Bucky looked at her, tilting his head.Â
âWhy did they call you?â She narrowed her eyes. âI am her emergency contact.â
For a second all Bucky could think was why does that matter so muchâ oh.
You had changed it.
To him.
Bucky looked down at his phone.
He tried very hard not to react. He really did. His face went blank in that deeply annoying winter soldier way, but Yelena had known him too long now. She saw the tiny shift, the warmth growing under the panic. She saw the stunned realisation in his eyes.
The pleased, fuzzy glow.
He was worried, obviously. But underneath it, was this absurd, boyish pride.
You had chosen him over her for emergencies. For hospital calls. For the ugly, inconvenient, blood-on-your-shirt parts of being loved.
Bucky looked like you had just handed him the moon and told him he was allowed to keep it.
Yelena stared at him. âDo not,â she said.
His head snapped up. âWhat?â
âDo not look all pleased.â
âIâm not pleased.â
âYou are very pleased.â
âSheâs in the hospital,â he insisted. âIâm worried.â
âAnd yet your face is saying, oh, I am her emergency contact now, this is very special for me.â
His ears went pink.
âYou are pleased!â Yelena gasped. âThis is disgusting. She has head wound and you are having moment.â
Bucky dragged a hand over his face. âIâm worried.â
âYes, and pleased,â she crossed her hands over her chest.Â
âI didn't even know she changed it,â Bucky said, exasperated now.
âI know.â Yelena sighed.
âI didnât ask her to.â
âI know, Barnes.â
His voice lowered after a moment of silence, feeling a little guilty now. âShe didnât tell you either?â
Yelena looked away.
There it was: The small hurt she had been trying not to feel.
For years, it had been her number. Her phone ringing at two in the morning. Her job to show up with a jacket and a lecture. Her name on your forms because she had been your person before either of you had learned how to have people properly.
Now it was his.
Which was fine. Obviously.
Normal.
Healthy.
Terrible.
âI am fine,â Yelena forced out, knowing it wasnât the answer to his question
He did not say anything, but she could tell he didnât buy it.Â
She hated him a little for that too. For not believing her. For knowing what fine meant in their shared vocabulary. Her reflection looked back at her in the elevator doors, blonde hair loose around her face, teeth clenched enough to ache.
âI mean, it is practical,â she said, forcing a shrug. âYou are her boyfriend. You are tall. You can carry things.â
The elevator kept descending.Â
His mouth twitched, barely. Apparently, he thought this was a good time to be the leader he always was during difficult moments. âShe still loves you,â he said.
She stepped out first. âCome on, emergency contact. Your girlfriend has probably insulted three hospital staff by now.â
â
Metro General smelled like antiseptic, cheap coffee, and fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were either guilty or about to confess to a hidden treasure on a death bed.
By the time Bucky and Yelena found you, you were sitting on an exam bed in a curtained-off bay with your boots dangling above the floor, one knee bouncing restlessly, a wad of gauze pressed near your eyebrow, and the loose, bright-eyed expression of someone who had definitely been drinking before getting into a fight she absolutely considered justified.
A doctor stood in front of you with gloved hands, carefully stitching the cut along your forehead. He looked like he had already asked you to sit still several times and had not been listened to once.
âOkay,â he said, leaning closer with the needle. âI need you to stop moving your eyebrows.â
âIâm not moving them,â you said, âitâs just my face.â You frowned then, which made him pause immediately.
âSee?â he said.
You tried not to laugh. It came out anyway, both tipsy and unhelpful.
Yelena reached the edge of the curtain first, already halfway into her usual annoyed rescue mode, one where she would call you an idiot while checking the color of your lips and the steadiness of your pupils. But Bucky was beside her, stupid and all boyfriend-y. His eyes went to the gauze, then your hands, then the doctor, then back to your face, cataloguing every visible inch of you like he could put himself between you and the past hour if he tried hard enough.
Then you looked up.
The second you saw them, your whole face changed.
âBucky!â It came out warm and embarrassingly kind. His name left your mouth like he was home, like even a little drunk and bleeding beneath hospital lights, some part of you knew exactly where safety was standing.
He moved before he could stop himself, stepping into the bay like the sound of his name in your mouth had pulled him by the ribs.
Yelena froze, just for half a second.
Of course. Bucky. Not her.
Her mouth curved up into a fake smile because that was easier than letting disappointment show.
âRight,â she said under her breath. âHim. Not me. I am just the sister, obviously. Not important.â
âHey, trouble,â he said when he got to you.
You smiled up at the nickname, sweet and entirely too pleased with yourself. âYou came.â
His frown was a little devastating then. It was as if the part of you that thought he would not come had hurt him. He looked like it made him want to gather you up and never let anything touch you again.
âOf course I came,â he said, holding his human hand out to yours.
The doctor cleared his throat. âPlease donât lean forward while I have a needle near your face.â
You blinked, realizing you had leaned toward Bucky without noticing. âSorry.â
âYou are not sorry,â Yelena said from behind him.
Your gaze drew past Bucky, and your expression brightened again. You had missed her entirely the first time, though you still sounded pleased. âOh. Lena is here!â
Yelenaâs smile went thin.
Lena is here.
As if she would not be. As if she had not once crossed three boroughs at three in the morning because you had texted only the word problem and a blurry picture of your own bleeding arm. As if she had not been showing up for you since before either of you knew what showing up was supposed to look like.
âWow,â she said. âLena is here. Incredible. Shocking. Who could have foreseen this plot twist?â
You squinted at her, trying to understand why she sounded like that through the warm blur of alcohol and adrenaline. âAre you mad?â
âNo,â Yelena said immediately.
Bucky glanced back at her.
Yelena pointed at him. âDo not.â
He wisely turned back to you.
You reached for more of him without thinking, fingers curling around the hem of his jacket. Bucky noticed. He noticed everything about you, every wince you tried to bury, every joke you used as misdirection, every time your breathing went uneven. His hand covered yours, warm flesh over bruised knuckles, and you melted a little under the touch despite the doctor still working at your forehead.
You loved him so much it felt stupid sometimes.
It felt especially stupid now, with blood drying at your temple and your head pleasantly spinning, because all you could think was that he was so beautiful when he was worried, beautiful like a storm held back by sheer will.Â
Buckyâs thumb moved across your knuckles. âHow much did you drink?â
You considered lying.
Yelena snorted before you could answer because she knew that look. âDo not.â
You knew exactly what she meant and scoffed. âI was not.â
âTell him the truth.â
You looked back at Bucky. âA few drinks.â
âHow many is a few?â
âLess than many.â
The doctor made a sound like he was trying not to laugh and it was taking everything for him to stay professional.
Bucky closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, they were still worried. He was not angry with you. You could handle anger, but Bucky looking at you like you were precious and reckless and his made you want to crawl directly into his arms in front of medical professionals, which was inconvenient.
âWhat happened?â he asked.
You sighed, because this part was obvious to you and apparently baffling to everyone else.
âI was playing darts with Moose and drinking,â you said. âNormally. Like a normal person.â
Yelena made a rude noise.
âI was,â you insisted, looking offended. âBut then there were these guys.â You gestured vaguely, almost hitting the doctorâs wrist.
The doctor caught your hand midair and placed it firmly in your lap, resuming the stitch. âHands down.â
âSorry.â
âThank you.â
You looked back at Bucky, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets. âThey were being gross.â
Yelena tilted her head. âTo you?â
You hesitated. âAt first.â
Buckyâs jaw ticked, as if he was going to find these very same guys in here and was going to massively increase their hospital bills.
You waved a hand quickly, or tried to, before remembering the doctor had forbidden it. âI ignored it. Then I had to scare them away. It worked.â
âMmhmm,â Yelena said.
âBut then they started harassing the bartender while she was working,â you continued, ignoring her, âand these guys kept bothering her. Like, they asked for her number once, and she said no.â
Bucky nodded.
âBut they didnât stop,â you said, voice losing some of its tipsy brightness. âThey kept leaning over the bar and calling her sweetheart and asking what time she got off. One of them said she was being stuck-up, and another one tried to grab her wrist when she turned away.â
The air in the little bay changed.
Bucky went quiet, and Yelenaâs expression flattened. You shrugged, though your own fist tightened at the memory. âSo I told them to leave her alone.â
The doctor tied off one stitch and moved to the next. âThatâs not exactly how the police report phrased it.â
You frowned. âThe police report lacks emotional context.â
Buckyâs mouth twitched up despite himself, as if thinking, thatâs my girl.
Yelena crossed her arms. âAnd then?â
âAnd then one of them told me to mind my business.â
Bucky looked at you. You looked back at him.
âAnd I felt,â you said carefully, âthat it had become my business.â
âReasonable.â Yelena nodded once. âSo you threw hands.âÂ
You brightened again and confirmed. âI threw hands.â
A nurse, who had been mindlessly standing at your side, looked at your report and said, âthis says you threw a barstool.â
âI used the environment,â you shrugged.
âAnd a pool cue,â she flipped a page.
âThat was already in my hand.â
âUmmm,â the nurse started, reading more, âthis said it wasnât.â
Bucky looked down at your bruised knuckles, trying his hardest not to sound proud. âHow many?â
You pursed your lips.
The nurse answered before you could. âSeven injured men were brought in separately. None critical.â
You looked offended. âEight.â
The doctor blinked. âEight?â
âOne slipped on beer,â you nodded, âI feel like I contributed to that.â
Yelena let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself.
The nurse glanced up from your chart. âYou did tell the paramedic, repeatedly, that he should see the other guys.â
You pointed at her. âBecause he should.â
âYou also asked if anyone had written down your dart score.â
âThat was important,â you frowned. âI had a winning streak.â
âYou might have a concussion,â the doctor corrected.
You sighed and looked at Bucky, as if he hadn't just heard it himself. âTheyâre saying concussion.â
Buckyâs thumb stroked the back of your hand again, and the motion pulled your attention back to him like gravity. He loved you so much. It was everywhere when you knew how to look. In his hand around yours. In the set of his shoulders. In the way he kept glancing at the doctorâs needle like he disliked it for hurting you, even though it was helping.
The doctor finished the last stitch and began cleaning around the wound.
âSo,â he said, returning to a more professional tone, âthe CT was clear, which is good. But given the head injury, the alcohol, and the history, weâre treating this as a mild concussion. Sheâll need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. No alcohol. No strenuous activity. No driving. No sleeping without periodic checks. If thereâs vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, vision changes, unusual behaviorââ
You smiled sweetly, interrupting him. âThey know concussion protocol.â
The doctor looked between them, then at you. âRight. Avengers.â
How fortunate.
â
Yelena drove because Bucky refused to be more than an inch away from you, and because you were still tipsy enough to keep trying to wave goodbye to the hospital security guard through the back window.
It was late enough that the city had gone a bit quieter for New York standards. Streetlights streaked gold across the glass and rainwater from earlier in the evening shone black on the road. The heater hummed, filling the car with warmth, while you sat in the back seat tucked so securely into Buckyâs side that you might as well have been part of him.
His human arm was wrapped around your shoulders. His vibranium hand rested carefully over your knee, tapping every so often when your head began to loll too comfortably against his chest.
âStay awake, sweetheart,â he cooed.
âI am awake.â
âMhmm.â
From the driverâs seat, Yelena snorted before she could stop herself.
She was still bitter. You could tell, even through the pleasant, cottony haze in your head. Yelenaâs bitterness had a very specific texture: too sarcastic and too much focus on the road. She had her hands at ten and two like she was angry at the steering wheel. She had been making jokes since the hospital, which meant she was hurt enough to hide behind them.
Bucky noticed too.
His thumb moved gently over your knee. âYou doing okay?â
âMmm.â You tipped your face up toward him. âYouâre very handsome when youâre worried.â
His ears went pink.
Yelena made a gagging sound from the front. âPlease remember I am trapped in this vehicle.â
You smiled lazily. âBut he is handsome, Lena! Donât you think?â
âGah,â she said, not even wanting to think of him that way.
Buckyâs mouth turned into a faint smile, but the amusement faded quickly. His eyes dropped to the bandage near your forehead, then to your bruised knuckles, then back to your face. He had been doing that all night, checking you in pieces like he could not trust the whole of you unless he inspected every injured part.
Finally, after a bout of silence, he asked, âCan I come out with you next time?â
Your eyes opened properly, widening in an instant.
In the rearview mirror, Yelenaâs eyes flicked up. This was going to be fun.
Bucky looked almost embarrassed as soon as he said it, but he kept going anyway. âNot to stop you. I know you can handle yourself. I justâŠâ He looked away a little. âI just wanna make sure youâre okay.â
Oh.
Your poor heart melted stupid inside your chest.
You reached up and patted his cheek with perhaps slightly too much affection and not enough coordination. âI love you,â you said, very seriously, âbut donât dote.â
He huffed despite himself. âCome on, sweets. Why not?â
âBecause,â you almost scolded, âyouâre no fun.â
Yelena laughed then. It was a small, surprised laugh that broke through her mood before she could lock it down again.
But Bucky frowned.
He wasnât exactly heartbroken. It was just a little crease between his brows, his mouth settling into that wounded line he got when he was trying not to take something personally and failing because he loved you too much to be casual about anything you said.
Immediately, you gasped, hearing yourself.
âNo. No, no, no.â You pushed yourself upright from his chest, and Buckyâs arm tightened at once like you had attempted to dive out of the moving car. âBaby.â
âItâs okay,â he said, which meant he absolutely was not.
âBaby,â you repeated, cupping his face with both hands. Your palms were warm against his stubbled skin, your thumb brushing clumsily near the corner of his mouth. âBaby, baby, I donât mean it like that.â
His eyes searched yours. âYeah?â
âYeah.â You nodded, then winced because nodding was apparently not your friend. âOw. Anyway. I mean⊠if you come with me, then no one underestimates me anymore.â
Bucky blinked blankly.
You pointed at him with one hand, nearly poking his cheek. âBecause youâre all⊠this.â
âThis?â
âBig,â you said. âBeautiful. Scary. Murder boyfriend.â
Yelena coughed so hard it was almost a laugh.
Bucky stared at you for a second.. âMurder boyfriend?â
âYou know what I mean.â
He shook his head. âI really donât know if I do.â
âYou do. You walk in and suddenly no one thinks Iâm harmless.â You sounded genuinely disappointed by the concept. âThen itâs not fun anymore.â
Bucky looked torn between fondness and despair. âIâm sorry my presence ruins your bar ecosystem.â
âIt does.â
âIâll work on that.â
âYou canât,â you sighed, hiccuping a little before continuing. âYouâre too threatening.â
This time, Yelena did laugh.Â
Then your whole face brightened, like a solution had dropped straight out of the sky and into your concussed little head. âOh! I know.â
Yelenaâs smile vanished with immediate suspicion, because that sounded like you just came up with a bad idea.Â
âLena should come with me next time!â you exclaimed.
Oh.Â
What?
Yelena looked at you in the rearview mirror. âHuh?â
You smiled at her, tipsy and so painfully sincere that Bucky looked like he was actually considering it. âYou should come with me. Itâll be fun.â
Yelena didnât know what to make of it
You leaned forward, eager now, and Bucky immediately caught the back of your jacket to stop you from lunging yourself forward over the center console.
âCareful,â he warned.
You ignored him completely, eyes still on Yelena in the mirror. âWe barely go out together anymore.â
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
The streetlights passed over her face in brief yellow flashes, there and gone, there and gone. Yelena was never gentle in the way people usually were, but her anger faltered, just enough for you to see the hurt underneath it.
âI miss going out with you.â Your voice went smaller. âI miss you.â
Yelena looked away from the mirror too fast.
Fuck.
You did?
All this time she thought she was replaceable, you missed her?
She blinked hard, and if her eyes watered a little, no one in the car was stupid enough to point it out.
âYou are just concussed,â she said, trying not to sound too sentimental. âAnd drunk.â
âBut I still mean it.â
Buckyâs hand slid over your arm, warm and steady. You settled back against him, still looking at Yelena, your smile hopeful now instead of bright.
That was the thing, wasnât it? You loved Bucky. God, you loved him. You loved him with the dizzy certainty of a weapon who had found a place to lay down her weapons and still be known. You loved his worried eyes, the way he said sweetheart, the way he looked at you like he was lucky to hold you at all.
But Yelena was your sister. The one you knew as child soldiers in the battlefield. The one who yelled because she was scared. The one who had dragged you through survival and gave you a life.
You had always known that there was room enough in your heart for both of them.
Yelena just needed to hear it.
Bucky seemed to understand that, too, because he lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting Yelenaâs eyes there, as if saying, see? She does care.
âSheâd be safer with you,â he said.
Yelena swallowed.
The car hummed through another stretch of wet road before she nodded once, like she was accepting a mission.
âFine,â she said. âIâll take care of your girlfriend, Barnes.â
You sighed happily and melted back against Buckyâs chest. âSee? Perfect.â
Bucky pressed his mouth lightly to your hair, careful of your injury. âPerfect,â he echoed.
âNow,â you added, holding up one finger with great importance, âyou can be both our emergency contacts!â
Yelena rolled her eyes. âNow that is pushing it.â
Bucky laughed then, his chest shaking beneath your cheek. You giggled into his jacket as he pulled you closer.
Up front, Yelena pretended to be annoyed. She rolled her eyes, muttered something in Russian under her breath about how grossly in love you two were, and kept both hands firmly on the wheel.
But she ended up avoiding all the potholes she had planned to run over on the way home.
ê±áŽáŽáŽáŽÊÊ âș somewhere between golden-hour train rides, sleepy kitchen conversations, and waking up tangled together in soft sheets with Alpine purring between you, the lines between friends and flyers blur. and suddenly, the almosts start feeling a lot like forever.
áŽáŽÉȘÊÉȘÉŽÉą âș bucky x female reader
áŽáŽÉŽáŽáŽÉŽáŽ ᎥáŽÊÉŽÉȘÉŽÉąê± âș 18+ MDNI friends to lovers, fluff, domestic bucky, yearning, mutual pining, crushing hard, lowk idiots in love, feelings confession, alpine! implied stalking/being followed by strangers, brief anxiety/fear, buckys hyper vigilance comes out, protective & possessive bucky, kissing, smut, p in v, missionary & cowgirl, soft dom bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, oral f receiving, fingering, back to back rounds (đ ), sleepy aftercare, bucky nd reader are in lurve, not beta read we die like men. (also halfassed proofread so...)
ᎥáŽÊᎠáŽáŽáŽÉŽáŽ âș 8.5k
áŽáŽáŽÊáŽÊê± ÉŽáŽáŽáŽ âș your honor i love them, i love domestic bucky and i want him forever and forever and forever also yeah i barely proofread this i was doing a million things at once and decided to just say fuck it so my fault if its wack
It happens on a Tuesday.
You know itâs a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and youâre halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You donât even look at the name before you smile, youâve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesnât text much but when he does, itâs direct.
You home.
No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:
Eventually. Why?
Thereâs a longer pause this time, then,
Found something.
You grin at your screen.
If this is another broken appliance youâre adopting, we need to talk.
Three dots disappear, then reappear.
Not an appliance.
You snort quietly to yourself, you donât ask for clarification because you already know heâll show up whether you do or not.
By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because youâre in a rush, but because youâve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.
You donât check the subway map anymore, you donât hesitate at the corner bodega. You donât feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like heâs holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.
White.
And glaring at you.
You blink.
ââŠIs that⊠a cat?â
The cat blinks back. Sheâs tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Buckyâs chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like sheâs anchoring herself there on purpose.
âShe followed me,â he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.
âShe followed you?â
âYeah.â
âHome?â
He nods once.
âShe looks like she weighs three pounds.â
âI tried to tell her not to. Sheâs got opinions.â
On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like youâre approaching something sacred.
âOh my god,â you whisper with a growing smile.
Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.
âSheâs so small.â
He scoffs. âSheâs probably feral.â
âSheâs so baby.â You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.
âSheâs notââ
âShe is,â you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.
Buckyâs brows draw together. âShe scratched a guy.â
âHe probably deserved it.â
âYou donât even know what he did.â He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.
âHe existed near her.â
âThatâs not a crime.â
You look up at him through your lashes. âIt is if youâre three pounds and fierce.â
He exhales through his nose, but thereâs no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.
âYou brought her here.â
âShe wouldnât leave.â
âThatâs not what I meant.â
You donât say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. âCan I?â
He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. Sheâs lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.
âAw,â you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. âHi.â
She stares up at you like sheâs evaluating your worth, you smile at her like youâve already decided sheâs yours.
âWhatâs up with you, girl?â you ask softly.
He shifts his weight. âAlpine.â
You look up at him, startled. âYou named her.â
âShe needed one.â
You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. âHi, Alpine,â you murmur.
She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. Itâs faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.
Bucky goes very still at the sound.
âShe didnât do that before,â he says quietly. You grin up at him like youâve just accomplished something monumental.
âShe likes me.â
âShe tolerates you.â
âShe loves me.â
âShe met you ten seconds ago.â
âAnd yet.â You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like sheâs been rehearsing it.
Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.
You glance up. âYou know sheâs our baby now, right?â
His eyes widen slightly. âShe is notââ
âShe absolutely is.â
He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.
âYou know⊠weâre notââ
âI know,â you interrupt gently, softer now. âIâm just kidding.â
But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.
Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been⊠gradual, natural almost.
Like youâve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes youâll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink âjust in case.â
You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like theyâre an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.
âYou spoil her,â he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like youâre reviewing fine wine.
âShe deserves it.â
He cocks a brow. âShe tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.â
âShe was defending her territory.â
âShe weighs less than the pigeon.â
âShe has spirit.â
He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpineâs inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.
ââYes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.ââ
âShe doesnât talk like that.â He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.
âHow do you know?â
âBecause sheâs judging you right now.â
You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.
âShe agrees with me.â You state with a firm nod of your head.
He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.
Click. He looks up at the sound.
âYou take too many pictures.â
You hum behind the camera. âIâm documenting history.â
âIâm building a cat tree.â
âExactly.â
He rolls his eyes, but he doesnât tell you to stop.
Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.
âSheâs so tiny,â you murmur.
He huffs something close to a laugh. "Sheâs vicious.â
âSheâs fragile.â
âShe scratched a grown man.â
âBoth can be true at once.â You tease through a smile.
You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look heâs not looking at the cat. Heâs looking at you. You donât talk about what you are, you donât need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each otherâs rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when heâs had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.
Youâve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.
And now, your cat.
One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Buckyâs arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.
The way Alpineâs tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you donât feel like youâre building alone anymore, you feel⊠accompanied.
Chosen.
Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.
Bucky stirs.
âWhatâs she doing,â he mutters sleep-rough.
âClaiming me.â
He settles back into the bed. âHm. Sheâs territorial.â
âShe gets it from you.â
He cracks one eye open to look at you.
âIâm not territorial.â
âYou absolutely are.â
He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. âI just know whatâs mine,â he says quietly.
Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didnât just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning itâthe three of you fit.
Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.
When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.
New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesnât know theyâre glowing.
You donât mean to start photographing him like this.
At first itâs practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.
The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoonsâwarm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself youâre just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when itâs honest.
It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.
He doesnât notice at first. Heâs kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge thatâs been sagging for weeks. Youâre perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.
Click.
He doesnât look up.
The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like heâs working with something delicate.
Like he always does here.
You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.
Thereâs something about him in your spaceâlarge and solid and quietâthat doesnât feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like heâs always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.
âStop glaring at it,â you tease. âIt can sense fear.â
He snorts softly. âIâm not glaring.â
âYou absolutely are.â
Click.
He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. âYou takinâ pictures of me again?â
âMaybe.â
âWhy.â
You shrug like itâs obvious. âI'm documenting history.â
âIâm fixinâ a cabinet.â
âExactly.â
He shakes his head, but thereâs no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you â like youâre allowed to get away with things no one else is. You donât tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.
You photograph him crouched beside Alpineâs food bowl next.
Sheâs watching him like heâs personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.
âSheâs judging you,â you narrate from behind the camera.
âShe always judges me.â
âShe knows youâre weak.â You taunt after a shutter adjustment.
âI am not weak.â
âYou gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.â
He doesnât answer that.
Click.
The photo captures something you didnât expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you donât remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.
Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdomâyour apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.
He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because youâre adjusting the focus.
The subway platform becomes another favorite location.
You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.
He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
You lift the camera.
Click.
He looks over. âGonna charge me royalties at some point?â
âDonât tempt me.â
He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, itâs a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that donât demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when heâs close.
The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.
Youâre sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because sheâs not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. Itâs early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.
Heâs not paying attention to you, heâs watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.
The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.
Click.
He turns toward you at the sound and for half a secondâhe almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.
âI didnât know you could do that,â you murmur.
âDo what.â
âThat.â
He frowns faintly.
Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. âLook like that.â
âLike what?â
You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you donât say it. He rolls his eyes like youâre being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. Itâs there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.
It becomes your favorite.
Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.
âWho is he to you?â
You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. âI answered his flyer.â
The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didnât take a paper.
Your boss smiles faintly.
âYouâre lucky,â she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.
Lucky.
You think about that word the whole way home.
You let yourself into the apartment quietly. Heâs on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.
You lean against the doorway. âHey.â
He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.
âHey.â
You donât move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didnât meet.
âI was thinking about something,â you say softly.
âYeah?â
âIâm really glad I saw your flyer.â
The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.
He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You step closer. âI almost didnât call. Put it in my purse and left it there.â
His jaw tightens faintly. âI almost didnât put it up.â
âWhat?â You blink.
He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like sheâs suddenly fascinating. âFigured nobodyâd answer.â
âWhy?â
He doesnât respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.
âBuck.â
He exhales slowly.
âDidnât think anyone would want to take a chance.â On me, he doesnât say but you hear it anyway.
Your chest aches.
âIâm glad I did,â you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.
âMe too,â he says quietly.
The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesnât disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.
You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.
Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.
Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look⊠settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.
You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.
It isnât just attraction anymore. It isnât just comfort. Itâs the knowledge that if you hadnât looked up that day, if you hadnât paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.
You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.
âWhat's wrong,â he murmurs.
âNothing.â
You donât tell him you feel something more than lucky, you donât tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you donât tell him that your favorite photo isnât the almost-smile. Itâs the one where heâs not looking at the camera at all, heâs looking at you. Like heâs quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe heâs a little lucky too.
It slips into something quieter one night.
Youâre at the counter again, but this time thereâs flour everywhereâyour hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.
âI said I could just go buy something,â he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.
âAnd I said no,â you shoot back, not looking up. âPeople make this all the time.â
âYeah. People who know how.â
You narrow your eyes at the dough. âItâs about the principle.â
âItâs about you losing a fight to bread.â
âIâm not losingââ
You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think heâs going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.
Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didnât know was there.
Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesnât go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.
You donât move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.
âYou hadââ he starts, voice lower now, rougher. âFlour.â
âYeah,â you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.
His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesnât widen again.
He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, itâs practical.
Itâs late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.
So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, thatâs what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.
You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.
Heâs not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.
Your chest tightens.
âBuck,â you murmur softly.
He doesnât stir and you hesitate.
You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesnât have toâbut you donât. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.
The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You donât touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.
It feels strangely natural, like youâve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.
ââŠYou okay?â he asks, voice rough.
âYeah,â you whisper. âCouldnât sleep.â
A pause.
Then, softerââFloorâs more comfortable than it looks.â
You huff quietly. âI can tell.â
Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. Itâs not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.
By morning, youâre tangled.
Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.
You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.
He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.
âHey,â he murmurs.
âHey.â
Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like heâs checking that youâre still there.
You are.
You both are.
And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends itâs nothing, either.
You donât notice it at first.
Thatâs the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole dayâthe way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.
Youâre tired.
Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. Youâve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.
It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.
Youâre thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good oneâjust a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.
You donât move.
And then they close again.
Itâs only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .
ââŠGreat,â you mutter under your breath.
Too late.
The train lurches forward again.
The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when youâre suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who donât know you just made a mistake.
You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You donât like it.
The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.
You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you canât quite explain, too open, too empty, like something thatâs supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.
So you decide to walk to the next station, itâs not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.
You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. Itâs not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesnât feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.
And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.
You glance up and see thereâs a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.
Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.
Keep walking.
Donât react. Don'tâ
They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like somethingâs been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You donât look back right away because you donât want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.
Thereâs no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.
He answers on the first ring.
âWhat broke?â
Any other time it would make you laugh.
Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. âBuck.â
It comes out thinner than you want it to, and thereâs a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the lineâyou can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.
âWhere are you.â
You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didnât think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.
âIâI missed my stop and I got off and Iâm walking and thereâsââ
âI got you,â he cuts in, calm and steady.
âStay on the phone.â
Your grip tightens around it. âOkay.â
âKeep walking. Donât stop.â
Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You donât process the words, you donât respond you just keep walking.
Your breathing stutters.
âBuckââ
âIâm here,â he says immediately. âYouâre good. Just keep going.â
Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you canât pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.
You flinch at the sound as the driverâs door opens. And heâs there. Bucky steps out like heâs stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.
The shift is immediate. He doesnât yell at the group of men, doesnât posture, he doesnât say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like itâs instinct, like itâs the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. Thereâs a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you werenât worth it.
You donât process it, not yet, all you know is that heâs here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof heâs solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.
âHey,â he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. âI got you.â
You nod against him, even though he canât see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.
The drive is quiet.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasnât fully slowed down yet and youâre aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.
Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesnât look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.
Youâve seen that look before.
Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.
âIâm okay,â you say quietly.
He doesnât respond right away as the truck turns down your street.
Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like heâs forcing it to loosen.
âI know,â he says.
But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize heâs not just angry, heâs shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasnât there in time.
He doesnât say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before youâve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like itâs instinct now, like itâs always been his job.
Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and heâs already looking at you. Thereâs something in his expression you donât see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.
âAre you hurt?â he asks, voice tight and focused.
You shake your head. âNo, Iââ
His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he wonât believe it until he confirms it himself.
âAnywhere?â he presses, quieter now.
âNo,â you say softly. âIâm okay.â
He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.
The kiss isnât careful.
It isnât the soft, checking-in kind heâs given you before. It isnât brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.
Itâs desperate.
Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like heâs grounding himself in the fact that youâre here. That youâre real, that youâre okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.
âYou scared me,â he breathes against your mouth.
The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.
âI know,â you whisper back.
âI canâtââ He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. âI canât lose you.â
Your breath stutters.
Thereâs no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.
His voice drops, quieter but steadier.
âBe mine.â
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
âFor real,â he adds, like he needs you to understand. âNo unspokeness. No almost.â
You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.
âI am,â you say.
Thereâs no hesitation in it.
âI've always been yours, Buck.â
His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.
âForever,â he insists, softer now but no less certain. âLet me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let meââ
He doesnât finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.
âIâll keep you safe,â he murmurs against your lips. âIâll choose you. Every day.â
Your answer comes easily.
âYes.â
He exhales like heâs been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.
His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.
The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.
You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Buckyâ"
"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."
The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.
You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."
"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.
His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.
His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lowerâover your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.
His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skinâso close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.
"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."
He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."
"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."
A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.
"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."
You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, 8ikpleaseâ"
His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if heâs relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."
And god, does he take his time.
His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until youâre writhing beneath him. "Buckyâ" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.
"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.
"Thatâs it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."
You donât stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesnât stop until youâre whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he canât get enough of the taste of you.
You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where heâs achingly hard.
"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."
His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"
"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.
His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.
"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheartâyouâ"
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.
He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.
"Good?" he rasps.
"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."
He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.
"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.
You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.
He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.
His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.
Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.
You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.
Your body trembles as Buckyâs thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.
"Thatâs it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take itâtake everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."
A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.
"Fuckâyouâre gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."
You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Buckyâs grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.
He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.
The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.
Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.
The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.
Everything feels warm.
Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still canât quite believe youâre here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.
Youâre tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he canât stop reaching for you.
You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something thatâs been leaning precariously finally settled into place.
Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.
âYou okay?â he murmurs.
You smile against his skin. âYeah.â
His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.
âCâmere,â he mutters, even though youâre already impossibly close. You go anyway.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
âBuck?â you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
No answer.
You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.
Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.
âThere you are,â you breathe.
His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.
âHey,â he says quietly, crossing the room. âSorry. Didnât mean to wake you.â
Your shoulders loosen all at once. âI thoughtââ
You stop yourself.
Thought what?
That he left?
That this disappeared overnight somehow?
The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.
âJust cleaned up,â he murmurs.
Thereâs a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.
âCâmere.â
You let him.
He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like heâs caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.
âYouâre staring again,â he murmurs.
Your lips twitch. âDocumenting history.â
A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.
âThere she is.â
The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesnât go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.
âYou scared me tonight,â he admits quietly.
The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.
You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. âIâm here.â
âYeah,â he whispers.
Like heâs still convincing himself.
He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until youâre tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.
Where you want to be.
You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.
âAll mine,â he murmurs sleepily into your hair.
Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.
âYours,â you whisper back.
And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.
PAIRING: the winter soldier x doctor!reader
SUMMARY: kidnapped by hydra and initially considered a mere âcog in a vast machineâ, you are forced to serve as the asset's personal medical caretaker. violent with everyone else, he calms only in your presence. fear, trauma, and reluctant attachment blur, leaving you safeâand terrifiedâunder his possessive, inescapable gaze.
WARNINGS: DUB-CON; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; doctor!reader (author knows nothing about medicine); reader was kidnapped; insults and condescending behavior towards reader (from original characters); angst; wounds & blood; trauma & violence; guilt; breeding program (doesn't involve reader); not depicted, only mentioned: non-con experimentation, captivity, coercive reproductive experimentation, non-con administration of chemical compound designed to suppress sexual inhibitions & resistance; unhealthy relationship (they basically bond over trauma); protective!bucky; dark!bucky (he is unstable); possessiveness & obsession; size difference (heâs beefy and taller than reader); smut; big dick bucky organization (đââïž); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; creampie (lots of cum :)); twisted ending.
WORD COUNT: 10.1k
A/N: unfortunately I couldn't finish the congressman!bucky x secretary!reader fanfic in time, so I humbly offer you another winter soldier one-shot, this time for my dark fics lovers <3. I'm so sorry for the unanswered inboxes and reblogs/comments but I'm offline until sunday for medical reasons. please, mind the tags before reading! hope you'll enjoy đ€
You had believed medicine was a discipline of precision and care, built to preserve life.Â
HYDRA stripped that belief from you within the first forty-eight hours of your abduction.
They never called it what it wasâkidnapping. No, they called it recruitment.
A late-night, sleep-deprived trip to the store for ice cream had cost you your freedom. At your awakening, you found yourself sitting in a white room with no windows, no wallet, no phone, and a man in a black uniform calmly explaining that your credentials were impressive, your skill set rare, and your cooperation expected. When you refused and demanded to leave, he wordlessly slid a thin file across the table. Inside were photos of your mother walking home from work, timestamps of months spent tailing her carefully highlighted in red.
You learned very quickly when to stop asking questions. To lower your head and listen. To do exactly as you were told. You were just trying to survive. And yet, guilt still clawed relentlessly at your chest as soon as your head touched that filthy excuse of a pillow they provided you with.
You had no idea who he had been before HYDRA took him, what parts of his life had been stolen, what memories erased, what humanity suppressed. If he could even still be called a man, or if he was nothing more than an experiment, forged and trapped within these walls. Still, beneath everything they had done to him, there was a person. And no human being deserves to be reduced to a lab experiment, trained to kill and denied any life of their own.
The truth is that here, forced into a role you never wanted, you are still part of it. Every dose you administer, every wound you clean, every monitoring protocol you followâeven if it is just to keep him from spiraling into uncontrollable violenceâyou are still contributing to HYDRAâs system, keeping the gears turning. You are an important cog, however unwilling, and the sole thought is enough to make you nauseous, tormenting you during those sleepless nights spent on an uncomfortable mattress inside your new, grey bedroom.
You are a witness, a caretaker, a facilitator. And in keeping him alive, you sustain the very machine that caged him. Your hands remain steady, but each measured movement is weighted with fear and reluctant responsibility.Â
The Winter Soldier is HYDRAâs greatest asset and its most closely monitored prisoner. Officially, you are not his handler. You donât issue commands or mission parameters, nor have the power to activate him or order for his mind to be wiped. That job belongs to othersâmen who speak in clipped phrases and avoid eye contact with what they have turned him into.
You monitor his vitals, track the effects of the serum, treat injuries sustained in the field, and document behavioral anomalies. You make sure he eats when they remember to feed him, that his body remains functional between cryo cycles and the scars donât fester.
You are also the only one allowed to touch him without restraints, but no one had planned for that.
At first, they tried rotating doctors. None lasted more than a week. Some requested reassignment after the first day; some broke down at the first violent outburst from the Soldier. One had a panic attack so severe she had to be sedated and removed from the facility entirely.Â
The memory of the first time HYDRA insisted on assigning a second doctor is still too vivid to forget. An older man with trembling hands and a voice that cracked at the smallest instruction. The moment heâd stepped past the threshold, the Soldier went rigid, his gaze snapping from you to the stranger, like a gun sight locking onto a target.
The doctor hadnât even touched him. Heâd reached for a stethoscope, but the Soldier had moved faster than you could shout.Â
Metal collided with bone.Â
The doctor went down screaming, clutching his shattered wrist.Â
Restraints were deployed seconds too late and sirens screamed as the Winter Soldier fought agents with silent, feral fury.
But you⊠well, he tolerates you.
Thatâs the word they use. Tolerates. As if thereâs anything neutral about his actions towards you.
The Soldier doesnât really speak. His responses are economical: a turn of the head, a shift of weight, the faint tightening of his jaw when something displeases him. You learned his language the way one learns a foreign alphabetâslowly, and constantly terrified of making a fatal mistake that could change everything. You learned the difference between stillness and readiness, between compliance and restraint. That when his shoulders went rigid and his metal hand flexed, you needed to step back and let him recalibrate.
The change didnât begin with trust, though. It began with fear.
The rest of the agents were afraid of him. They had every reason to be, frankly. In the weeks leading up to the incident, the Soldier had grown volatile in ways HYDRA could not easily quantify. Missions ended messier and recovery periods stretched. There were momentsâbrief, unsettling lapsesâwhere commands lagged and he hesitated just long enough for alarms to register before compliance snapped back into place.
HYDRA answered the way it always did: with punishment and pressure. And you saw the cost written across his body.
Until you finally stood your ground and intervened.
The Soldier had been awake for six minutes when the alarms went off.Â
You knew this because you were watching the numbers climb in real time: heart rate spiking dangerously fast, blood pressure surging high enough to trigger red warnings across the console. His respiration was shallow and uneven, each breath dragged through clenched teeth and dilated nostrils. The biometric sensors embedded in the containment room floor registered rapid, erratic movement.
Pacing.
That was already bad.
âWhy isnât he responding?â An agent snapped behind you.
You didnât answer immediately, your eyes still locked on the glass.
Inside the reinforced medical room, the Soldier moved like a caged animal. Back and forth, bare feet silent against the white floor, and metal arm rhythmically flexing and unclenching with a soft, mechanical hum. His head twitched even at the hiss of the vents, a low growl vibrating dangerously in his chest at the distant echo of boots in the corridor.
He was awake, but he wasnât present.
âSoldier.â His handler barked, activating the intercom. âStand down.â
No response.
At the next commandâlouder, sharperâhe stilled for half a second, long enough for hope to painfully tighten your chest. Then, he turned abruptly toward the glass, eyes wild and unfocused searching not for authority, but for threat.
His vitals spiked again.
âSedate him.â The handler ordered.
Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the console. âNo.â
The word came out harsher than you intended.
You forced yourself to breathe, to think clinically. âIf you sedate him now, youâll exacerbate his fever.â
âWhat do you suggest then, Doctor?â Your title was laced with mockery.
You decided to ignore the umpteenth jab at your competence, swallowing as your eyes nervously flicked back to the glass.
âI need to go in.â
The room went quiet.
âThat is not in accordance with the protocol.â He gritted out, earning himself a glare.
âIâm aware.â Your eyes didnât waver as they met his.Â
Inside the containment room, the Soldier struck the glass without warning, causing the whole room to flinch. The punch was not hard enough to crack it, yet the impact furiously reverberated through the observation wing. His metal hand connected again, producing a deep, resonant thud. His breathing was louder now, ragged, bordering on a growl.
His heart rate surged past one-sixty.
âDoctorââ
âIf I donât intervene now,â you said quietly, âYouâre going to have to deal with a full-scale breach in under two minutes.â
Although they hesitated, you didnât wait for their permission.
The moment the door to the observation wing slid open, something changedânot immediately, but the monitors noticed before anyone else did.
His heart rate dipped just a fraction. From one-sixty to one-fifty-six. His breathing hitched, then slowed, unevenly at first, as if his body had recognized a familiar presence that his mind still struggled to place.
You took a step into the containment room and the Soldier frozeâa machine stalling after a conflicting input.
His head slowly turned toward you, his gaze snapping to your face and holding, unblinking, as if everyone else had just disappeared.
His breathing was still edged with some unnamed strain, yet each inhale felt deeper than the last. Controlled in a way that seemed forced, like he was dragging himself back from the brim of madness by sheer instinct alone. The rigid line of his shoulders eased with it, almost imperceptibly, but your eyes noticed it at once.Â
The metal hand that had been clenched tight twitched, before fingers began uncurling one by one.
âVitals stabilizing.â Someone murmured over the comms.
You ignored them and simply took another careful step forward.
âItâs alright.â You whispered, low enough that it wouldnât carry past the barrier of reinforced glass. âYouâre safe.â
You had no idea how much those words mattered to him.
His blown pupils tracked you with unnerving precision, following each movement of your body as if pulled by an invisible thread. He didnât blink, nor looked away. It was the same way he watched you during examinations, through wound care, and in those long hours when you sat beside his cot and pretended not to notice how he would inconspicuously inch closer each time.
As if losing sight of you meant the world would pulverize below his feet.
You stopped far enough to not invade his personal space.
âGood.â You murmured, more to yourself than to him. âJust breathe with me.â
The monitors confirmed his compliance: heart rate down to one-thirty; blood pressure falling into safer ranges; temperature still elevated, but no longer climbing.
Behind the glass, the agents stared in silence.
âHe didnât respond to any of our commands.â One of them said under his breath.
You swallowed.
You knew it was only a matter of time before they would realize it.
You almost flinched when the Soldier took a deliberate step toward you, not aggressively. Every muscle in your body tightened anyway, instinct screaming at you to run and lock the door. But you didnât back away. You had learned, painfully, that sudden motion broke whatever fragile equilibrium existed between you two.
He stopped close enough that you could not ignore the faint sheen of sweat along his temples, your eyes instantly catching the subtle tremor in his flesh hand that only appeared when he was overstimulated.
His eyes never left your face, though.
Thatâs when you gently lifted a hand, palm open. âEasy.â
His focus narrowed on the movement, his left hand uncertainly mimicking you, until cold metal met warm skin. The contact was light, but his pulse spiked anyway. Then, just as quickly, it settled.
âHeart rate down another ten.â Someone whispered.
You felt sick. Not because of him, but because of what this meant in their eyes.
They had suspected it before. Documented it in cautious, clinical language: the subject exhibited reduced agitation in the presence of primary medical staff. There was notable improvement in compliance during examinations conducted by you.
But what they mistook for obedience was nothing more than fixation.
And as the Winter Soldier stood in front of youâcalm, silent, barely held together by your presenceâyou realized that whatever HYDRA had carved out of him, whatever they had taken away, they still couldnât reach that deeply broken part of his mind that had latched onto you and refused to let go.
Without you, he spiraled: violent, unresponsive, lost in a haze of half-awareness and threat assessment. With you, his body remembered how to regulate itself. His fury quieted and his attention settled.
âDoctor,â the handler called slowly. âYou may step back now.â
The Soldierâs head snapped up at the interfering noise.
His shoulders locked, palm pressing more insistently against yours. With his chest heaving quicker than normal, anyone could clearly see that his fragile control was splintering at the edges once again.
âIf I step back,â you mumbled, keeping yourself still. âHis vitals will spike again.â
No one answered.
Inside the containment room, the Soldier didnât break contact with your handâhe just leaned closer to meet your eyes, enough that you could feel the rough, warm drag of his breathing tickling your nose. His posture was protective without being hostile, his formidable body subtly angled between you and the rest of the agents.
A warning to everyone else. A barrier between what had become his fixed point in the fog and the avid tide trying to take it away from him.Â
âAlright.â The handler sneered at last. âMaintain position.â
You briefly closed your eyes, allowing yourself a slow sigh of relief. When your eyelids fluttered open again, the Soldier was still watching you, his breathing unconsciously syncing to yours.
From that moment on, nothing was ever the same again.
The containment wing is quiet, the silence settling in around the fact that youâre the only one left. Everyone soon learned that lingering would only lead to more troubles.
The reinforced glass wall stands between you and the Soldier once again, thick enough to stop a tank and threaded with sensors that track every shift of his weight, every minute fluctuation in his vitals. You sit alone at the console, tablet tucked against your ribs and eyes flicking between the readouts and the man behind the barrier. The room is all white and steel, with fluorescent lights loudly buzzing overhead like insects burrowed in your skull.Â
He is standing today, shoulders squared, head slightly bowed, gaze fixed on you with unnerving intensity. You canât hold it for long. Attention from him has always felt⊠dangerous. Like voluntarily stepping onto a frozen lake knowing it will inevitably crack beneath your feet.Â
You keep your eyes on the monitors instead, scrolling through vitals you donât like and couldnât fix fast enough.
Even without looking at the data, his posture tells you how bad the night was.Â
His heart rate is elevatedâsteady, yes, but highâand cortisol levels havenât returned back to baseline since he was last put under. Itâs clear that the serum is working overtime to compensate for something HYDRA refuses to name. Because the wound should have healed by nowâa ballistic injury to the right side of the abdomen, deep enough to cause significant pain but not to damage any vital organ. Under normal circumstances, the serum would have closed it within two days. You have seen him regenerate from worse, his torn muscles and shattered bones reforming with brutal efficiency. Despite that, this time the tissue remains angrily inflamed, the sutures pulling tight instead of dissolving.
An asset that doesnât heal is an asset that can fail.Â
So they caged him here, again.
âAt least vitals are holding for now.â You mutter to yourself.
He doesnât respond, but his head tilts as you speak, just slightly, as if orienting himself toward your voice. The monitors reflect the hitch in his breathing instantly, and that causes you to shift your weight uncomfortably, the chair creaking slightly under you.
His metal hand lifts, fingers flexing once against the glass, this time not striking it. Just touching, as if to claim the boundary. Your throat tightens at the sight, forcing yourself to move your eyes back on the medical charts.
You have been listed as essential personnel. Singular. The only one he allows near him. The only one he hasnât tried to kill until now. All because of that fateful night, three months ago. He hadnât calmed until you had shoved past the guards and coaxed him with your shaky voice and his palm against yours.Â
And HYDRA had taken note, as usual.
You keep staring at the same line for too long, until the numbers stop making sense and instead start looking more like indefinite shapesâmeaningless, looping back on themselves. You drag a hand down your face and lean closer to the console, scrolling back up on your tablet, then down again, as if repetition might magically manifest a solution.
The serum markers now look like theyâre fighting something.
Your fingers still, before you pull up a secondary panel to overlay two datasets, and your stomach drops.Â
Threaded through the Soldierâs bloodstream like a parasite is an unfamiliar compound, its elevated concentration persistent.
âThatâs not right.â You murmur.
Behind the glass, the Soldierâs spine straightens, eyes narrowing as if heâs felt the shift in your mood and decided he doesnât like it at all.Â
You glance up at him automatically. âWait a second,â youâre already pushing back your chair. âJustâwait.â
His brow furrows in displeasure.
You step toward the door, loudly knocking on the metallic surface until the agent stationed outside opens the small view hatch, only his eyes visible to you. âCall Dr. Keller,â you say quickly. âTell him itâs urgent.â
The guard hesitates for a mere second, before you hear him walk away.
In the meantime, behind you thereâs a dull thump that pulls your attention back to the man caged there.
Your head snaps towards him, just in time to see the Soldierâs metal hand rest against the glass, but his fingers are now spread wide, pressing. His jaw is clenched, blue eyes fixed on you because youâve drifted too far, out of his reach.
âIâm right here.â You cajole. âIâll be back soon.â
His answer comes in the form of his flesh hand curling slowly into a fist by his side.
Dr. Keller arrives a few minutes later.Â
Heâs older, silver-haired, immaculate in a way that suggests choice rather than coercion. His confident posture is that of a man who belongs here because he wants to.Â
Barely sparing the Asset a glance, he takes a small step into the room.
âWhat do you want?â He asks, already impatient.
You turn the tablet in his direction, yet he hardly looks at the screen. âThis compound,â your finger taps the value. âItâs interfering with the serum. It shouldnât be there at all. What is it?â
Keller squints at it, then his expression smooths in pure indifference.
âOh. That.â He comments bored. âItâs CX-17.â
Your heartbeat quickens, something in your chest curling just wrong at the name. âAnd what exactly is CX-17?â
His hesitation lasts long enough for it to be intentional. âA behavioral catalyst. Part of Project Genesis.â
You squint at him in confusion. âProject what?â
Keller exhales through his nose, eyes rolling. âYou werenât cleared for the full scope, obviously. But Iâm feeling generous today, since you clearly lack the intellectual capacity to reach any logical conclusion by yourself.â You grimace at his condescending tone.
âThe serum alone is limited. Replication has been unsuccessful and subjects donât survive long enough for meaningful results, so the Winter Soldier Program was suspended indefinitely.â
Your mouth dries. âWhat does that have to do with this compound?â
An annoyed huff falls from his lips. âThe Asset remains the only viable template, therefore natural compatibility was⊠explored.â
The last word lands wrong.
âWhat do you mean âexploredâ?âÂ
Kellerâs eyes briefly flick toward the glass, then back to you. âAttempts were made to encourage reproductive behavior. He resisted. Violently. So the directive was adjusted accordingly.â
âYou drugged him.â Horror dawns on your features, your voice nothing short of a whisper.
âWe enhanced instinctual drives and suppressed inhibitions.â Keller snaps. âCX-17 was designed to lower resistance. It was a necessary step to secure the future of HYDRA.â
âNo. You created an untested compound,â you start slowly, the words feeling like shards of glass on your tongue. âAnd pumped it into a body already under extreme physiological stress. And you didnât even think to mention it to me?â
âIt wasnât your concern.â
A sharp, disbelieving laugh escapes you. âI am his doctor.â Your voice rises. âYou weakened the serum and destabilized him, and you didnât even notice because you were too busy trying to turn him intoâinto a breeding machine!â
Kellerâs face darkens as he takes a step forward. âWatch your tone, you little, insolent bitch.â
Your eyes harden, far from intimated as your shoulders straighten. âHow dare youââ
A thunderous bang cuts you off.
The glass shudders as the Soldier slams his fist into it once. Twice. The sound is deafening up close. His breathing is irregular, shoulders rising and falling harshly as he regards you with eyes blown wideâfury, agitation, and something far less controlled flickering beneath it.
Your body instinctively faces him. âSoldierââ
Keller swears under his breath as he starts backing toward the door. âYou seriously think you matter to that mutt?â He spits venomously. âYouâre a variable, thatâs all. And when youâll stop being useful, heââ
Another blow. Harder enough for cracks to spiderweb the reinforced glass.
Keller pales. The sentence dies in his throat and with one last frown, he turns and quickly punches in the access codeâthe same one deliberately withheld from you, the person who knows this room and its equipment like the back of your handâshouting for the guards as the door closes with finality behind him.
What a pathetic worm.Â
Behind the glass, the Soldier roarsâraw and wordlessâslamming both of his fists against the barrier, rage finally breaking free of whatever flimsy control he had clung onto until now.
The monitor spikes, prompting you to run towards the console, throwing the tablet somewhere nearby.
âDonâtââ You gasp, but itâs too late. His heart rate surges again as his gaze locks onto the door behind you.Â
âNo!â You shout, but another blow strikes the glass. âHey! Stop. Look at me.â
He freezes mid-motion, eyes flying to your face.
You move closer to the glass, palm lifting slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a skittish wild animal that could either bolt or break.Â
âItâs me, see?â Your voice shakes, so you swallow around the lump of fear clogging your throat. âItâs only me in here.â
He wheezes once, as if his lungs forgot how to work properly, before his chest starts moving at a more normal pace. The fist lowers shakily, fingers uncurling as violence drains out in increments. At last, his forehead drops to rest against the glass with a tired, hollow thud.
Your palm meets the barrier, waiting for him to place his directly opposite to yours. âGood,â you whisper. âThatâs it.â The monitors follow your lead.
You let out a long exhale at that point. Your startled reflection stares back at you, overlaid with his impassive face, so impossibly close. The proximity inevitably drags your mind back to a few weeks ago.Â
It was past midnight when a handler shoved him inside the medical bay, scornfully laughing. âAll yours, Doctor. He didnât move fast enough.âÂ
The man left as fast as he came, the metal door locking behind him.
As your gaze returned to the still Soldier, you noticed a fresh, long cut sitting on his right forearm, the fabric of his tactical shirt ruined. Without thinking, your fingertips gently brushed the skin surrounding the wound, causing a shiver to run down his spine.
For the first time, his pupils dilated noticeably with something far from rage. You missed it entirely, too focused on retrieving some antiseptic, but he couldnât take his eyes off your lips and the concern in your furrowed eyebrows as you asked him to sit on the cot.Â
He inhaled deeply at the way your fingers tenderly wrapped around his wrist as you started to clean the cut, overtaken by a sudden, primal impulse that his programming couldnât contain. And then, as you were cutting some gauze, something small and almost absurd appeared from his gear: a crumpled, battered flower. Most of the petals were gone, leaving nothing more than the crumpled stem clutched carefully in his metal hand.
âOh.â Your eyes blinked in surprise at the sad daisy. Your weight shifted uncomfortably under his expectant blue eyes, hungrily waiting for your reaction.
âIs thisâŠâ You spoke meekly. âFor me?â A sharp, quick nod. âI uhm... tâthank you, Soldier.â You mumbled finally, gently taking the offered gift. âI⊠never got flowers.â A careless, mumbled afterthought, only meant for you.
The Soldier frowned as if you had just spoken in a foreign language, his brain not comprehending how a pretty woman like you had never received flowers. His fingers flexed where they rested uselessly on his thighs, visibly uncertain about his next move.
The corners of your lips lifted in a genuine, small smile, hands already reaching back for the gauze when the Soldier stood up with sharp precision, forcing you to look up at him with wide eyes as you tried to take a few steps back.
He was faster.
Towering over you as he leaned in, his lips caught yours in a clumsy, desperate kiss. His mouth moved frantically, taking advantage of your little, startled gasp to shove his eager tongue in your mouth as his hands impulsively reached for your waist, tugging you closer with possessive certainty. Like he needed to make sure you werenât just a lovely figment of his abused brain.Â
You froze completely, feeling your heart slam painfully against your ribs. And yet, your body gradually turned pliant in his tight hold.
The kiss became more insistent, charged with urgent need.Â
You should have stopped him. Should have taken a step back and made a run for the door to shout for his handler to take him away.
But instead, your eyelids fluttered close and your lips tried to keep up with his desperation, one hand cupping his jaw as your thumb brushed his cheekbone. All the caution and the fear dissolved with a stolen, fragile human gesture, sweet in his awkwardness.
You tried to avoid it, you forbade yourself from picturing his handsome features during those cold nights spent alone in your cell. And yet, the more you were forced to take care of the Soldier, the more you grew used to his silent, insistent presence and his constant watch over you during long, lonely hours.
And he, in turn, started to crave your gentleness and the way your pretty eyes would glance up at him with poorly concealed trepidation.
In that moment, the world narrowed to the feel of his rough hands palming your curves and the faint taste of copper on his tongue. The crushed stem rested between your palm and his chest. Something fragile held against something unsteady, caught in hands too tight to tell the difference between keeping and breaking.
Mine, his eyes screamed when you finally pulled away.
Ownership.
And God help youâyou let it happen.
The memory shatters as a shrill creak resounds sharply in the room. Your eyes fly to your left, where the Soldier had moved. His metal hand is wrapped around the reinforced handle of the door, plates whirring as he tests itâpulling, twisting, applying calculated force.Â
He wants out. He wants you.
âHey,â you bark, your pulse ringing in your ears as you rush toward the console. âNo, Soldier. Stop.â
His head turns just enough to meet your eyes. Then, his lips wrap around your name. Rough. Unused. The sound of it sends a chill down your spine.
âIâm here, Iâm fine.â You babble. âYou donât need to come out.â
You can see the moment hesitation crosses his mind in the way his grip weakens for a mere second, before all hell breaks loose.
The Soldier plants his feet too wide, like the floor might slide out from under him, and presses his metal hand to the seam of the door, holding. His fingers curl and uncurl a couple of times, as if deciding how much strength to use. His shoulders begin to shake then, jaw locking hard enough that you can hear his teeth grind through the glass. His breath stutters out of him in short, broken growls, fogging the reinforced pane in front of his face.
âPlease.â You beg, barely louder than a breath.
The word hits something already fractured.
His flesh hand slams flat against the door.
The impact booms through the room, a deep, concussive sound that rattles the console and thunders in your ribcage. The door doesnât give, not immediately, but the frame shrieks in protest.
He hits it again.
This time he doesnât pull back fully. He leans into it, forehead dropping to the steel, spine bowing as he pushes. The shaking gets worse, travels through him in violent tremors, like his body is overloading, like too much power is trying to flow through the limited space of his veins.
His right arm joins the metal one.
A low, involuntary snarl claws out of his throat, and then he pulls.
Something pops. A hinge shears halfway through with a sharp crack, the sound brief but catastrophic. The door tilts a fraction of an inch, enough that the frame bends, and bolts snap free one after another, pinging across the floor like shrapnel.Â
With one final, brutal surge, he rips the door free of its housing. It tears loose with a roar that dies abruptly when the slab of reinforced steel crashes to the floor, denting it. The alarms begin their wail, red lights strobing the room, yet he stands there unbothered, framed by ruin, with the broken door at his feet like a fallen shield. His chest rises and falls like heâs just surfaced from deep water, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides as his gaze finally flicks over you with quick efficiencyâhands, throat, faceâchecking. Cataloging.
If it was someone else, they would have completely missed the subtle way his eyes soften, like tension easing from a drawn wire.
The room is now open. And all that force, all that damage, was only ever aimed at getting to you.
Every instinct you haveâdoctor, captive, humanâscreams at you to run when the Soldier takes a step closer.
Your legs donât listen though, even if your mind supplies you with a thousand terrible endings per minute as he keeps moving stealthily. A predator relishing the sight of his wounded prey before finally indulging in his coveted feast.
At the very beginning, when his anger started pouring out wild and unrestrained, you thought that there would be a moment heâll turn on you as well. That you were foolish to believe you were different.
Maybe that day has finally come.
The Soldier stops right in front of you. You can see the conflict still raging behind the blue in his eyes, where anger stays coiled tight, barely leashed. He smells like metal, antiseptic and something burned.Â
His flesh hand lifts, hesitating, then falls back to his side like heâs afraid of what it might do.
âI need you.â He says hoarsely. A confession.
Your throat tightens. Slowly, you decide to nod. âI know,â you whisper. âIâm here.â
Thatâs all it takes.
He closes the distance, wrapping his muscled arms around your waist to pull you into his chest. Itâs sudden and fierce, but still controlledâtight without crushing, as if holding a fragile possession he doesnât trust himself to keep intact. His chin drops to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your neck.
Your hands hover uselessly for a heartbeat, before they uncertainly land on his back, delicately resting on his trembling shoulders. His body shudders at the contact. The storm inside his chest doesnât dissolve completely, but it quiets, contained by the simple fact of having you in his arms.
Your eyes reluctantly close, an attempt to control your still racing pulse. Fear has braided tightly with a warmer sensation stirring in your belly, you realize horrifically. Itâs not a secret that you have always been terrified of him, of what he could do if a wrong word dared to fall from your lips. And yet, here in his hold, standing in a room that resembles more a battlefield littered with steel and dust, you feel safe enough to breathe.
Once your cheek tentatively comes to rest against his chest, your focus narrows on his heartbeat.
Itâs still too fast.
The sirens finally cut out one by one, as if even the system knows better than to challenge the Soldier right now.
Your fingers on his back twitch, instinctively curling in the snug fabric of his tactical shirt, before relaxing again. Your body feels dividedâhalf screaming to pull away, half unwilling to test what might happen if you do.
His arms tighten, perceiving your sudden reluctance.
This is wrong, you think. This is all so wrong.
Project Genesis.
The letters keep pulsing behind your eyelids, nauseating in their simplicity. Creation. Beginning. Dr. Keller talked about it as if what they had done, what they had planned, was anything other than abuse dressed up in language that made men like him and Pierce feel important.
Your stomach twists violently.
You stood confused at this console for weeks... months. You obsessed over his vitals, adjusted dosages, charted reactions as you softly reassured him while the others kept barking orders. And all the while, something very specific had been running through his veins.
Something meant to break him.
âI didnât know.â The words slip out without permission, thin and useless. Your vision blurs at once, tears welling too fast for dignity. You squeeze your eyes shut, but they spill anyway, hot and uncontrollable, soaking the fabric of his shirt.
âI didnât know,â you sob. âI swear I didnâtâI would haveââ
Your voice collapses completely.
The weight of it crashes down on you all at once. Not just the revelation, but everything that came before it. Every order you followed, every time you told yourself this is the only way you could keep him alive. Every moment you chose caution over confrontation.
A stupid, complicit cowardâthatâs what you are.
Your shoulders begin to shake. Embarrassed, you attempt to hide yourself by curling inward, forehead pressing harder against his pec.
You should have pried more, should have seen it. Youâre a doctor, yet you blindly accepted whatever ineffective explanation they fed you.
âI let them do this to you,â you choke. âI let them use you. I was there. I was right there.â
Each sharp, stinging breath feels like a deserved punishment.
âIâm so sorry.â Your voice is feeble, almost inaudible. âIâm so, so sorry.â
The Soldier doesnât move. For a terrifying second, you think youâve gone too far, that your collapse has triggered some hidden, trauma response.
Until there is a subtle shift.Â
His chin lowers, resting awkwardly on the top of your head, as if not entirely sure heâs doing it right.
âStop.â The Soldier rasps out, lips briefly touching your temple.
You try, you really do, but the apologies keep flowing like a river in the middle of a storm, tangled and incoherent.
âI didnât mean toâGod, I didnâtâplease believe meââ
âNot your fault.â
The words are blunt, stripped of any softness, but they land like a hand braced against your back meant to steady you.
You shake your head violently against his chest. âIt is. It has to be. I was part of it, I was part of theââ
âNo.âÂ
No elaboration, no uncertainty.
A weak laugh emerges through the tears, not a single trace of humor in it.
âYou donât understand.â
His next exhale is sharp, tinged with barely contained frustration. One arm loosens enough around your waist for him to pull back, not to release you, but to face you without any obstacles that could make you doubt the meaning behind his words.
You never noticed how piercing his eyes are up close. Almost too aware.Â
âYou didnât hurt me. They did.â He continues solemnly. âYou fixed my wounds. You talked to me... You stayed.â
âThatâs not enough.â You sniffle, lips pressed tightly as they try to hold back an embarrassing sob.
âIt is.â He answers at once.
You break again at that. A sound tears out of your chest, raw and forlorn as you throw yourself back into his arms, your face finding its refuge against his chest as your fingers curl around his forearms like an anchor.
âIâm scared of you,â you admit, the truth tasting like blood. âAnd I hate myself for that too.â
His body stiffens almost imperceptibly.
âI know.â He whispers.
âI thought you would hurt me,â you continue, words spilling faster now that the seal has broken. âAt first. Every day, I kept waiting for it, waiting for the moment youâd decide I was like them.â
A broken chuckle bubbles up, humorless. âMaybe I am.â
His arms tense around you. âNever.â
His voice is rough at the edges. âYouâre different. Always were.â
Blinking up at him with your vision still swimming with tears, you swallow thickly. âHow can you be so sure of that?â
The Soldier hesitatesâa pause where language fails him, where concepts donât line up neatly because of the constant wipings.
âYou donât look at me like⊠weapon.â He mumbles carefully, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows as they furrow pensively. âYou donât raise your voice. You always ask.â
Your chin trembles dangerously.
âYou listen.â He adds. âAnd youâre kind.â He nods as if stating a fact. âAnd beautiful.â
The last word is quiet, almost uncertain.
It hits you like a physical blow to your ribs. You had not expected that, not now. The intimacy of it feels treacherous and precious all at once in such a fragile moment.
âI donât want to hurt anyone.â He confesses suddenly, tension creeping back into his shoulders. His grip tightens again, reflexively. âI didnât want to⊠they were asleep.â
The information feels like a bucket of icy water being dumped on your head.
âThey wanted me to touch them, andâand do...â The words come out shakily. You swallow thickly once you realize his eyes have never looked so haunted, staring somewhere past you, as if the memory had successfully sucked him back.Â
âI donât want that. IâI refused.â His jaw clenches. âI just want you.â
The words are desperate. Simple.Â
Around you, the red lights finally dim as well, until they go completely dark, the automated voice in the corridor announcing containment failure cut off mid-syllable, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence that presses in on your ringing ears.
His arms lock around your waist, metal and flesh equally unyielding, anchoring you back against his torso as his wobbly chin hovers near the crown of your head. Every passing second, his grip tightens imperceptibly, until you are struggling to breath properly.
Thatâs when you feel it.
The hard press of something against your belly.
Your eyes widen abruptly.
In a last, desperate attempt to put at least a little distance between the two of you, you press your unsteady palm on his right pec, pushing just slightly. The Soldier instantly goes rigid, eyes flicking down to frown at the contact.
âYou need to let me go.â You breathe out shakily.
The words are careful, measured. The same way you spoke to him when you adjusted his restraints, or changed a dressing after a particular brutal mission.
âNo.â He replies. A single syllable that feels like a final verdict.
Your stomach drops.
âSomeoneâs going to come.â You swallow, your voice lacking conviction even to your own ears. âTheyâll want to secure the area, theyâll... punish you.â
He doesnât answer.
Minutes pass and the weight of his erection gets more insistent, just like his eyes on yours.
Finally, several footsteps echo somewhere far away, heavy and fast, causing you to perk up at the movement beyond the doorâboots, murmured voices, the faint hiss of radios. Relief flares in your chest so intensely it makes you dizzy.
âTheyâre here.â You whisper, teeth biting the inside of your cheek to maintain your calm front.
His hold tightens. Not enough to hurt, just to remind.
âStay.â
Then, the voices outside grow clearer.
â⊠Not worth it.â
â⊠You saw the damage on the glass...â
â⊠Calm now.â
Your breath hitches.
A familiar voice cuts through the thick metal door.
âHold position,â one of the handlers barks. âNo further advance.â
A pause.
âBut sirââ
âHeâs not agitated,â he grits out. âVitals stabilized the moment she stepped in. You go in there, you change the equation and we are all dead.â
Another voice speaks up, uneasy. âWhat about the Doctor?â
Silence.
âIf the Asset kills her,â the man states flatly. âThen sheâs no longer a stabilizing factor. That tells us everything we need to know.â
Your blood turns to ice.
The handler goes on, cruel in his indifference. âSheâs a variable, and variables are not meant to last.â
Your lips part but no sound comes out.
The Soldierâs grip shifts, pulling you impossibly closer, his body angling subtly between you and the door, as if protecting you from them.
âYouâre safe.â He says.
The way his lips gently close around the lie has you shivering.
Your eyes are imploring as you weakly try to convince him again.
âI need to leave.â
The Soldier exhales sharply from his nostrils.
âNo.âÂ
Both of your palms lie against his chest, pushing, testing. âI have toââ
His arms squeeze once again your waist, this time with enough strength to trap you against his firm body without hurting you.Â
Ownership without chaos.
âMine.â His voice repeats low, eyes glancing down at your lips with a glint dangerously close to panic. âDonât go.â
The back of your eyes sting with fresh tears.
This is the breaking point you hadnât let yourself imagine. The certainty of your fate seeps into your bones like coldâcruel and deepâas the minutes drag on and no one intervenes. No door opening, no voice calling your name. No order shouted to stand down.
HYDRA had made its decision.
They had weighed your life against his compliance and found you expendable.
At that point, the fight slowly drains out of you as the truth takes root in your heart, the way your body finally sags in surrender in his arms being interpreted by his fractured mind as acceptance.
âTheyâre not coming. They wonât help,â you mumble. âEven if you hurt me.â
You almost regret letting those words in the open when the small twinkle of hope dancing in his eyes dims abruptly. You try to hide in dejection, but the Soldier wonât allow that. Carefully, he places a shaky finger under your chin, tenderly lifting it until you are facing him again. His gaze searches yours with disturbing intensity, scanning for distress, for injury... for something he refuses to acknowledge.
âHurt?â
âNo.â You sigh tiredly. You peek at him through your lashes with your lips trembling in fear as your next words come out in a hushed whisper. âBut you could.â
Confusion dawns on his handsome face, like the concept doesnât fit with the way the world works in his head.
âI wonât.âÂ
Your gaze drifts past his shoulder to the sealed door, to the place where armed men stood listening and chose not to act. Where your life quietly stopped being worth the effort.
Your voice shakes. âThen⊠if I wanted to leave⊠would you let me?â
He doesnât answer right away. Both his hands leave a trail of goosebumps as they slide from your hips to your wrists, thumbs pressed into the soft skin there, grounding himself.
âNo.â He says with finality. Simple and honest.
His head leans down until his forehead finally meets yours. âI need you.â He repeats softly, as if that justified everything.
His breathing finally slows once he realizes you arenât trying to pull away anymore. Your body turns pliant in his hold, hopeless and devoid of any belligerency as your eyes flutter shut with exhaustion. Your nerves are stretched thin to the point of numbness, yet your mind keeps screaming at you that you should be terrified.
And you are, to a degree. Some part of you is acutely aware of the danger of being cuddled by a war criminal who could snap your spine with his pinky. The vivid sight of the door falling, the lethal efficiency of his movements, the violence he unleashed on anyone who wasnât you... they are still too fresh.
But wrapped up in that fear is a feeling you tried to push down for weeks. Something... you should be ashamed of.
Safety.
The Soldier has never hurt you. Not once. Not with his hands, nor with his voice. Even in his worst moments, he always stopped when you spoke, always turned back to the sound of your voice like you were his beacon in the middle of a sea-storm.
You had told yourself, at first, that it was conditioning. Then you tried to convince yourself it had to be pity. How could you not feel for a man stripped of his name, his memories, his choices? Used and discarded by the same people who had stolen your life without an ounce of guilt. It was natural, you reasoned, to feel compassion. To want to be gentle with someone so thoroughly brutalized.
That explanation held, for a while.
But pity didnât explain the way your breath caught when he stood too close. Or the way youâd begun to notice the lines of his muscles, the quiet intensity whenever his eyes met yours; the strange, restrained grace in the way he moved when he wasnât being weaponized.
Pity didnât explain the way your body had responded to the kiss in the medical bay without thought.
You swallow around the lump in your throat.
Isolation and trauma pushed a mind desperate to find meaningâor comfortâanywhere it could. You were kidnapped, imprisoned, stripped of agency. Of course you had latched onto the one person who didnât treat you like an object.
Of course youâd mistaken that for something deeper.
And yet.
You carefully lift your head, truly pausing to study his face. The Soldier is observing you again, always watching, expression unreadable but focused, memorizing the shape of your eyes, and the curve of your lips... as if expecting for his handler to come and shake him awake.
He is beautifulâin a stark, broken way.
That frightens you as well.
Your eyelids flutter close, a lonely tear slipping free despite your best efforts to calm yourself.
Maybe you should have fought harder, screamed for help while he was still trying to break the door. You should have tried to run while you still could. But the ugly, inescapable truth is that the sole idea of being dragged back into HYDRAâs hands is more terrifying than standing here with him.
He is a prisoner, and so are you. You are the same, in that way: both trapped, owned, and reduced to functions. The only difference is that he is dangerous enough to be feared, and you arenât worth even a spare glance. The Soldier is the only one who has ever made room for your humanity in this hell, even if he does it in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons, with a possessiveness that bleeds into obsession. That doesnât mean, however, that you want to pursue this feeling. You know deep down in your guts that this bond is too fragile, built on circumstances that can shift without warning. One day, something might break, and you could be on the wrong side of it.
Itâs only when his chest moves with a ragged breath that you notice the hard clench of his jaw. Your hand instantly reaches out to gently caress the tense muscle, yet your fingers still when the heat radiating off the solid wall of his chest becomes unbearably abnormal.
âWhatââ You whisper, the concern for him breaking through despite your despair. âWhat happened? Itâs okay, youâre okay.â
His long locks tickle your skin as he tucks his chin, nose leisurely nuzzling the skin of your cheek, then tracing its way down to the slope of your neck. He stops right where your pulse thunders, inhaling your smell with a hungry grunt.Â
Your body locks the moment his tongue takes a slow lick of your skin, a moan vibrating in his ribcage at your taste.
It canât beâ
His metal hand moves before you can elaborate. Big, cold fingers curl bruisingly around your wrists, a yelp falling from your lips as he pins them flat to his chest. His other hand stays heavy on the curve of your waist, flexing and digging into your skin as you squirm without success.
âSâSoldier.â Your voice breaks. âI thinkâyou need to let me go now andâand go backââ
You donât get the chance to finish, because he is pushing you back against the console, firmly enough to convey who has the upper hand. He towers over you, pining you with his weight against the edge that digs painfully into your back.Â
âI needââ He groans against your throat.Â
Your desperate attempt to free yourself dies as his tongue invades your mouth. Your fists weakly thump against his chest, but his flesh hand grips your chin with tight precision, forcing you to relax into the animalistic kiss that is more tongue and teeth than lips. His metal arm is unyielding around your torso, keeping you nice and still as his hips jerk forward, humping your covered mound in search of some kind of relief.
âPlease, help me, need you, only you please.â He quietly whines against your lips, a mess of spit connecting your lips as he pants in your open mouth.
âWaitââ Your fingers curl against the rough fabric of his shirt. âI donâtââ
You choke on your next words as his hand lands on your thigh, squeezing the flesh hard.Â
âWe stay quiet.â He commands roughly. âSo they donât hear andâthey canât use you like those women.â
Your gasp is horrified, eyes going wide at the implication. âNo!â You whisper-shout, petrified at the possibility of the agents potentially finding out and...Â
âPlease, please, donât make me do it!â Your vision soon turns blurry again, and your eyes are hurting so badly. You are so tired of crying. âI canâtââ
The Soldier pulls back just enough to look at you, his hazy eyes reminding you of the ocean abyss as they fall on your lips, lewdly tracing the bare length of your throat until they land on your cleavage, his mouth parted in awe. The possessive hand on your thigh has moved up in the meantime, squeezing the flesh of your ass, his hold turning harsher the more he loses himself in the soft swell of your breasts, until a pitiful whimper catches his attention.
âSoldier, please.â You sob out as tears earnestly fall down your cheeks, your chest caving in at the sight of him, too far gone to comprehend your words.
âIâll make it feel better, I swear. Justâplease, only want you, want you always.â
He fucks you silently, with a primal, desperate urge to possess you. His strength is barely restrained as you desperately cling onto his shoulders.Â
At first the Soldier can barely contain himself, narrowly missing your hole as his cock snuggles between your dripping folds. He pants into your mouth, forcing his lips on yours in a ravenous kiss as he indulges in the wet warmth that is your pussy. His hips frantically twitch against yours, dragging his length until itâs sufficiently coated in your slick.
Then, with a growl muffled against your mouth, he slides inside you with a harsh thrust.
You had fantasized about it before, in the darkâabout how big he would be, how deliciously his cock could stretch youâuntil you realized where your mind had wandered, and promptly rolled onto your other side with a loud huff. As if that could be enough to chase those filthy thoughts away. Still, your mind could never prepare you for the fat, veiny girth that breached you after fighting off the compound-induced flames of sexual desire burning bright inside him for who knows how many weeks. There is no warning before his flushed tip catches on your hole; no patience in the way he forces himself inside you.
Your scream is stifled by your hand, your nails digging into the hard flesh of his flesh shoulder as his own groans are hidden against the slope of your neck.
âMine.â He grunts in your ear, stubble rubbing your smooth skin raw. âMine, only mine.â He insists, eyes wild and hips thrusting frantically.
You can barely form a coherent word, each thrust giving you the impression that the Soldier is trying his hardest to carve the shape of his cock into your body, over and over again. Sliding in and out so fast and hard his balls slap filthily against your asscheeks, his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping them open for him to use you like his favorite toy.
âSay it.â You cry out a moan once his lips devour yours, your mind traitorously conjuring the image of that clumsy, grumpy man trying to express how much he wanted you back in the med bay.
Your back arches forward when he goes back to lavish your neck with scorching bites and fervent licks, your head limply falling back as his fingers gracelessly move on your clit, rubbing and flicking in a confused yet eager circling motion.
âSay it.â He snarls again.
âYours!â You sob. âFuck! Only yoursâonly you.â
The sheer intensity of your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, causing you to cling precariously onto his broad shoulders. Your body squirms and clenches around him yet the Soldier never slows down. He continues to rut into you furiously, the sounds of his cock slamming into your wet pussy, thrusting without restraint, are obscene. His delirious half-smile conveys a twisted sense of satisfaction at making you come on his cock, proud that he is the only one that will ever make you scream and cry out of pleasure. Because now your body would fucking know who it belongs to.Â
Your mouth opens in a soundless scream as the Soldier loses himself in this sick, distorted fantasy, pushing you more firmly against that damn panel.
You mewl and pant and sniffle against your shoulder, sweaty and on the brink of exhaustion, when the little sparks of pleasure still lingering behind soon transform into an uncontrollable fire, until your body is twitching, hit by an even more intense climax. Your pussy squeezes him so tight the Soldier chokes on his own saliva, but you canât stop spasming around his girth, sucking him deeper as your mind fractures.
You are left breathless, hands barely holding onto his back, and fuck, he needs to come now or you are going to pass out and you cannot allow that. Not when HYDRA could potentially be lingering outside, waiting for the perfect moment to swarm this place once the Soldier calms down.
Your mouth promptly finds his, your hands clutching his cheeks as you share a passionate, hot kiss that finally throws the Soldier over the edge, muffling his pitiful whines against your tongue.
His head spins when your hand shoots down, gently fondling his balls as you drag your lips down to suck on his neck, causing only more cum to spill out. A whimper falls from your lips as the thick fluid fills you unforgivingly, until it becomes too difficult to hold inside, pooling at the edges of your folds and dripping onto the once pristine floor. Your walls pulse with every throb of his cock as his thighs shake, warm ropes of cum still painting your insides relentlessly. A broken moan escapes him at the thought of finally leaving a part of himself in you.
By the time he has finished emptying himself in your pussy, your body is lying drained in his arms. The silence after stretches for a few more seconds, until the Soldier finally breaks it, his nose tracing the damp skin of your neck breathlessly.
âMine.â
They donât call it a reassignment.
They call it a logistical adjustment.
You find out while standing in a narrow administrative corridor that smells faintly of printed paper, from a handler who doesnât even bother looking you in the eyes.
âGiven recent containment failures,â she reads from a folder, voice clipped and disinterested. âIt has been determined that subject stability increases exponentially with your prolonged presence.â
Your fingers curl around the hem of your white coat. âIâm already his doctor. His only doctor.â
âYes.â She sighs annoyed. âBut you are not always with him.â
The meaning settles like a brick in your throat.
âYouâre moving me.â You state, horrified.Â
The handler finally glances up, eyes flat. âWe are relocating you.â
Your stomach drops.
âTo the same unit.â She continues. âSleeping quarters, monitoring station, medical accessâall integrated. You will remain within visual range of the Asset at all times unless otherwise authorized.â
You swallow. âAnd if I refuse?â
âYou wonât.â She doesnât even blink as her hand flips through the pages with boredom. âThe subject becomes unmanageable without you. This arrangement minimizes risk to personnel and infrastructure.â
âWhat about risk to me?â You grit out.
She gives you a faint, irked exhale. âIf the Asset harms you, Doctor, then your presence is no longer stabilizing. In that case, your loss will be⊠regrettable, but informative.â
You are escorted through corridors you had never been allowed to see before. Darker, silent. Past reinforced doors and biometric locks until you and the two agents reach a unit that feels less like a cell and more like a sealed habitat.
âHeâs already inside.â
The door opens and you step in with a shaky exhale.
The room is quite large and anonymous, with padded walls, embedded sensors and a bedâreinforced, stripped of anything that could be turned into a weapon.Â
The Soldier is standing in the center of the room, motionless, as if heâs been waiting. He turns the moment the door screeches, eyes immediately locking onto you.
Relief, raw and unmistakable, washes across his face.
âYouâre here.âÂ
âYes.â You whisper.
The door seals shut behind you with a sense of finality.
You flinch at the sound and that promptly gets him closer to you.
âSafe.â He nods.
You donât know if the word is meant for you, or for himself.
Your eyes tentatively wander around the cell, taking in the absence of exits and the quiet hum of surveillance under every surface.Â
They reduced you to a sedative with a pulse.
You set your bag on the floor slowly, knees shaking a little as you slightly bend down.
âThis doesnât meanâŠâ You start, but donât even know how to finish that thought.
The Soldier observes you with that same quiet devotion, head tilted sideways and jaw unclenched. His fingers catch your wrist when your hand trembles too hard to hide.
âStay.â
You sigh. âYes.âÂ
Understanding flickers, incomplete but earnest.
âMine.â
That word should have terrified you. Instead, it wraps around the deep and aching pit in your stomach.
Your free hand comes to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. Up close, you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the scar along his cheek from his last mission that still hasnât properly healed, because that damn compound is still roaring high and bright in his veins to allow the serum to act to its full potential.
âThat doesnât mean I wonât be afraid.â You add, voice barely above a whisper.
The Soldier has never been gentle with the world, but he made sure to carve a warm, comfortable place for you to exist outside of that brutality. And somehow, that terrifies you more than his violence ever has.
His fingers gently squeeze your flesh, slowly bringing your wrist to his lips, as if uncertain of how you would react.
âMine.â He mumbles against your knuckles.
Thatâs the final truth you have to face. Not because you are naĂŻve, or foolish, but because in a place that has taken everything from you, he is the only one who has ever chosen you.
Even if that choice comes wrapped in possession. Even if it means you would never truly leave.
Your shoulders sag with a dejected sigh, finally allowing your forehead to rest against his shoulder as the Soldier engulfs you in his arms.Â
Two prisoners, standing in the aftermath of a shattered boundary.
Outside, HYDRA recalibrates, adjusts protocols, writes new rules that reduce your existence to an item in a report.
Here, the Winter Soldier reverently watches over the only thing that has ever quieted the static noise in his head.
And you, caught between fear and comfort, between horror and something dangerously close to affection, come to the dreadful realization that this is not a rescue story.
pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg
word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)
authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)
song inspo: river - zinadelphia
Iâm somewhere in between
The things that Iâve lost
And the things Iâll gain from losing
Either way I will leave something behind
But Iâm dying to do something different this time
June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania
Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks.Â
The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after elevenâif anything, they turned it up louder to spite youâand you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldnât normally be a big deal, if you hadnât âlostâ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartmentâyou were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.
Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartmentâif you could call it thatâwith a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasnât hard to find the source of the screamingâthe aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours.Â
It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of himâhe was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved handsâan odd sight in the Bucharest warmthâone of them holding a bag of plums.Â
Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning.Â
The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to youâstanding in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door.Â
He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairsâand to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.
You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. âBunÄ dimineaĆŁa,â you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then.Â
Later that nightâor technically early the next morningâyou were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your studentâs handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States.Â
You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds laterâa loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didnât know, didnât even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.
Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a planâto offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart.Â
In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.
You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didnât look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a âgoodâ plumâhalf of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show.Â
Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?
âBunÄ!â You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it.Â
Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.
âMorning.â Oh. You were not expecting that.Â
You were expecting the American accent even less.Â
He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at leastâyou would take the simple greeting as a win.Â
You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours doorâhalf of the papers in your arms following shortly after.Â
âYouâve got to be fucking kidding me!â You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floorâsome of your students work now stained with pho.Â
You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didnât notice the door in front of you openingâthe sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess youâd made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome.Â
âShit, Iâsorry, Iâm in the way. Iâll just, uhâŠâ You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him.Â
He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.
He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. âMight have to give out a few automatic passes.â
He spoke first. Heâs looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you firstâeven more, he made a joke.
You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. âHe struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicionâŠâ You trailed off with a small, teasing smile.Â
He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.
He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. âYou should put those inside. Iâll clean this up.â He moved back towards his door to let you pass.
You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. âNo, this is my fault. Iâll sort it out.âÂ
âYou should put those down first. Donât wanna ruin more of your studentâs work.â A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile.Â
âRight, yeah, thatâs smart.â You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sightâof course he would clean it up anyway.
You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.
Heâs just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guyâwhose name you still donât know.Â
In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on himâhe made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top.Â
âYou didnât have to do that,â you said as you walked towards him.
His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. âI know.â
He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. âThank you, I appreciate it.â
He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. âItâs fine,â he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartmentâlooking for any hidden threats.Â
He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.
You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance youâve had to properly connect with the man.Â
He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.
Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. ââŠBucky.â
Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. âWell, itâs nice to meet you, Bucky.â His eyes met yours again, more sure this time.Â
âLikewise,â he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him.Â
You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.
Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.
You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your doorâthe only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quicklyâit must be him.Â
You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.
That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?
It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Buckyâs clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a planâto return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasnât sounds of agony in the middle of the night.Â
You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.
âBucky,â you called softly. âIâsorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowlâfrom the other night?â It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.
You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Buckyâs large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands.Â
You extended the bowl towards him. âThank you, for the soup the other night. IâŠwasnât expecting it. Beats the granola bar thatâs been sitting in my bag for weeks.â You chuckled awkwardly.
He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.
âAnd, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didnât need to.â
âItâs fine. You donât need to worry about it.â His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comfortingâyou wanted to hear more.
You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.
âI was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.â You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. âMy momâs recipeâI used to bake with her, and Iâve been feeling homesick lately soâŠâ You trailed off, hoping the lie wasnât obvious.Â
Your mom didnât bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nineâyou ended up in tears with little burns on your hands.Â
âWould youâŠwould you like some? Or want to join me?âÂ
His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion.Â
ââŠWhy?âÂ
âYou like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.â He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, âthink of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.â
He sighed at you thanking him again.
ââŠFine. Iâll come over in a couple hours.âÂ
Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.
You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. âSorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasnât expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.â
His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. âTemporary?â
You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when heâs looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.
âYeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school Iâm teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the yearâthey offered to pay for the flight transfer.â You shrugged lightly.
He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. âHome?â
You noticed he didnât talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress.Â
âThe StatesâPhiladelphia, to be exact.â You took a breath before asking him, âwhereâs home for you?â
He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, âBrooklyn.âÂ
You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldnât tame. âOh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?â
He hesitated again. âItâsâuh, itâs been a while since I was lastâŠhome.â He wasnât looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didnât want to talk about it anymore.Â
You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didnât look like an absolute disaster.Â
Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man.Â
âThe pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want toâŠwatch something, maybe? While we eat.â
His response was a small nod.
You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.
âAnything in particular you want to watch?â You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.
âDealers choice,â he hummed quietly.Â
You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.
Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of himâhunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadnât eaten for days.Â
He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh.Â
âSorry,â he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.
âNo, donât apologiseâI take it as a compliment,â you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.
You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him.Â
âThanksâŠitâs, uh, pretty good.â
Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face.Â
âIâm glad.âÂ
He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didnât put you on edge. From the few times youâve interacted with him you gathered heâs a cautious, suspicious guyâthe occasional staring didnât bother you.
Suddenly, the floor started to shake below youâthe telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyanceâyou knew it was going to be a long night.
Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him youâll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.
âThat happen often? TheâŠmusic?â He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.
You let out a small scoff. âYeah, basically every night. This isnât even the worst of it.â
He grunted in response, displeased.Â
âYou donât hear it from your apartment?â
âI do, itâs just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.â He let out a bitter chuckle. âItâs fucking awful music.â
You laughed at that. âRight?! Iâm pretty sure theyâre aspiring DJâsâŠall I know is that I hate them.â He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again.Â
âWhat music do you like?â You tried to ask casually.
He paused, deliberating his answer. âI likeâŠolder music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.â
That didnât surprise you at all.
You hummed in response. âYeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classicsâI have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.â
âHuh,â was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
âThis wasâŠnice. Iâum, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.âÂ
You giggled at his nervousnessâthere was something so charming about this big guy being awkward.Â
âYeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.â
He hesitated opening the door. âWhenâs your flight?â
âFriday morning.â
âMonday after work. Iâll bring the plums.â
Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Buckyâs nightmare. It was a bad oneâyou tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment.Â
Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe.Â
âOh Bucky, itâs really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!â And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled âplum pie recipeâ.Â
âI want to know your one. Promise I wonât get in the way.â His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him.Â
Thatâs how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory.Â
He didnât get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements.Â
He still didnât talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkwardâtrying to be funnyâcomment.Â
You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didnât lean away or move his chair further from you.Â
You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.
âWhat?â Bucky asked curiously.
âNothing, just had a thought.â You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork.Â
âDo you not get those often?â
You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth.Â
âWow,â you dragged out. âAnd to think, I was just starting to like youâŠâ You teased him back.
He huffed out a small laugh.
âMâsorry, couldnât help it. What were you thinking about?â He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response.Â
âYou remind me of a cat.â
âWhat?â He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.
âYouâre like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.â You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. âBut, with a bit of patience and treats,â you nodded towards the pie, âyou start to become curiousâŠeven trust a little, maybe. Itâs not a perfect analogyâit was just a thought.â
He looked at you with a strange expression on his faceâsomething achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didnât answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldnât figure you out.Â
âWhat kind of cat would I be?â
âA black cat, for sure.â
You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silentâbasking in each otherâs company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.
âItâs not worth it,â he said your name softly.Â
âFucking assholes,â you seethed. âI know they stole my headphones, Bucky!âÂ
You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. âThey were expensive,â you whined like a pouting toddler.
Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye.Â
You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face.Â
He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.
âFor your last day,â he said, like that explained everything. âSorry, theyâre nothing, uh, specialâthey were the only ones the florist had leftâŠâ He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.
You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.
âTheyâre perfect.âÂ
You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him.Â
You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. âYou knowâŠtheyâre going to die in a couple days. I wonât be here to look after them.â
You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red.Â
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. âI didnât think about that.â
âYou can always break in after Iâve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.âÂ
âWe donât want that happening,â he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. âIâm starting to see why you hate them so much.â
âYouâre only seeing it now? Theyâve been my number one enemies since I moved in.â You grumbled bitterly.Â
You rolled your shoulders back with a sighâyou didnât want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky.Â
âOkay, letâs change the subject,â you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. âIâm thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?â
âWhatever you want.â
An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He lookedâŠsad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadnât eaten much in the last few minutes.
âHey,â you started, voice low and soft. âYou okay?â
He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. âYeah,â his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.
âIâmâŠgonna miss you.âÂ
You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.
You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of uneaseâthe only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.
âIâm going to miss you, too.â
You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.
Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.
âYou kinda look like him,â you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptopâa close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen.Â
âYeah, I can see it,â you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. âIf you cut your hair short, shave the beardâŠâ You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.
You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously.Â
Your eyes couldnât leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie.Â
âYou really like plums.â
âTheyâre meant to help with memory,â he murmured, distracted.
That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand.Â
âI had an accidentâŠa few years back. Canât remember much from before, itâsâuh, itâs coming back in bits and pieces.â Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes.Â
âIs thatâ,â you swallowed against the lump in your throat. âIs that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?â You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin.Â
His eyes widened in panic. âYouâyou know about the nightmares?â
You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.
âYeahâŠIâve known since my first night here,â you whispered. âThe walls are pretty thin.â
His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. âGod, I am so sorry,â he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion.Â
You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. âNever apologise for your pain, Bucky.â The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. âCan Iâwould it be okay if I hugged you?â
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.
You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didnât reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didnât know what to do.
âBreathe,â you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmthâsurprising you both.
âSorry,â his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. âItâsâŠbeen a long time, since I lastâŠhugged someone.â His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces.Â
You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirtâtethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart.Â
He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.
ââŠI canât believe youâre real.âÂ
You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to youâthat you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning.Â
You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.
âCan I kiss you?â
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from itâs place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths.Â
âYou okay?â You asked softly.
His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. âYeah, more than okay.â
He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. Thatâs when you felt itâhard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach.Â
You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw.Â
âLet me help you feel good.â
He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind.Â
âWeâll only do what youâre comfortable with,â you said softly.
He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you againâhis mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own.Â
âDid you fall from heaven?â He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.
You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. âShut up,â you mumbled.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skinâigniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down âtil they were flush with his.
He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groanâhis body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.
âShit, Iâm not gonna last long ifâif you keep doing that.â He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own.Â
âDo you have a condom?â He asked, panting already.Â
You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the openâbut unusedâbox at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face.Â
âEager, are we?âÂ
You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses.Â
âGod, youâre a work of art.â He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, itâs normally âyouâre hotâ or they donât compliment you at all.
âTake off your pants,â he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.
You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.
He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity.Â
He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. âStill wanna do this?â He asked breathlessly.
âPlease, Bucky.â You whimpered.
With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feelingâhe was the biggest youâve had and you couldnât control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.
He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound youâd never heard beforeâthe stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.
âMore,â you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.
âChrist, shitâIâm not gonna last long.â He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.
Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasnât an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.
He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.
âThank you,â he whispered.
âFor what?â
âFor making me feel human.â
You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them.Â
You were rightÂ
- Bucky
A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United NationsâJames Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.
 Oh, shit.Â
Present day - Brooklyn, New York
The refereeâs whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back.Â
âI did it, mama! I didnât let a single goal in!âÂ
âI saw, peanutâI am so proud of you!â You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. âDid you have fun?â
She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her faceâproudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited herâshe tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to âcatchâ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep.Â
âCan we get ice cream? Pretty please?â She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small poutâthe puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.
You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.
âHmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?â The both of you headed towards the fieldâs exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.
She rolled her eyes. âBut home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!â Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you didâwhile she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own.Â
âYou have a great point, Jamie. Butââ you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. ââyouâre stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the publicâs sake.â
She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful soundâyour daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.
âOkay,â she dragged out. âDoes that mean I get two scoops?â
âWhat?! Two scoops? You wonât be able to sleep after that, bug.âÂ
The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking onceâwhen her big eyes glistened with tearsâbut you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.
You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when somethingâsomeoneâcaught your eye.
He lookedâŠolder, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousledâlikely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even.Â
You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips.Â
Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.Â
Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.Â
Jamieâs little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.
âMama?âÂ
You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on youâalong with a bucket of anxiety and fear.
You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.
âWhatâs wrong? Where are we going?â Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.
You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. âNothingâs wrong, peanut. I justâyou were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!â
She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than youâdragging you towards the store.
âFinally! Can I get two scoops?â
You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. âYeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.â
Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie?Â
You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to himâhow you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and wellâand so fucking handsomeâyour mind went blank.Â
It wasnât the right time, you told yourself. Other people were aroundâyou couldnât put Jamie in that situation.
Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.
âThe hell? How are you moving like that?â You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.
You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out âswear jarâ on the white label.
âYou said a swear word!â
You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.
âLet me go!â She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.
âNot a chance, peanut.âÂ
After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other.Â
Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to processâthat the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamieâs father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.
But now, you knew he was in the same cityâthe same boroughâas you, and you couldnât keep running from the truth.Â
Ever since that night youâve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappearedâgone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.
Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changedâthat had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings goneâyou had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and thatâs when you found out Bucky was aliveâhis face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didnât know how to reach out and you didnât know if you wanted toâyou and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didnât want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.
When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, âhave you found daddy yet?â and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyesâthe exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.
Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into googleâyour thumb shaking as you hit the search button.Â
And there he was.
Congressman James âBuckyâ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.
A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home deskâtrying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacherâs salary, but you couldnât say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.
You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.
âYouâll never guess who we sawâthat new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that heâs singleâŠâÂ
You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. âGreat, Iâll make sure to tell dad heâs got competition.âÂ
âOh, hush! Thatâs not what I was implying and you know it.â You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. âItâs about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who youâll meet.â
âMom, Iâm busyââ
âWeâre worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamieâwho takes care of you?â
âI donât need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.â You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple.Â
There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming.Â
ââŠHave youâhas there been any updates on Jamieâs father?âÂ
âNoâlook, sorry, Iâm busy with school stuff. Iâll call you tomorrow, okay?â You ended the call without waiting for your momâs goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.
Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamieâs father.Â
You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone.Â
âWhat the fuck.â You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do.Â
Jamieâs giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpaâs birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her faceâno doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.
You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning toâbaking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.
In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldnât get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldnât have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.
Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts.Â
You were focused on selecting the right applesâJamie was seriously picky with themâwhen a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voiceâone that you hadnât heard in years.Â
You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you.Â
âIt really is you.â He spoke softly, dazed.
You blinked.
This wasnât how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a parkâa safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter.Â
âBucky, hi,â you mumbled, still in shock.
âYouâyou look great, beautiful.â He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure.Â
Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closerâto close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.
âHow are you? Are you still teaching?â Your breath caught in your throatâhe remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation youâd had about teaching during your gap year.Â
Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face. Â
âLook, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!â
Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circlesâmore for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocsâcovered in princess and Captain America charms.Â
She peered into the basket in your hands. âOooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!â You think the whole store heard her yell.Â
Buckyâs eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.
Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. âHi!âÂ
You had taught her the importance of stranger dangerâwell, as much as you could teach a five year oldâbut her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldnât help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.
Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughtersâseeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under himâbecause it had. You knew he knew.
âSorry, hun. I donât know what you feed her, but Iâve never seen a kid run that fast.â Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him.Â
âOh! Congressman Barnes, itâs a pleasure to meet you.â She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed âwhat the fuck arenât you telling me.â Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second.Â
You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your momâs and Jamieâs eyes were watching you curiously. Why werenât you saying anything?
Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.
ââŠIs sheââ
His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.
âIt was really great seeing you, BuckyâI hope youâre well! Weâre running lateâlike super late, so we need to get going.â You grabbed one of Jamieâs hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Buckyâsuspicion written clearly on her face. âWeâllâIâll see you later!â You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.
Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside.Â
Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. âWhat was that in there? How do you knowâdid you call him Bucky?â
You sighed, exasperated. âMom, itâs nothingââ
âNo, that was not nothing! Youâre acting strangeâwhatâs going on?â
âPlease, just drop it!â You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. âWeâll talk about it later, promise.â
She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.
The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.
âJesusâjust sit still, peanut. Donât you wanna go play with your friends?â She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didnât stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. âHow do you always have so much energy?â You muttered to yourself.
Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediatelyâwho else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.
Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.
You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in themâhope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.
You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.
âWe need to talk.â
âBucky, hiâhow do you know where I live?â
âI have my ways.â
He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.
âLook, I agree we need to talkââ
âWhy did you run off?â
And yup, there it wasâthe hurt crystal clear in his voice.
You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest.Â
âIâit wasnât my intention toâŠrun off, I justââ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.
âYou what? Were you ever gonna tell me?â
The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face.Â
âBucky, thatâs not fairâyou donât even knowââ
And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.
âWeâre gonna be late!â She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs.Â
Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldnât help but noticeâno gloves, he wasnât wearing gloves anymore.Â
He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor.Â
He squatted down to Jamieâs level, smiling at her with the softest look youâve ever seen on the man.Â
âHi, Iâm Bucky.â
You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadnât had a chance to place boundariesâyeah, that pissed you off.Â
âHi, Iâm Jamie!âÂ
The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him.Â
âJamie?â His voice wavered. âThatâs a great name.â
She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.
âAre you coming to my soccer game?âÂ
That shocked both of you.
âOnly if your mom wants me there.â And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at youâone pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And itâs not fair.
âJamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.â Bucky visibly flinched at the word âstrangersââit hit like a punch to your gut. âBut, sure. Bucky can come with us.â
The ten minute walk to the soccer field wasâŠnice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamieâmaking your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core.Â
There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrivedâespecially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.
Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.
The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring.Â
Bucky cleared his throat softly.
âSheâsâŠhappy,â he said wistfully.
âYeah,â you mumbled softly. âMeans Iâm doing something right.âÂ
He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldnât look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.
He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.
âShe looks like my sister.â
That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didnât know he had a sister.
âBecca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,â he shook his head with a small laugh. âMa used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.â
You let out an amused huff. âI figured she got her energy from youâI was more on the reserved side as a kid. Sheâs now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.âÂ
He made eye contact with you briefly. âThree, huh? ThatâsâŠa lot.âÂ
You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.
âWere you gonna tell me?â He asked again, no accusation in his voice this timeâa pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.
âBucky, Iââ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. âI was planning to, I swear.â You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.
âWhen I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for youâI really tried. But, you just vanishedâŠI thought you were dead.â
He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.
âI didnât want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole worldâI would do anything for her.â Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.
âAfter the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I wasâŠscared. I didnât know what I was doing half the time, and Jamieâs fatherâyouâbeing a superhero, putting your life in dangerâŠit was a risk I didnât want to take. I didnât want you in our lives if you were just going to beâŠripped away from us. It would break Jamieâit would break me.â
Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.
âPlus, I donât know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when youâre a civilianâŠitâs pretty fucking hard.â
He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. âYeah, that tracks.â
âI thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain Americaâwho Jamie is obsessed with, by the wayâbut I just couldnât get past that fear. It was easier toâŠlive without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, thatâs what I tried to tell myself.â
You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle.Â
âSheâs tough,â he mumbled with a small smile.Â
He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.
âI get that. I get why you didnât reach out, you were putting Jamieâs safety, her happiness, first.â He let out a humourless chuckle, âitâs a fucking complicated position to be in, Iâll give you that.â
âI want to be in her life, in your lifeâif youâll have me.âÂ
You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you.Â
âYeah,â you muttered softly. âI donât think she would let you leave, even if you tried.âÂ
âGood.â
You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldnât resist asking what youâve wanted to know for the last five years.
âWhere were youââ
âWhat does she knowââ
You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. âYou go first.â
âWhat does she knowâŠabout me?â
Yeah, you were expecting that.
âI told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guysâŠthat we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.â
His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice.Â
âHow do we tell her?â
There it was, the question you had been dreadingâbecause you had no fucking clue.Â
ââŠI donât knowâhope she figures it out herself?âÂ
The look he shot you was deadly.Â
You sighed. âFine, Iâll sit her down one night, tell her gently.â
âI want to be there.âÂ
Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled heâs here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified heâll think itâs too much and leave you bothâor worse, die and leave you broken.
His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.
âIâm not going to leave, I promise.â
And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldnât stop yourself from asking.
âWhat happened to you? After Bucharest?âÂ
He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.
âI was in Wakanda. IâŠcouldnât trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.â
You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himselfâmore confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive.Â
âAnd nowâŠyouâre a Congressman? Iâll admit Iâm a little shocked, itâs quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.â You teased lightly.
He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk.Â
âTrust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.â
Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you?Â
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly.Â
âWe need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamieâs sake.â
He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.
âNo showing up unannouncedâwe have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.â
âNoted.â
âCommunication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each otherâyou need to tell me if itâs too much. If weâre too much.â
âNot gonna happen,â Bucky muttered.
âAnd absolutely no funny businessâIâm serious, Bucky. Iâm not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldnât keep it in our pants.â
A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless.Â
âWhatever you say, doll.âÂ
You glared at him when he said âdollââthat was not helping.Â
âShould I come âround tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.â Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.
âNo, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and sheâs always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.âÂ
âTomorrow, then?âÂ
You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.
âFine.â
ââŠAny chance you can make that plum pie?â
Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining tableâyou had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chinâwhich you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back.Â
âIâll get the door!â She all but screamed as she ran towards it.Â
âI hope you like burgers,â came Buckyâs deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.
She gasped, delighted. âTheyâre my favourite!â
âThank you,â you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter.Â
âOf course,â Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.
âPeanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?â You asked Jamie. âDonât forget to wash your hands, too.â
Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys.Â
You turned to Bucky. âSorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier butâŠâ
Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. âTornado central.â
You grinned at him. âExactly.â
Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Buckyâs hand and pulling him towards the lounge. âCâmon, Iâll give you the tour.â She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint.Â
You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinnerâall while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.
âAnd finally, this is mommyâs roomââ
âPeanut, I donât think he needs to see that.â You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your roomâthat would just open pandoraâs box and you were not prepared to deal with that.
âYour momâs right, I donât need to see her room,â Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didnât catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.
âLetâs eat before it getâs cold, yeah?â Jamie didnât need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.
You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.
âRed, huh?â He muttered lowly. Your body went hotâhe definitely saw the bra.
The burgers were good, like really good, and you werenât afraid to tell him.
âWhere did you get these? I think theyâre the best Iâve had in Brooklynâwait, no, in the city.â You practically moaned.
Buckyâs smirk was bright and smug. âItâs a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.â
Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her foodâunaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.
âHey, Jamie? Thereâs something Iâweâneed to talk to you about.â You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.
âYou know how I said I was looking for your dad?â She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.
âWell, Iâuh,â you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?
Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying âIâve got thisâ before turning to Jamie fully.Â
He sucked in a breath. âIâmâŠIâm your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if youâre okay with that.â
Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neckâno doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.
He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And thatâs when you noticed itâhis arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through herâher little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched themâoverwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest.Â
Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamieâs cheeks.
âDoes this mean youâre moving in?â Jamie asked sweetly.
He let out a watery chuckle. âNo, no Iâll be staying at my place. Itâs not far from here.â His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. âBut, Iâll come âround as much as I can. And, Iâll be at all your soccer gamesâpromise.â
By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. âWhat about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?â
âIf I donât have to be away for work.âÂ
She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the ovenâs timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. âPlum pie!â She squealed, excited.Â
You put a hand on Buckyâs shoulder. âThank you,â you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own.Â
âGet the pie, Iâll clean this up.â He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins.Â
You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Buckyâs lapânatural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart.Â
âYouâve got no idea how much I missed this,â Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gazeâit was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.
Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.
And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining tableâeven if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.
You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little handsâgazing at it in wonder.
Then you watched the realisation hit her.
ââŠYou know Captain America.â It wasnât a question.
âSam? Yeah, I know him.â
And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly.Â
âCan I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!â
Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. âYeah, princess. Iâll see what I can do.â
You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The âno funny businessâ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours.Â
The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Buckyâs leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines.Â
âYou werenât joking,â Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamieâs activities. You rolled your eyesâyou took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughterâs life prepared.
Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. âIâve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.â He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.
âNo,â she whined. âPlease donât go.â
âThe sugar crash, right on schedule.â You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. âIâm sorry,â you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamieâs forehead.
You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You werenât expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughterâshe loved with her whole heart. And you couldnât blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughterâhis daughter.
This was not going to be easy on your heart.Â
A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promiseâhe didnât miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasnât needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with giftsâeven when you told him not toâand he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away.Â
First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been âgiftedâ and didnât wantâyou called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucherâwhen you tried to refuse it, he promptly said âitâs either this or I give you one myself, dollâ and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards himâthe way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.
You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classesâapparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.
She called your name, looking at you expectantly.
âHuh? Sorry, bit out of it today,â you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.
âI was talking about Sophie and Benâtheyâre in your third period English class, right? Donât you think they would be cute together?â She all but squealed.
You let out a small laugh. âYeah, Iâve noticed them. I donât know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, itâd just make me feel depressed about my lacking love lifeâŠâ You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him âdaddyâ the night before.
Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. âOh? Are you looking to date?â You were about to shake your head, but she continued. âMy cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! Youâre definitely his type.â
You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. âNo, Iâm not dating. Itâs fine, reallyââ
But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found oneânext Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Buckyâs for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pmââDate with Michael!â
âIâll text you his details!â
There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that nightâyour bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadnât unboxed yet.
Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didnât notice when you returned to the kitchen.
âHey,â you started. âYou okay?âÂ
âWhoâs Michael?â He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.
You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. âMichael? I donât know a Michael.â
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendarâthe appointment you had forgotten to delete.Â
You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. âOh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.â You shrugged.
âAnd you didnât think to tell me?â He looked pissed.
âTell you what, Bucky? Iâm not going.â
âI think I have a right to know if youâre dating, doll.â He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot.Â
âIâm not dating, Buck.â He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.
âBut, you would tell me if you were?â You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.
âWhat does it matter to you?â You said, voice louder than intended.
âWe have a child together. I should know if youâre bringing random guys home.â
Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.
You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. âFor your information,â you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. âI havenât slept with anyone since Bucharest. Donât you dare imply Iâm hooking up with randoms.â
You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him.Â
âYou havenât been with anyone else?â He asked, voice dangerously low.Â
You hadnât meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.
You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?
âItâs a bit hard to find time for yourself when youâre raising a kid solo.â You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.
âWhat about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who youâre dating.â You were only asking for Jamieâs sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.
He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.
âIâve got all I need right in front of me.â
Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.
âNo funny business,â you whispered, though there was no heat to it.Â
âItâs not funny business, itâs the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.âÂ
You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you.Â
You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.
You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.
There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to youâslowly closing the gap.
âDo you have photos?â Bucky suddenly asked.
âPhotos of what?âÂ
âWhen you were pregnant.âÂ
You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.
âWhat? WhyâŠwhy are you asking me that?â
He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone.Â
âI want to see.â
âBucky, Iâve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.â
âIâm not asking for those.â
You shook your head at him. âYouâre weird, you know that?â He just stared at you blankly. âFine, whatever. Iâll send you some later.âÂ
The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.Â
âGood girl.âÂ
Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own theyâre completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and theyâre a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your bodyâs reaction.Â
And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used.Â
The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? âSomething nice for you and Jamie to look at.âÂ
The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? âCanât have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.â That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it.Â
âYou use that massage voucher, doll?â He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover.Â
You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping.Â
âYou lookâŠtense, it might help.â He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.
âGotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.âÂ
Oh. That was new. He hadnât called you that before.
He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. âGot any plans tonight?â
You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.
ââŠWhat are you doing?â You asked, voice barely a whisper.Â
âJusâ making sure Jamieâs mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.âÂ
Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowingâeven though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.
Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.
âBye Mama!â Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Buckyâs arms making her taller than you.
âHave a good night, sweetheart.â Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.
Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.
âHow the hell did you get her to sleep?â You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.
He shrugged like it was nothing. âWe did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.â
He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.
Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.
âHigh stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?â
Your wide eyes gave you awayâyou had clearly not meant to say that. You werenât disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldnât say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.
A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey.Â
âCut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman Iâd touched since the 1940s. Iâm surprised I lasted as long as I did.â
He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your earâhis hungry eyes latched on your lips.
âYou want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?âÂ
Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force.Â
ââŠBucky, weâwe said no funny business.âÂ
His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.
âNo, you said that.â His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time.Â
He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.
âDid you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?â His voice was low, husky.
Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took.Â
âI asked you a question,â he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.
âIâŠhad a bath, drank some wineâŠâ the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.
âDid you touch yourself?â His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.
âYouâyou canât ask me that, Bucky.â Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.
âSure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.â The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.
The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.
âYes,â you whispered.
He hummed, satisfied.
âGood girl.â
Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting.Â
âIt wasnât enough though, was it?â He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. âNo, I think you need more.âÂ
His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched youâsince Bucky touched youâand the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.
Both Buckyâs hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper.Â
âYou need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.âÂ
You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.
He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.
âGod, Iâve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.â
That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about?Â
You found your voice, although meek and small. âWhat notification?â
His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.
âThe one letting youâmeâknow that youâre ovulating.âÂ
You gasped, horror running through your body. You didnât even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar.Â
âI can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.â His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core.Â
His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.
âI wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.â He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear.Â
Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamieâs relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.
âPlease,â you whispered desperately.
Bucky didnât waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth.Â
His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.
âYouâve got no idea how long Iâve wanted to do that,â he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldnât help himself.
You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs.Â
âPatience, doll.â
And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.
He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.
âSo responsive.â
He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.
âBucky, please, stop teasing,â you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.
He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldnât wait to devour.Â
âGotta be quiet, doll. Donât wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?â His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.
He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck.Â
âJump,â he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.
He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately.Â
His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.
âI didnât worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. Iâm not making that mistake again.âÂ
Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.
âSo fucking pretty,â he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease.Â
His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skinâmore specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.
He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind.Â
âYouâre beautiful,â he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. âYouâre always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.â He let out a dark chuckle. âYou donât know what that did to me, doll.â His dark eyes met yours. âIâve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my babyâshit, doll.â He closed his eyes and groaned. âMakes me wanna get you pregnant again.â
He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.
You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your coreâto offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussyâa line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.
âA souvenir,â he muttered before diving in.Â
His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver.Â
He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beardâyou almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering âpleaseâ and he didnât waste any time.
He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouthâmaking your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher.Â
âCome for me, sweetheart.â He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.
He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.
He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.
He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.
âCan I fuck you, doll?â You responded with an eager nod.
âWill you let me fill you up?â You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.
He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.
âWanna give Jamie a little sibling.â It wasnât a question.
You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeperâa deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spotâsharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.
His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.
âThatâs it, thatâs my good girl,â Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. âYou like that? You like when I call you a good girl?â You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood.Â
âFuckâsqueezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,â he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.
He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. âHey, hey, youâre okay. Just breathe,â he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body.Â
âYou still with me?â You nodded shakily. âWanna keep going?âÂ
âPlease, need you to come inside me.â You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.
He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowlyâmaking you whine.
âYou got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,â he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob.Â
He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.
âYouâre gonna wake Jamie up.â You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.
He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. âNo, no, please, donât stop.â You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.
He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.
âFuck, you look so good like this, baby,â he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response.Â
âYou want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?âÂ
You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out âyesâ and âpleaseâ like they were the only words you knew.
He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume.Â
âGod, youâre gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.â He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.
Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.
âWe should probably talk,â you mumbled.
âLater,â another kiss to your head. âWanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.â
More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say whatâs been on your mind since Bucharest.
âIâŠI think I love you, Bucky.â
Buckyâs chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.
ex-assassin-turned-househusband!bucky x careerwoman!reader
Authorâs note: Hey, there! I had a few ideas fighting for space in my head (and eventually on paper), but this one stood out. This is inspired by The Way of the Househusband (the anime) and A Gentleman (the Bollywood movie).
This is my first ever project that made it out of my notes app. I simply wanted to see how I could build this world and give writing on the internet a shot!
I hope this story resonates with you in some way, and you can feel where my heart was when I wrote it. Most of all, I hope you have fun with this one. Happy Reading! đ
Bucky Barnes has been out of the assassin life for years.
Heâs been married to you for nearly two.
At least, thatâs the version you know.
To you, heâs a househusband. Almost aggressively perfect. He cooks, cleans, plans anniversaries, remembers the small things. He applies the same focus to domestic life that most people reserve for survival.
You work long hospital shifts.
You come home to safety.
What you donât know is that Bucky was once one of SHIELDâs best, and that some skills donât disappear just because you fall in love. Missions still exist. So do guns. So does the metal arm.
And while you think heâs too safe
Bucky is doing everything in his power to keep it that way.
Summary: After disappearing for days, you didnât expect Bucky Barnes to show up at your door again, let alone help you through the spiral without judgment.
Authorâs Note: okay so this request kinda of cracked my ribcage open while writing it?? heads up that this oneâs heavy with pretty serious mental health themes, lots of emotion, lots of bucky being the softest man alive. resources are linked in the original request if you need them! take care of yourself, eat something, hug a friend!! ily <3
Youâd worked with him for seventeen months and never once called him by his first name.
Everyone else did. Sam. Ava. Yelena. Bob, even. Walker used âBuckâ just to be annoying. But not you.
Barnes. Thatâs what you called him. Even when you passed him in the hall with two coffees in your hands and one already marked with the way he liked itâno sugar, extra cream, too much caffeine. Even when the two of you sat next to each other during back-to-back strategy debriefs, thigh to thigh in cheap chairs, sharing dry looks over whatever mess came out of the last mission. Even when he called you at 2:13 AM because someone had leaked classified footage to the press and he didnât trust anyone else to vet the source.
Barnes.
Youâd started out as part of his congressional staff, communications support, admin overflow, a title that changed depending on the room. Mostly, you were there to help keep the mask on: to draft statements, coordinate press engagements, manage the uncomfortable dance between his past and the way the world wanted him to look clean now. That job lasted nine months, right up until the incident cracked open the country's expectations of him all over again.
Then came the ârepositioning.â That was what Valentina had called it. You didnât have a formal title anymore, but suddenly you were part of the New Avengers backend. Half logistics, half intelligence, and somehow still the person who made sure the med kits were stocked and the media team didnât publish anything with blood on it.
Thereâd been something there. You knew it. So did he. The way he lingered near your desk longer than necessary. The way he made a point of walking you out to the curb after late meetings even when it wasnât on his route. Once, he'd handed you a pack of ginger chews after watching you twist your fingers into your sleeves during a mission recap. He said nothing, just slid it across the table.
He asked once, quietly, if you wanted to get dinner. Not with the others. Just the two of you.
You said no. Not because you didnât want to. But because you knew better.
Because some nights you slept twelve hours and still couldnât function. Because other nights you didnât sleep at all and took four showers just to remember you had skin. Because youâd disappear sometimes. Spotty, your therapist had once called it, like a corrupted file.Â
Youâd go off-grid and ignore everything: work, friends, basic hygiene, your own body. It wwasnât really up to you when or why it happened. Youâd learned to warn people. Learned to preemptively distance yourself from anyone who might get the idea you could be counted on.
But Bucky wasnât like other people.
He noticed.
The first time you missed a full three days of work without a word, he showed up outside your apartment. You hadnât told him where you lived. He didnât say how he figured it out. Just stood there, hands in the pockets of his coat, jaw tight like heâd been grinding it for days. He looked like hell. You probably did too.
You told him it was a bad patch. He didnât press. Didnât ask what that meant. Just left a brown paper bag of groceries on your counter and sat in your kitchen until you ate something.
He came again the second time. And the third.
At some pointâmaybe because you were exhausted, maybe because part of you trusted him more than you shouldâveâyou handed him a key.
He never used it recklessly. Never showed up unless he hadnât heard from you in a while. And after that last time, after the fight, after you told him you were fine, after you made it clear you didnât want him hovering anymore, you figured that was the end of it.
That had been three months ago.
You hadnât missed a meeting in those months. Not one. Youâd been on every call, answered every late-night ping from Val, tracked every comms burst and manifest drop without flinching. You even ran point on over a dozen ops briefings.Â
But then last week, you woke up late one morning and couldnât remember what day it was. The file you were supposed to submit stayed open on your screen for hours. You stared at it until the text blurred. By the time you looked up, the meeting was already over. You didnât message anyone. Didnât reschedule. By Tuesday, you were out of three group threads and at least one rotation queue. By Thursday, the fridge had started to smell like something inside it had gone soft.
You hadnât expected him to come. Not anymore. Not after last time.
But there was a knock on your door. Three. Sharp. Deliberate.
Your heart didnât jump. Really, it didnât move at all.
You rolled onto your back on the living room floor and stared at the ceiling.
There were three more knocks. Then silence.
And then keys.
Metal sliding into the lock with a sound that dragged like metal against wet pavement. The door didnât swing open all the way. Just enough for the edge of it to catch on the clutter behind it. Shoes, mail, your bag you didnât remember knocking over.
Boots stepped in first. You knew the sound. Heavy, quiet. Bucky always walked like the ground might give out beneath him.
He didnât speak.
The door closed softly behind him.
You stayed on the floor, one arm folded beneath your head, the other bent awkwardly against your stomach. Your shirt had ridden up. You hadnât shaved your legs. You werenât wearing a bra. You hadnât eaten anything but crackers and one expired granola bar in at least a day and a half, and you couldnât remember if youâd showered since the weekend.
You werenât crying. You werenât even thinking.
Bucky stepped around the clutter. Didnât kick it. Didnât sigh.
You waited for him to say something. Ask what the hell happened. Ask what you were doing. Ask why the place smelled like rot. Maybe launch into the same lecture from last time, about letting people in, about not shutting him out.
Instead, he crouched down beside you, knees cracking, forearms on his thighs.
He looked like shit too. Hoodie too worn. Hair tied back. Stubble half grown in. One knuckle on his right hand split like he'd only just gotten back from a mission.
You didnât move. You didnât even really look at him. You stared at the part of the wall where the paint was starting to chip. The quiet buzz of the old fan pressed into your ears like cotton.
âYou left your back door unlocked.â
His voice was low. Not soft. Just low, like anything louder might shatter the glass inside your skull.
You didnât answer. Just breathed. In. Out.
âI knocked,â he said. âYou didnât come. I figured you wouldnât, soâŠI used the copy you gave me.â
The ceiling needed repainting. There was a water stain above the kitchen. You werenât sure how long it had been there. Probably months.
âI can do the trash,â he said after a moment.
It wasnât a question. He glanced toward the kitchen. The bags were overfilled, sagging, reeking. The kind of smell that coated the back of your tongue. You hadnât noticed when it started. You just stopped noticing.
He didnât get up yet. Just sat there beside you, close enough to feel the shift in the air every time he exhaled.
âI brought food too. Left it in the car. Wasnât sure if youâdâŠwant me coming in. Or, staying.â
You blinked.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. It looked more like guilt. Maybe something else.
âIâll go get it in a second. Figured youâd at least eat if it came from somewhere you recognized.â Another pause. Then quieter: âItâs from that Lebanese place. The one near the old campaign office. You liked the lentil soup.â
You didnât remember telling him that.
Didnât remember a lot of things lately.
The ceiling blurred for a second, not from tears but from the way your vision kept lagging behind your body. Like your eyes were underwater and the rest of you was somewhere else entirely. You heard your voice before you felt yourself decide to speak.
ââŠyou shouldnât have come.â
He looked over at you, not surprised. His hands stayed loose between his knees.
âYou said that last time.â
âI meant it.â
âNo, you didnât.â
You shut your eyes. The fan buzzed louder in your ears.
The next sound was the shift of his weight as he stood.
You didnât open your eyes. Didnât ask what he was doing. You didnât have to.
You heard the creak of the floorboard near the hallway. Heard the door to the bathroom open. The pause. Then the cabinet.
You knew exactly what he was looking for.
There was a sharp sound. Plastic bottles clacking against each other.
You shouldâve put them somewhere else. Or hidden them entirely. Or thrown them out when you stopped remembering to take them. But you hadnât. They were still under the sink, shoved behind old conditioner and a heating pad you hadnât used in a year.
Youâd run out of your dailies last week. Well, you knew youâd run out. Whether or not that counted as forgetting was hard to say. Some part of your brain registered the empty orange bottle and did nothing about it. No refill. No call. No list.
The PRNs were still there. The backup plan. The panic-day meds. The kind you only took when you were still functional enough to decide to take them.
Which meant you hadnât touched them either.
You opened your eyes when he came back.
He didnât say anything. Just held out a half-full glass of water in one hand, two small pills in the otherâwhite, round, scored.
You didnât reach for them.
He didnât force it. Just crouched and placed them gently on the coffee table beside you. The water next to them. Sat with them for a second like he wanted to make sure they wouldnât slide off or disappear.
You stared at the pills.
âYou need to eat first,â he said, voice neutral. Matter-of-fact.
You didnât argue.
He stood again, slower this time. Knees popping like they always did when he shifted his weight too fast. You heard him exhale through his nose as he moved toward the door.
âIâm going to grab the food.â
The keys jingled in his pocket. His boots creaked near the threshold.
âIâll be right back.â
Then the door opened. Closed again.
You were alone.
Just you, the pills, the water, the buzz of the fan, and the sharp sourness of your bodyâyour mouth dry, your stomach folded in on itself, your skin too hot in some places and ice cold in others. The carpet beneath you had an indent from where you'd been lying, and you werenât sure how long youâd been there before he arrived. Maybe hours. Maybe a full day. The light through the blinds didnât tell you anything you could trust.
You shifted slightly onto your side, your eyes drifted to the water glass. Your throat pulsed.
You couldnât even remember what the pills were actually called, just the shape of them. Just that it was for slowing things down. For helping you land when the rest of you was floating above your body, watching the hours tick by without meaning.
The door opened again less than a minute later.
You heard it, just barely, over the dull pulse in your ears. Buckyâs steps were heavier coming in. The sound of plastic bags brushing together. A takeout container thumped gently against the counter.
He didnât speak right away as he walked back into the living room. You heard the rustle of the bag being opened. Styrofoam lids popped gently.
âItâs still warm,â he said. âNot hot, but warm.â
Bucky crouched beside you again, the way he had before. He mustâve hated that couch-to-floor ratio. Always did.
âI got the lentil soup. Pita. Rice. Hummus. And that garlicky thing you said gave you heartburn but you like anyway.â
Your lips twitched, maybe. You werenât sure.
You didnât look at him, but you could hear him settle onto the floor beside you again. Could hear the quiet thud of a takeout container being set on the table next to the pills.
He didnât ask if you were hungry.
He didnât start making plans or telling you what to do or outlining some false timeline where all of this got better by Tuesday.
He just sat there with you.
You could feel his presenceâsolid, steady, not reaching but not moving away either. One knee drawn up, arms folded loosely across it. The smell of warm food bleeding into the stale air. Garlicky, savory. Familiar in a way nothing else felt lately.
Your stomach cramped. You couldnât tell if it was hunger or nausea. Maybe both.
You stared at the table.
A long breath. Then another.
He reached forward, opened the lid to the soup. Set it near the edge of the table with one of the folded paper napkins tucked under it like it might somehow make it more appealing. Then he unwrapped a piece of pita. Ripped it in half. Not aggressively, just slow, casual. Like this wasnât the first time heâd done it.
âYou used to say this was your version of a cure-all,â he murmured. âSaid it did more for you than doctors ever did.â
Your lips twitched again. That time you felt it.
You didnât say anything. But your eyes flicked toward him. Just barely.
âYou donât have to eat much,â he said, still calm. Still that low, steady tone like a grounding wire. âJust enough so the meds donât hit you wrong. So your stomach doesnât get mad.â
You stared at the wall.
He waited.
Then, gently:
âCan you sit up for me?â
You didnât move.
Not because you didnât want to, but because the ask felt heavier than your limbs could handle. It shouldâve been easy. Just move. Just sit up. Just eat. Just be normal for five minutes. But your body still felt like it didnât belong to you. Like your limbs were props, weighted and uncooperative. Like everything was happening on a delay.
Bucky mustâve seen that. Mustâve read it in your silence, in the stillness that wasnât defiant, just frozen.
âHere, Iâll help.â
You swallowed. Your throat clicked.
He moved carefully, slow enough that you could track every motion. One hand braced behind your shoulders. The other hovered near your arm.
âIâm gonna lift you, okay? Just a little.â
You didnât nod. But you didnât stop him.
His hand found your spineâwarm, steadyâand he guided you up. Not fast. He gave you time. Gave your muscles time to catch up with the request. You felt your ribs creak under the shift. Your breath hitched. The back of your neck went damp with effort.
But you sat up.
Mostly.
Your back met the base of the couch. You sagged there, barely upright, head lolling forward a little too far.
But it counted.
Bucky knelt in front of you, crouched low with one hand still hovering by your shoulder like he wasnât sure if youâd fall.
âThere. You did good,â he said.
You didnât believe him. But the way he said it, quiet and even and without hesitation, made something sting behind your eyes.
He reached for the soup. The smell hit harder now. Steam curled upward, curling around the stale air between you.
âTry a few bites,â he said. âJust a couple."
You stared at the container in his hands. Your stomach felt tight. Not in the way that meant full. The way that meant afraid.
He didnât move to feed you. Didnât push it into your hands. He just stayed there, holding it out gently, like he was offering a peace treaty.
âIâll eat too, if that helps,â he said after a moment. âWe can do it together.â
That made you look at him. Barely. Just a flick of your eyes.
He didnât look away.
âPlease,â he said, softer now.
It wasnât a command. It wasnât even a request, not really. It was just him asking because he cared. Because he didnât know what else to do with how fucking worried he was.
Your hand moved. Shaky, slow, reluctant. But it moved.
He passed you the container and the plastic spoon tucked beside it. You took it like it might burn you. Your hand trembled as you dipped it in.
The first bite tasted like nothing.
The second bite tasted like garlic and lemon and salt and memory.
By the third, your hands had steadied.
You didnât realize heâd sat beside you again until his arm brushed yours.
You ate more than you meant to.
Just small spoonfuls, slow, careful, your jaw working like it was out of practice. The broth hit your stomach and sat there like a stone, but you didnât stop. It was routine. Mechanical. Like your body knew it was supposed to keep going, even if your brain was a step behind.
Beside you, Bucky opened a container of his own. You didnât know what heâd ordered. Something heavierâmaybe lamb, maybe rice. You clocked the faint clatter of him unwrapping plastic cutlery. He took a bite. Another. Ate like someone whoâd forgotten what hunger felt like until it came roaring back. You didnât look directly at him, but you felt the way he angled his body toward you, shoulder relaxed, presence solid and quiet beside yours.
After a while, you noticed the pills again.
Still sitting on the coffee table. Still untouched. Still waiting.
You set the soup down, reaching for them slowly, like they might flinch. Picked them up with one hand. The weight of them was stupid. Inconsequential. But you stared at them anyway. Thought about how long it had been since you last took anything. Thought about how many days had passed where you meant to and just⊠didnât.
You drank half the water before you took them.
The pills went down easier than you expected. No gag. No second-guessing. Just a swallow and an ache behind your eyes when you finished the glass.
They wouldnât kick in right away. You knew that. It would take twenty to thirty minutes, sometimes longer. It depended on your metabolism. Whether youâd eaten. Whether your body still remembered how to process things.
Even before they started to work, there was a strange pressure behind your sternum. Not from the meds. From the realization that heâd watched you do it. That heâd waited. That he knew the order of things. Get you up. Food first. Then meds. Then maybe, just maybe, youâd get back to the surface.
He was still next to you. Still close enough that you could feel the heat off his leg.
You wanted to be mad. That was what you told yourself. You should be mad. Shouldâve told him to leave. Shouldâve snapped, I didnât ask you to come back.
Like you did the last time.
But your chest still felt too hollow to carry anger. There wasnât room.
So instead, you said, barely audible:
ââŠIâm sorry.â
It came out quieter than you meant it to. Small. Raw around the edges. Not because you were ashamed, though maybe that too, but because saying it required more from you than anything had all day.
You didnât even know what you were apologizing for.
For not calling. For ignoring him. For avoiding him these past few months. For getting like this again. For not being someone who could keep it together. For letting him see it. For letting him back in at all.
Buckyâs fork paused in mid-air.
You couldnât bring yourself to look at him, but you heard the breath he took. The way it left his chest in a slow, careful push.
âHey,â he said. âDonât apologize.â
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
Your eyes burned again. Not with tears. Just that awful heat, dry and raw and too close to shame.
âI donât want you to see me like this,â you said again. It was barely above a whisper. âItâs not even the worst itâs been. But I know⊠I know if you kept seeing it at all, itâd stick.â
He looked at you, eyes soft, unreadable. âToo late.â
That knocked something loose in your chest. You breathed, but it hurt.
âI donât want you to think less of me.â
âI donât.â
You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.
He didnât blink.
âI mean it,â he said. âYou think this changes anything?â
You almost said, doesnât it? But the words got caught.
You didnât say anything else. Just kept breathing. Just kept being upright, if not entirely present. The soup settled in your gut like an anchor. The meds sat like a question mark at the base of your throat. The only thing keeping you tethered was the quiet rhythm of Bucky next to you, the way his body shifted just enough to remind you he hadnât left.
His fork scraped softly against the takeout container again. He took another bite, slower this time, like he was waiting for something to surface between you. When it didnât, he exhaled through his nose, wiped his mouth with the corner of a napkin, and leaned his head back against the couch behind you. Not all the way, just enough to let the muscles in his neck settle.
âYou know, I had to drag Walker off a roof the other day,â he said finally. âHe got this brilliant idea that if he jumped from a transport helicopter onto a moving armored truck, he could take out the engine from the top.â
You blinked. Slowly. Your neck turned half an inch in his direction.
Bucky didnât look at you. Just kept talking, voice low and even.
âHe forgot to account for wind resistance. Dumbass nearly broke his leg and knocked out his own comms. We had to haul him out like a dead deer. Alexei still wonât let him live it down.â
Your lips moved without meaning to. Not a smile. Not really. But something softened at the edges of your mouth. The image came in crooked and out of place. Walkerâposturing, explosive, stupid in the specific way men like him always wereâbeing carried by two other super soldiers like a sack of rice.
Buckyâs eyes flicked toward you, just once. Then back to the floor.
âYou wouldâve laughed,â he said. âI mean, like you always did. Whenever things got⊠fucked. You always had that kind of mean little laugh when something exploded at the wrong time. You were the only person I knew who could sound impressed and horrified at the same time.â
You didnât know what to do with that.
There was a sharp pang in your chest. Familiar. Not panic. Not guilt. Just that sudden clarity that you were someone who laughed.
He wasnât pushing. He wasnât doing that thing people did where they reminded you of better versions of yourself like a weapon, like a guilt trip. He was just remembering you. Naming the parts of you you hadnât seen in weeks, maybe longer.
You pressed your back harder against the couch. It hurt. But you stayed there.
He went on, almost like he couldnât help it.
âYelenaâs still trying to train Bob in hand-to-hand. She keeps calling him âsoft boy.ââ Bucky gave a dry huff that mightâve been a laugh. âHe doesnât argue. Just takes it. But heâs good. Smarter than he lets on. I think Valâs trying to groom him into a press darling or something. Says heâs still âmarketable.ââ
You didnât respond. But your eyes had moved back to him now. Fully. You watched his jaw flex. Watched the way his thumb dragged along the seam of his takeout container, like he didnât realize he was doing it.
âI donât know why Iâm still on this team,â he admitted, quieter. âIâm too old. Too tired. Everyone else is either a quarter my age or psychotic.â
The corner of your mouth moved again. It wasnât much. But it was real.
He glanced at you.
âAnd yet,â he said, âI keep showing up.â
You looked down at your hands. They were resting in your lap now, fingertips pressed together. Not shaking. Not clenched. Just there.
âYouâre not tired of this?â you murmured. âOf⊠me?â
He frowned. Not sharply. Just enough to show he didnât like the question.
âIâm tired of this,â he said. âWatching you suffer. Watching you pull away. But Iâm not tired of you. Never.â
You stared at him, throat thick.
âI canât always come back,â you said. âSometimes it takes me days. Sometimes longer. I donât always know whatâs happening until itâs over.â
âI know.â
âI donât mean to push you out.â
âI know.â
âI donât want to be this person.â
âI know.â
You flinched at the sound of it. But he didnât look angry. Just sure.
âI know who you are,â he said again. âEven when you donât. Iâve seen you when youâre sharp. Iâve seen you when youâre cold. Iâve seen you when youâre bleeding. And Iâm still here.â
Your eyes burned.
âI donât want you to fix it,â you whispered. âI just⊠I donât know. I donât want to be alone.â
âYouâre not.â
His voice didnât waver. His face didnât crack. He just said it like a truth heâd never stop repeating.
You looked away. Didnât say anything for a while. The silence wasnât heavy, just full. Your eyes stayed locked on a spot near the corner of the coffee table, watching the grain of the wood blur and sharpen and blur again. Your chest was tight. Not in the way it got before a panic spiral, this was something slower, heavier. Like your ribs were holding in everything you couldnât let out.
Then, without thinking, you took a breath.
A real one.
Not shallow. Not half-measured. One of those slow, full, chest-expanding inhales that felt like it reached all the way down to your gut. It hurt, a little. Like stretching after being curled too long. But it grounded you. The room came back clearer. The corners of it. The faint whir of the fridge. The way Buckyâs knee bounced just once and then stilled again.
You looked back to him. Really looked.
There was something in his face you hadnât let yourself name. Something low and warm and so fucking real it made your chest ache. And you knew he felt more than he ever said. He wasnât subtle, not really. He never had been. He just kept his hands off because he respected the line. Because heâd never cross it if you didnât invite him.
But, his hand had drifted closer to yours. Not touching. Just⊠nearby. Like he was leaving the door open in case you needed something to grab.
You didnât take it. But you didnât move away either.
Your voice came out steadier this time.
âYou ever think about walking away?â
He blinked. âFrom what?â
âFrom all of it. The team. The noise. Everything Val keeps trying to turn you into.â
Buckyâs jaw flexed slightly. Then he shook his head once, slow.
âEvery day,â he said. âBut then someone does something stupid and I remember why Iâm still useful.â
You almost laughed. Almost.
He tilted his head toward you, just a little. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours again. The way he anchored so easily without meaning to.
âYou donât have to come back for everyone,â you said.
He nodded. âI donât.â
That sat between you for a second.
â But I'll keep coming back here,â he added.
You went still.
He didnât say it like a confession. Just a fact. He wasnât asking for anything. He wasnât waiting.
You shifted, just slightly. Your shoulder touched his for a second before you pulled back.
The warmth stayed.
âIâm not going to be fun to be around for a while,â you said. âYou know that, right?â
âYou think Iâm fun to be around?â
You snorted. Quiet. Barely there. But it was real.
His mouth twitched. That almost-smile. The one you remembered from car rides back from missions when the radio was just static and his boots were scuffed and his voice was low with exhaustion but full of something steady. Something solid.
After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint pinch of hesitation at the corner of his mouth.
âI think the teamâs doing a movie night tomorrow,â he said. âYelenaâs picking the lineup, so probably something ridiculous. Walkerâs gonna pretend to hate it and Avaâs gonna make popcorn no one eats. I think Alexei invited someoneâs dog.â
You blinked.
âI meanâno pressure,â he added quickly. âJust⊠if you wanted to come. No mission talk. No gear checks. Just noise. And maybe food that doesnât come in a plastic box.â
You didnât answer right away.
But the idea of sitting on that shitty couch in the towerâs rec roomâWalker complaining, Yelena loudly shoving her feet into Avaâs lap, Bob quietly slipping you your favorite candy without anyone noticingâit didnât sound as far away as it usually did. It didnât sound impossible.
âYou can say no,â Bucky said again. âOr nothing. Either oneâs okay.â
You didnât say anything right away. Just let the offer hang in the air a little longer than necessary, like if you breathed wrong it might collapse. But it didnât. It stayed. And Bucky didnât rush you to fill the silence, didnât jump to explain it again or soften it further. He just watched you with that same patience you remembered from briefing rooms and after-hours check-ins and late flights home when you could barely keep your eyes open but knew he was still watching your six.
Eventually, your fingers curled slightly against your leg. Not a big movement. Just something to remind yourself you were still here.
âThat sounds nice,â you said finally. Quiet, but without hesitation.
It wasnât much. But it felt like enough.
He nodded once, slow. âI can come get you. If you want.â
You swallowed. The offer shouldnât have hit as hard as it did, but it did. The idea of trying to get up on your own tomorrowâtrying to find the energy to dress, to move through public spaces, to exist around other peopleâfelt impossible. But if he came for you⊠if he waited on your porch with that silent steadiness of his, like he always did when he knew you were struggling⊠maybe it wouldnât be.
You blinked once, twice, and then it all started to catch up with you. Not as a flood, just as a shift. Like someone turned the volume back on inside your own head. The tension. The exhaustion. The self-loathing that had calcified over the last week. The part of you that hadnât moved from the floor for hours because it felt easier to disappear than admit something was wrong.
The pressure behind your eyes grew sharper.
You took another breath. Not as clean as the first. It caught halfway in your throat, then pushed through.
Your face felt hot.
Bucky mustâve noticed the shift, but he didnât call it out. He didnât panic. He just shifted closer again, his knee brushing yours, then staying there like an anchor.
âI can come early,â he said, voice low. âWalk you over. If you change your mind, Iâll make something up. Say you got called into a last-minute intel brief. No oneâll question it.â
You let out a sound that mightâve been a laugh. Or a sob. It cracked, either way.
Your shoulders tightened. Your hands twitched like they wanted to curl into fists, like your body was gearing up to brace against something, but there was nothing to fight except the emotion creeping up under your skin like static.
You blinked hard. Your vision went shiny. You didnât want to cry. Not like this. Not now.
But it was happening anyway.
One tear. Then another.
Not fast. Just steady. Like your body had finally decided it was safe enough to let go of something it wasn't allowing you to feel for so long.
You heard a small sound in your throat. Didnât recognize it as yours at first.
âHey,â he said, soft. âYouâre okay.â
That phrase used to piss you off when people said it. It always felt performative. Too clean. Too quick to mean anything.
But from him, it wasnât a fix. It was a touchpoint. A marker in the ground so you didnât lose where you were.
Then there was movement.
Not loud. Not rushed.
Just the soft shift of fabric and the subtle dip of weight beside you as Bucky leaned in.
You felt his hand at your back first. A slow, gentle pressureâhis palm between your shoulder blades, warm and steady like the weight of a coat. Not pushing. Just there.
You exhaled, shaky and long.
âIâm right here,â he murmured. âYouâre okay.â
You werenât sure if you nodded. But you leaned into the contact without meaning to. Just a little. Just enough that he didnât have to hesitate before moving closer.
He wrapped an arm around you, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didnât.
Your cheek hit his chest, and the fabric of his hoodie smelled faintly like clean laundry and city air and the kind of sweat that only came from being worn all day by someone who never stopped moving.
His hand moved gently over your arm once. Just a pass of his fingers. Then it settled, resting lightly, holding, not gripping.Â
âYouâre okay,â he said again. Quieter this time. âItâs okay.â
You didnât mean to lean in further, but your body moved without asking. Your hands, which had been useless in your lap for hours, lifted just barely. Your fingers brushed the edge of his hoodie like you werenât sure where to put them. You didnât grab him. You didnât cling. But you held on, lightly, like you might fall through the floor if you didnât touch something real.
He shifted again.
You felt it first in the curve of his arm, the way it tightened around your shoulders, then in the slight pull at your waist.
âIs this okay?â he asked, voice low, close.
You didnât answer with words.
Your weight shifted, almost imperceptibly. Your arm moved to rest more fully against his side. You let your body relax into his like your own skin wasnât something you had to manage alone anymore.
That was enough for him.
You felt the movement in stagesâhis hands steadying you, adjusting so slowly it barely registered until your legs stretched across the floor and his body pulled back just enough to brace you both. He moved you into his lap. Not fully cradled, not like something fragile, but supported. His arm wrapped around your back again, his other hand bracing at your knee.
It was stupid how safe it felt.
You hated that word. Safe. It didnât mean anything most of the time. People threw it around like it came cheap. But this wasnât soft lighting and false promises. This was a man who had seen the worst of you, all of it, and was still holding you like nothing about you made him flinch.
You didnât know how long you sat there like that. Minutes. Maybe more. Long enough for your breathing to steady again. Long enough for the trembling to pull back into something manageable. Your body had stopped trying to run from itself, and now it was just thereâfolded in his arms, stretched out enough that your muscles were no longer locked in place, your heartbeat no longer pounding in your ears.
Your head stayed tucked against his collar. You could feel the soft scratch of the stitching where the seam of his hoodie had started to unravel. You focused on that. On the way his thumb moved in slow circles near your elbow. On the quiet, rhythmic sound of his breath above you.
You didnât know why you said it. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because it was the only thing left that made sense.
âThank you, Bucky.â
You felt him freeze, just for a second.
The smallest pause in his hand. A shift in the way his chest moved beneath you. Not tense. Just surprised.
Youâd never called him that before.
Not once.
Not in seventeen months of working beside him, not in post-mission reports, not in morning coffee runs, not in late-night briefings or casual texts or quiet jokes in rented armored SUVs. You never crossed that line. Not out of coldness. Not out of fear. Just because Barnes had always felt safer. More neutral. More like armor for both of you.
But this moment had nothing neutral in it.
His arm tightened around you. Just a gentle pull, like he needed to make sure you were real. That this was happening. That youâd said his name like it meant something personal. Like it belonged to you.
His breath moved against your hair.
âAnytime,â he said, voice low. Serious in a way that made your chest throb. âYou donât even have to ask.â
And then, without rushing, without making it a big thing, he leaned in.
You felt the softest brush of his lips at the top of your forehead. Just one. No follow-up. No hesitation. Just a quiet kiss pressed into your skin like a promise he didnât have to speak aloud.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body stayed still.
And for the first time in a week, you didnât feel like a burden. You didnât feel like a ghost. You just felt⊠held.
The rec room lights were too bright when you first walked in.
You blinked at the overhead fluorescents, already buzzing with that soft static hum that made the air feel warmer than it shouldâve. Someone had cracked open a few windows, probably Bob, and the spring chill from outside drifted in just enough to cut the scent of microwave popcorn, lime seltzer, and three different kinds of pasta.
You were the last one to arrive.
Bucky had kept his promiseâhe showed up at your apartment thirty minutes early, said nothing when he saw you still half-dressed and staring at the same two shirts like the choice might split the earth. He didnât comment on the dark circles under your eyes or the way your shoulders kept inching toward your ears. He just leaned in the doorway, sipping from the coffee heâd brought you, and waited.
Now, you stood in the doorway of the communal rec room, your fingers twitching against the hem of your sleeve.
Yelena looked up from where she was aggressively rearranging throw pillows and raised a single brow. âWell, well,â she said. âThe ghost lives.â
You almost turned around right then.
But Buckyâs hand brushed the small of your back. Just once, just long enough for you to register the quiet pressure of it. It grounded you.
âDonât give her shit,â he said to Yelena, voice easy.
Yelena didnât flinch. She was used to Buckyâs moods by now. âI would never,â she said innocently, before throwing a pillow with surgical precision at Walkerâs head. âYou brought her. You deal with the consequences.â
Walker grunted without looking up from the beer in his hand. âBetter her than Alexei. He tried to make us watch The Exorcist dubbed in Russian last week.â
Alexei, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a plate of ribs in one hand and a Capri Sun in the other, looked entirely unbothered. âIt is a cultural experience.â
Ava, curled up in one of the beanbags, didnât even glance up from her phone. âYou fell asleep halfway through it.â
Alexei shrugged. âI trust my instincts.â
Bucky guided you to the couch with a quiet ease, like heâd been doing it for years. He didnât lead you by the hand or hover, just existed beside you in a way that made your body stop bracing.
You sat down in the middle of the couch, spine too straight. He sat next to you, close but not pressed in. You didnât lean into him. Not yet. But your knees touched.
It was enough.
Bob handed you a plastic cup full of something vaguely orange. âHi,â he said with his usual too-soft voice. âGlad you made it.â
You gave him a small smile. âThanks.â
The movie started ten minutes later, some ridiculous vampire flick Yelena had apparently picked for research purposes. You didnât ask what that meant. Walker made a show of groaning at every line of dialogue. Alexei laughed in the wrong places. Ava looked like she was cataloguing the stunts for later study.
You didnât realize how long youâd been quiet until Yelena tossed a piece of popcorn at your shoulder and leaned over with a grin.
âBuckyâs been weird all day,â she murmured. âYou showing up has nothing to do with that, Iâm sure.â
You shot her a look.
She smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing and turned back to the screen.
Bucky didnât say anything, but he shifted next to you, just slightly, and you could feel him watching you from the corner of his eye.
You werenât touching, but his hand was resting on the couch between you. Close. Not casual. His pinky brushed yours once when you both reached for the same handful of candy, and neither of you pulled back.
It was stupid. Small. But it felt like enough.
Halfway through the movie, Walker made a comment loud enough to earn groans from the whole room. You rolled your eyes, and without thinking, leaned your head back against the couch. You didnât realize it had tilted closer to Buckyâs shoulder until your hair brushed his hoodie.
You stiffened. Started to pull away.
But then he leaned the slightest bit toward you. Just enough to keep the distance closed. Just enough to let you stay.
You didnât move again.
No one said anything. No one stared.
Except Yelena.
You saw it in your peripheralâher narrowed eyes, the smallest twitch of her mouth like she was biting back a smile. She didnât say a word. Just raised a single brow at you when Bucky reached forward and silently placed your favorite candy in your lap without saying a word.
You mouthed shut up at her.
She just grinned wider and turned back to the screen.
The rest of the night passed in flashes. Yelena muttered something about the film's budget. Ava shushed her with a rolled-up sock. Walker tried to pass off a real yawn as a fake one, then blamed the dialogue for both. Someone changed the lights on the smartbulbs to an awful neon green and no one owned up to it. The second movie started and no one acknowledged that the first one had ended.
You didnât talk much. Didnât need to.
Bucky kept his arm on the back of the couch, fingers ghosting just above your shoulder without touching. You could feel the shift in pressure every time he leaned forwardâusually to snag more candy, once to toss a water bottle at Alexei that hit him square in the stomach and went completely ignored.
You sat still, mostly. Ate two pieces of candy. Drank half your cup of soda, warm and flat. When Bob leaned over to ask if you wanted one of the weird pudding things he brought, you surprised yourself by saying yes.
You didnât notice you were still leaned against Bucky until your arm started to fall asleep. By then, his hand had drifted down from the couch and come to rest lightly against your shoulder. Not possessive. Not careful, either. Just like it belonged there.
Every so often, youâd catch him watching the screen with that faint, unimpressed squint of his. Like he couldnât believe he was giving up a night for this. But he hadnât moved. Not once. Not even when you shifted, when your body leaned closer without thinking. He didnât shift away. He didnât tense.
His fingers curled against the fabric of your hoodie like he was bracing. Like he was waiting for you to disappear again. You didnât.
And when the second movie finally sputtered to a stop, some godawful horror-comedy hybrid that Yelena claimed was "underrated", the lights stayed dim and no one moved. You didnât either.
You were tired. Not the kind that sleep fixed. The kind that felt like it lived in your bones. But your head stayed where it was, your weight tilted ever so slightly toward Buckyâs side. And for once, your chest wasnât tightening at the thought of being perceived.
You didnât say anything. Just let your hand drift a little closer on the couch, your fingers brushing his this timeâintentional, quiet. Like maybe the next time heâd ask you to dinner, youâd say yes.
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