how good you make me wanna be | college bucky x fem reader
authors notes: hello, so, i've unintentionally been working on this for the last two months, but here it is! it was supposed to be this request, but it kinda changed and warped, but hopefully it still works!
warnings: waffling, so much waffling, like word vomit level. wandanat are girlfriends because i said so x they're just both awkward idiots who don't realise they're in love. reader has some self doubt peppered through this. mild proofreading, kinda, i'm so sorry, we die like tony stark men. please feel free to let me know if i forgot anything!
word count: 5.8k
summary:
you're kinda awkward, he's the popular guy with a bad reputation. the twist? both of you have been crushing on each other, despite the fact you've never spoken to each other for more than five minutes. so what happens when your friends finally throw you together?
masterlist!
"you coming to the party on friday?" sam asked, holding the door open for you before he fell back into step next to you. "it's gonna be like, legendary. nat's sister is in town, there's no way that it's not gonna be historic, come on, you should come!" you'd lost count of how many parties sam had tried to drag you into—both in high-school and now college—but he was nothing if not persistent, you had to give him that one.
you smiled as you shook your head, shoving your hands in your hoodie pockets. "it might be stuff of legends, but you're not gonna change my answer. name one time that i've ever been to one of your parties." it wasn't that you had anything against them, they just didn't fall into the productive category and at this point in the semester, you needed every scrap of productivity that you could muster up. "sorry, buddy, you'll have to catch me up on monday, i gotta work on my paper."
"you skippin' on us again? c'mon, baby. one time, you deserve to have fun." you almost jumped clean out of your skin when he stepped out from behind a column, blocking your path. bucky barnes, in all his stupidly broad shouldered glory—completely out of place in the middle of the psychology halls. he was like a walking embodiment of one of those hot frat boys from every coming of age film ever. business major, football team vice captain—hot, very hot—and not the kind of person who'd ever look twice at someone like you. to someone like him you probably faded into the background.
or so you thought.
you had zero idea that you were the entire reason that he was here, using sam as an excuse to exist in the same space as you for five minutes. he could think of a million better places he could be, but they didn't have you. and that was the problem. he had a million girls who would die for the opportunity to even have his attention, and the one he actually wanted didn't even want it, to his knowledge anyway. it was like the universe was playing some cruel joke on him.
not a single one of those thoughts had ever left his mind outside the confines of the friendship group. it was bad enough with sam's endless jabs and steve's god awful jokes.
despite the fact it felt like a butterfly enclosure in his stomach, he grinned as he watched the blush creep across your cheeks as you dipped your head in an feeble attempt to hide from him. "can't, sorry. i gotta study." it wasn't exactly a lie, not with exam season so close and even if you did want to go? amongst all the other things, you had no idea how to exist in his world. you were on completely different ends of the social spectrum and honestly? you weren't sure you wanted to be in it, not if it was like the rumours.
besides, you'd never even had a conversation with him that lasted longer than five minutes and didn't have steve or sam involved.
the whole thing was ridiculous, and you knew it. you'd been fawning over this guy since the very first time you'd met him, sam had invited you to one of steve's games which meant by extension—and the fact he was the star quarterback—bucky was there too. he'd barely even acknowledged you past a quick hi and asking if you enjoyed the game. but your heart had done a traitorous a little flip and just never stopped. and now he was calling you baby like it was nothing, which it probably was to him.
"awe, c'mon. it'll be fun. you can't go your entire college life without going to a single party. and hey, i'll be there." he offered, like that would magically make you change your mind—in his defence, it would have worked on most of the girls he knew by now. sam snorted, holding a quiet admiration for his persistence. if you knew bucky well enough—which he did, he really did—it was easy enough to pick up on bucky's nervousness. the way he shoved his hands into his pockets, picking at the lining to give him something to do. "that usually works."
sam ducked his head to hide the way the way his lips were twitching, dying to burst into laughter at how awkward he was being about it all. it was glaringly obvious that bucky had no idea what to do with women who weren't throwing themselves at his feet.
and then you smiled at him. the same smile you'd give him after that game, the one that made something warm spread across his chest. the same smile that he didn't know what to do with. he could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks as he let his head dip. "she doesn't wanna go, man, leave her be. c'mon, we got places to be. i'll catch you later." sam gave you a smile before he put a hand on bucky's shoulder and guided him towards the door.
that left you just stood there, blinking at the loss of—well, you weren't quite sure what it was anymore. you let out a shaky breath as you tried to work out how the hell you were gonna tell the girls about this.
"the hell was that for? i was getting somewhere!" bucky hissed as he shrugged sam's hand off, turning to look at him. "that's like, the furthest i've ever got with her, and what? you pull me away!" bucky scoffed as he pushed sam's hand away, falling into step with him. sam just scoffed, shaking his head. "what, trying to hound her into a party that isn't her scene? c'mon, man. you're bucky barnes, you're supposed to be the coolest guy on campus and you think that was progress? oh man, you're losing your touch. you're soft for her, man, and you've spoke to her for less than ten minutes. you were blushing." he genuinely wished he could have videoed the whole thing to keep for blackmail purposes, god knows it would have worked too.
bucky rolled his eyes as he grumbled under his breath, flipping sam off. he was not losing his touch. you were just nice, too nice to look in his direction and he couldn't afford to mess it up. "not losing my touch. 'm just taking it slow. not exactly something i'm used to, in case you forgot."
he was used to the rush and the buzz and anything under a hundred miles an hour felt agonisingly slow—probably the main reason that he'd never had anything real. nothing lasted past one night stands and half assed dates to dorm parties he was going to either way.
and you deserved more than that.
so much more, he didn't need to know you to know that.
"i'm just…refining it. i don't wanna barrel in there and scare her off. it's like a dance, y'know? gotta warm up." it was a weak excuse for the fact he didn't know exactly what he was gonna do about it. "you should start with the library." sam offered, shrugging a shoulder like it was the most obvious solutions in the world. "you know, the big scary place that a business major should definitely spend more time."
bucky rolled his eyes again at how easy he made it all seem. "right, yeah. i'll just show up at the library and be all quiet and meek, pretending that i know the first thing about psych. what could possibly go wrong? that's the worst idea i ever heard, man."
it was sam's turn roll his eyes this time. he wasn't sure what was more ridiculous, how far gone bucky was already or how hard he'd managed to fumble the entire two minutes he'd been in front of you. it was sweet, though, in it's own embarrassing kind of way. "you might think it's a bad idea, but it's better than any that you've got. trust me, i know her. she likes to be listened to, and being as you don't like to do that, just trust me. work it out or don't bother. she's too nice to be messed around. she's my best friend, like ever. period. and i mean it, you mess her around and i'll—"
bucky held his hands up in surrender, cutting him off. "woah, woah. i just talked to her, that's all. i wouldn't—it's not like that. i'm—" the realisation that he couldn't say that he wasn't like that hit him like a freight train. he was exactly like that, and it was his fault entirely. if he ever got the chance, he'd be different with you. if he said it out loud then he'd sound crazy, but he'd try. really try, if his confidence hadn't evaporated into thin air, like it felt like it had.
you'd made a lot of mistakes in life, you'd hold your hands up to that one, but your biggest mistake? actually telling your best friends about the entire two minute interaction that nat was currently analysing like she was gonna write a final paper on it. it seemed like a great idea in your head but now it had been fifteen minutes and they were still dissecting it.
"he smiled?" she repeated, mainly to herself. bar steve, she'd known bucky the longest which apparently made her the fountain of knowledge on every single one of his movements. "he never smiles, he's allergic to smiling. he's gotta like you. it's written in the stars, let's get the marriage license ready, can i be godmother to your firstborn?" wanda snickered as she turned the page, fully used to every ounce of her girlfriends over exaggerations by now.
"he smiled at me…and you think…?" your head tilted like an already confused puppy that had the treat bag shaken at them as you watched her pace across your living room. "i don't get it." you weren't as naive as that made you sound—you just genuinely couldn't get your head around her way of thinking. you were sure he'd smiled at plenty of people in his time, he had to have done. "i think you might be seeing this differently."
"okay, let me try." wanda smiled as she set her book down, obviously having more patience with this one than nat. "i think what natasha is saying is that barnes might be into you more than he lets on. which isn't a bad thing, obviously." not a bad thing, right. because good things were supposed to make you this nervous. "might? might?! oh no. there's no might. mr quarterback is like, head over heels for her. c'mon, wanda! when did you last see him smile?" nat groaned, flinging her arms around like she was trying to solve a diplomatic crisis instead of your sorry excuse of a love life.
"what? i'm easing her into it! not everyone runs into everything head first. you're going to scare her off."
nat huffed as she flung herself back onto her bed, already reaching for her phone and pulling up steve's last message to text him again. if he didn't have the answer then they were all doomed.
nat: okay what's going on with barnes?
nat: is he serious?
nat: if he's not serious then i'm gonna start breaking bones.
steve: okay, first of all.
steve: no breaking bones, the team needs him.
steve: second of all, yes. serious from what sam was saying. swing by after practise, we need to plan.
steve: bring snacks.
"i just don't get why you think he likes me, that's all." you shrugged. "i'm not exactly part of his target audience. he likes—loud, and wild, and—not me." as much as it was terrifying, you'd be lying if you said there was a tiny piece of yourself that wanted to lean into it, to know what it felt like to not fade into the background for once—which very quickly spiralled into wondering what his lips would feel like against yours. you shocked yourself how quickly the thought came, shaking your head like it would get rid of it. "you both know what he's like."
you side eyed nat as she mumbled something under her breath that sounded like 'we can change that' as she stood up, grabbing her jacket. "as much as this is a riveting conversation, i promised steve that i'd swing by practise, so i gotta bounce. don't do anything stupid until i get back, like, y'know, spontaneously combust. love you!" she called over her shoulder before she disappeared out of the door.
"i know that she's intense, but i think she might have a point." she got up and sat down on your bed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "and hey, i guess that there's worst people on campus to have like you, right? he's not exactly bad looking, probably great sex and—" you shuddered as you pushed her away, shaking your head. "no. nope. we are not going there. nope. too much." you fake gagged as you got up, scrubbing a hand over your face. "i don't even know how i'm supposed to talk to this guy and you're already marrying me off and getting me laid, maybe not in that order, but—"
you needed someone to steady the ship, to tell you to stop spiralling and you were going to be find, not merciless teasing. wanda tilted her head slightly like she could actually read your mind as she reached out, taking your hand in hers. "breathe, sweetie. you're you. you're smart, and pretty, and completely socially awkward unless someone brings up phycology or something else you like. but that's you, that's exactly who you are and if that isn't enough for him, then he doesn't deserve you. you think i wasn't terrified when i realised that i was into natasha?" she smiled as she gave your hand a squeeze, standing up with you. you laughed quietly, returning the squeeze as at least the tiniest part of your anxiety eased. she had a way of doing that before you'd even realised what she was doing.
"you're going to be fine. and it's not worth getting yourself stressed out over something that might turn out to be nothing. you're smart, you'll be okay. trust yourself."
your first real suspicion should have come when nat asked if you wanted to study group with her, wanda, steve, and sam. the steve and sam part wasn't suspicious, but the nat part was. you could count on one hand the amount of times she'd sat in the library for more than an hour before she got restless and started causing chaos. she was more of a grab books and make a dash kinda gal. but you were toast if you didn't get a move on with your paper. so you agreed, albeit reluctantly.
"you cannot get us kicked out." you pleaded with nat as you bagged the table underneath the window, hanging your bag on the back of your chair. "don't worry, i'll keep her under control." steve promised as he dropped into the seat opposite you next to nat. you snorted at that, the idea of the golden retriever captain trying to keep the category five hurricane known as natasha romanoff in line absolutely hilarious to you. "yeah, and i'm the next queen of england. what have you got on this paper?" sam asked as he looked over your shoulder, already mentally calculating which parts he could rewrite and pass off as his own. you rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder before you turned your screen away. "your best friend status is on thin ice, buddy." you warned, pointing a finger at him. "get your own sources."
by the grace of god—and some very clever distraction techniques—the bucky thing hadn't been mentioned again. every time nat tried to bring it up, you not so subtly changed the subject, completely unaware of the plan that had already been cooked up behind you back, courtesy of nat and steve.
"y'know…" sam started, drumming his pencil against the table. "bucky's been talking about you." you almost choked on your own saliva, spluttering as you looked over at him. "i mean it. all i've heard for days is the fact you looked at him when he swung by after our lecture." you shook your head, focusing on your laptop screen with such an intensity that could have burned a hole through it. you didn't dignify him with a response as your typing picked up instead, hammering the keys like they'd personally offended you.
you might have prevented it coming up in conversation until now, it had been on your mind religously. it was ridiculous how he'd managed to worm his way into your brain and take up residence there. "i'm sure bucky talks about a lot of people. especially that blonde fashion major." you murmured under your breath. sharon carter, permenant thorn in your side and the latest in a long list of bucky's conquests. "actually…" wanda looked up from her page, pen stilling mid sentence. "i heard that's not a thing anymore. apparently he blew her off after the last game he had."
"i can second that." steve added. "hasn't seen her for awhile, they were never good for each other anyway. all they did was have sex and argue, it was kinda lame."
you were suddenly very aware of the fact that it felt like everyone was ganging up on you against your will, but you chose to not think too much into it before you drove yourself crazy. it wasn't until you noticed everyone disappearing slowly that you payed attention. wanda said she was going for coffee, sam mumbled something about a misplaced textbook before he disappeared into the aisles—and then it was just you, nat, and steve.
"okay, wanda doesn't even like coffee. sam had his textbook, what exactly is all of this about? it's not—" nat interrupted you by clearing her throat loudly, nodding towards the doors. you almost spontaneously combust when you saw him. bucky barnes, looking completely out of place with two cups of coffee in his hands, looking somewhat out of place.
"gotta go, steve's got important, uh—stuff. stuff to do, let's go." nat smiled before the two of them disappeared quicker than the speed of light. "good luck." nat winked as they walked past bucky, steve clapping a hand on his back.
bucky swallowed thickly, standing there awkwardly as he looked in your direction. see, when steve and sam had talked him into this, they'd both failed to mention the fact that you'd be on your own. "hey, i uh—" he stopped in front of your table, holding the cup out awkwardly. "iced vanilla latte, sam said something about it being your favourite." you just blinked at him, and then at the cup for what felt like an eternity before you reached out and took it. "yeah, no, uh, that's my favourite. you can take a seat, i mean, if you want to." you nodded towards the now vacant seats opposite you before you took a sip of coffee for something to do other than gawp at him.
you could feel the dread setting in simultaneously with the blush creeping up the back of your neck. "nat, uh—"
"sam—" you motioned for him to continue as you silently wished that the ground would open up and swallow you whole. "sam said that i should swing by—he kinda forgot to mention this part." he nodded, picking up your notebook and scouring your notes like he understood a word of it. "well, i kinda started getting a little sus when everyone disappeared on me, so. sorry, i kinda need those." you leaned over and took your notes back, breath hitching as your fingers brushed past his. it felt like you'd grabbed a live wire. he looked devastatingly good like this, the sun filtering through the light making his eyes look more blue than they were—if that was even possible.
the silence that settled between the two of you was awkward, unbearably so. he knew exactly what he wanted to say, he just couldn't form the words into a sentence that didn't ruin his reputation and make him look like an idiot. you could feel the blush creeping up from your neck into the tips of your ears, staring intensely at your notebook. "i don't know how to—i don't usually—" he groaned as he squeezed his eyes shut, as it became his turn to want the ground to swallow him whole. maybe the silence was better than this. "i kinda like you. not—not kinda, i do like you. a lot. and i think it'd be really nice to get to know you. i don't ask people on dates. i take them to parties and i take them back to my place—i don't do all of this." he opened his eyes, lifting his head enough to look at you properly. "but i want to, with you."
the world shifted.
not literally, obviously, but it felt like someone had turned it upside down on you. a date, he wanted to take you on a date, a real one. your brain blue screened and everything that you'd ever remembered turned to mush. "erm. a—yeah. no, okay, why?" you didn't mean for it to sound as blunt as it did, but it happened anyway. "not that i don't—it just, it doesn't really make sense to me, and—" he was running out of straws to grasp at before he had to tell you what he was really thinking, not exactly part of his speciality. he groaned softly, letting his head fall back.
"you're pretty. really pretty. not that—that's not why i wanna take you out, not all of it anyway. i mean—okay, i'm doing a bad job of this." he murmured, running a hand over his face as he tried to get the right words in order. "i wasn't joking when i said i was awful at this, huh? i promise that i'm not just asking you out because i think you're pretty." he assured you, which made you laugh as you shook your head.
"that is not what campus gossip says about you, for the record." his face fell for a second before he realised you were joking with him and then his signature cocky little grin was tugging at the corner of his mouth again. "oh, so you're funny now, huh? i was starting to think you didn't have it in you." you rolled your eyes as you tossed a balled up piece of paper at him that he caught mid air and tossed into the trash can with ease. "seriously, let me take you out, just once and if you completely hate it? we never mention it again and i'll leave you alone."
you pretended to think about it, despite the fact your heart was about to burst out of your chest. it felt like something that had manifested itself right out of your dreams but you didn't want to see too eager. "one date." you nodded as your eyes flickered back down to your notes. "what's the worst that can happen?" mentally you were already preparing for every single thing that could actually go wrong, and the list was growing by the second. it wasn't that you didn't trust him, it was just that he had an history of being, well, a player, and getting your heart broken by the guy you'd had a crush on since forever wasn't ideal.
"but if you stand me up then i'm never talking to you again."
"noted. i'll swing by your place. saturday, seven?"
"it's a date."
he was going to cancel. that was the latest thought that had etched itself in your brain. you pulled at your dress nervously as you stared at yourself in the mirror, trying and failing to convince yourself that it was just your brain. "stop fussing." wanda tutted quietly as swatted at your arm. "you look fine, and this is my lucky dress—trust me, i wore this on my first date with natasha. and then she took me axe throwing." you snorted as you dropped the fabric, rolling your eyes. "hey! i didn't know you were gonna rock up in that. if i knew, i'd have taken you someplace else." nat protested from the bathroom, poking her head out of the door. "and you looked badass throwing those axes. win win situation, it wasn't that bad."
you took a deep breath as you threw your purse over your shoulder, fiddling with the strap—the two of them bickering fading into the background. you were ready way too early, you'd been a fumbling mess for god knows how long. you were about to lovingly ask them to save the argument for later when the knock on the door echoed through the air. your eyes flickered up the clock on the wall, quarter to seven. he was early, if it was him. it probably wasn't him, and maybe it was the self doubt talking—it was—but you wouldn't blame him either. you didn't have time to finish that thought before the next knock came.
"oh, i so got this!" you'd never seen nat move quicker than she did when she launched herself at the door, clearly ready to slip into full interrogation mode if it was him. "please don't. oh god, you—" the words died in the back of your throat as the door swung open.
oh god, it was him—clutching a bunch of carnations like they were both his saving grace and also terrifying at the same time. they were the exact same shade as your dress, a happy little coincidence. "sam told me that you didn't like roses, so, i uh…didn't them…? these were pretty, i figured you'd like them. kinda need you to move, romanoff." he held them out awkwardly around nat, swallowing thickly before wanda tugged her out of the way. sam had warned him about that part, how they could be a little overbearing sometimes but they meant well, and he couldn't blame them.
he held them out properly as you stepped forward and took them from him, holding them up to smell them. "actually, i never get why people do that, i never think they smell of anything. but thank you, they're—they're really pretty." you didn't have many expectations, but in the two minutes he'd been here, he'd blown them out of the water.
"go on, shoo. i'll put these in water. go have fun, you deserve it." wanda plucked the bouquet from your hands and shooing you out of the door. confusion flickered across your face as the door closed behind you. "huh." you hummed, head tilting slightly. "i think i just got kicked out of my own apartment." bucky chuckled quietly as his hand settled on the small of your back, warm and heavy. "yeah, but don't worry. i got a plan." he winked as he led you towards the stairwell. for a minute, the uncharacteristic shyness dropped away and his usual cocky self shined back through. "and i think you're gonna like it just fine."
"i'm just saying, i think it's a noble thing to do. putting up with sam wilson is a full time job, i got my hands full enough with steve." he shrugged as he looked at you out of the corner of his eye. you giggled quietly, eyes dropping to your hands folded in your lap. "aw, c'mon. don't be mean to him! we grew up together, he's my best friend. i'd hate to see how you talk about steve, does he know about that?" you teased as you lifted you lifted your head up, rolling your eyes at him. "you wound me, sweetheart, truly. i have nothing but nice things to say about mr captain america. i give him a glowing review 24/7." he winked as he rolled into a parking lot and nodded out of the window. you raised an eyebrow, turning your head to follow his gaze. it probably wasn't anything special to anyone else, but it was to you.
the old diner was nestled just off the highway, the kind that was still trapped in a bygone era with cracked black and white flooring and booths that creaked when you slid into them. you'd had way too many meltdowns in the one by the window, tears plopping into your chocolate milkshake as you wondered how the hell you'd ended up here. it was almost an extension of yourself, a home away from home. "how did you—"
"i asked sam, he said you come out here sometimes. i didn't even know this place existed, so—" he hopped out and came around to your side, holding the door open for you. "sam could have sent me on a wild goose chase, if he was that kinda guy. figured we could grab a shake and some fries and just, talk. or whatever." he shrugged a shoulder as he offered you his hand, which you blinked at for a second. your brain short circuited for a second before you took it as you slipped out the passenger seat. "thanks, i uh—you—they do really nice shakes. chocolates my favourite, they do it with sprinkles on top and i get extra cherries, and—" you were rambling without even realising, giving him the ins and outs of the menu.
he bit back a smile as you carried on, his hand slipping to the small of your back again. this was all—normal. no bass bouncing off the walls, no one passing around a solo cup with some unidentified liquid in. just flickering neon and a bell above the door that jingled as he pushed it open for you. that was when it hit you that you hadn't stopped talking all the way from the parking lot. "oh, i didn't—i haven't shut up this entire time." you said sheepishly, sliding into your favourite booth by the window. "no, you haven't." he chuckled as he slid in opposite you. "but i like it, you're good at talking, is that why you're going into psychology?" he asked, resting his chin on his hand as he just watched you for a second. "uh…yeah, actually. guess i figured that i could help someone somewhere. why did you pick business?"
"woah, loaded questions already. guess it's just what i'm good at, other than football. my ma said i needed something to fall back on, and that's what jumped out at me. my dad owns a mechanics, i help him out over the summer—i used to, before football. have i told you that you look really pretty tonight?" he flashed you that same smile that mad your heart do a flip, and you felt the blush creeping across your cheeks. you were saved from your awkwardness by a familiar face stopping by your table. "well i never, look at this! this looks like a date, young missy. wow, he's kinda nice looking, too. nice smile, good shoulders, he'd make for good kids some day." jeanie grinned as she pulled the notepad from her apron. she'd probably been here as long as the place had been open, hair long gone grey and wrinkles by her eyes from all the smiling she'd ever done—like everyone who'd ever come through the doors granny.
it was bucky's time to be embarrassed, dropping his head in hope you wouldn't notice the fact he was blushing. "yeah, no—can we just get two chocolate shakes? one with extra sprinkles and cherries on top. and some fries, please. you want anything else? pancakes, or—"
"shakes and fries is good. although the pancakes are really good too." you smiled, drumming your fingers against the table—pretending that you weren't impressed by the fact he'd remembered your order despite the fact you'd only told hin five minutes ago. "oh, sweetie, you're too kind to me. don't you go hurting her, mister. earl back there is alway itchin' to fight someone, don't let it be you." she warned before she headed off to put your order through. bucky raised an eyebrow as he looked back at you, leaning forward as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "does everyone just feel compelled to protect you, or…"
"yeah, that happens a lot." you whispered back, your eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips—for a second, you wondered what they'd feel like pressed against yours. no. don't go there. not on the first date. you cleared your throat as you leaned back, knee bouncing so hard under the table that the whole thing shook. "sorry."
"don't apologise."
he was so sincere that you almost forgot his reputation.
time blurred together after that. you drank your shake while he smeared whipped cream on your face to make you laugh, you ate your cherries and then stole his—he didn't complain. talk swung between college and his football and his sisters, you learned that he had three. as things went on, this warm fuzzy feeling started to spread deep inside of you, right next to the butterfly enclosure in your stomach. "no, go on." he shook his head as he pushed the last of the fries towards you. "nope." you pushed them back. "oh, so it's like that, huh?" mischief flashed across his face as he picked one up, holding it up to your mouth. "i insist, take the fry." you giggled as you took a bite, unaware of the ketchup smeared on your cheek. "you got a little—"
he gestured towards your cheek before he grabbed a napkin."little sauce, right there. i got it." he reached over and wiped it away, his hand lingering on your cheek for longer than was considered still friendly. his face drifted closer and closer to yours until his lips were on yours, the napkin dropped to the table as his hands cupped either side of your face. a pathetic noise left the back of your throat, a mix between a whine and a groan as your eyes fluttered shut. it was everything you'd hoped it would be—soft, warm, but then the bell above the door rang again and crashed you back down to earth.
"don't" you warned him, pulling back just enough to look at him properly and the stupid shit eating grin on his face. "now what made you think i was gonna anything, huh? well, maybe i was gonna kiss you again, but can you blame me? pretty girl, pretty diner. but if i asked you to come back here again, with me, for a date…?"
you took a deep breath, pretending to consider it, even though you already had the answer. "yeah, i'd like that. but you're on probation, one step out of line—"
"oh, sweetheart. you have no idea how good you make me wanna be."
plot: all the things that happen between you and Bucky while falling in love with each other
warnings: FLUFF but there’s some angst and an hint of SMUT (but like a few phrases not too explicit)
word count: idk
author’s note: hey guys, umh this is something really easy that i kinda dreamed few days ago, hope you’ll enjoy, you have to imagine it as a sort of series of episode.
The glass doors of the Avengers Tower lobby slid shut behind you with a soft, clinical hiss, sealing out the damp, clinging midnight air of Manhattan. You stood frozen on the polished marble floor, your fingers white-knuckled around the handles of your suitcases. The ceiling soared stories above you, supported by sleek, metallic pillars and illuminated by recessed, cool-toned lighting that cast long, sterile shadows across the floor. The sheer scale of the space made you feel incredibly small, an interloper in a high-tech fortress built for gods and heroes.
Your chest felt tight, your breathing shallow. You had spent the last several hours traveling, your mind racing with a hundred different anxieties. You didn't belong here. You were just a normal person dropped into a world of legends.
"Welcome home," a smooth, disembodied voice chimed from overhead, causing you to jump. The sound echoed off the polished walls. "I am FRIDAY. Shall I summon Boss?"
"No! No, thank you," you whispered quickly to the ceiling, your face flushing as you looked around to see if anyone had witnessed your panic. "I—I can find my way. I think. Just... which way is the elevator?"
"You look like you're about to faint."
The voice didn’t come from the ceiling. It was deep, gravelly, and rough with sleep, carrying a low, rumbling resonance that seemed to vibrate in the quiet air of the lobby.
You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat. Emerging from the shadows of the wide, dark marble kitchen island at the far side of the lobby was Bucky Barnes. He was wearing a faded, worn-in gray t-shirt that clung to the broad frame of his shoulders, and loose dark sweatpants. His long, brown hair fell messily around his face, damp at the ends as if he had recently washed it. In his right hand, he held a glass of ice water.
Despite his relaxed, domestic attire, the sheer size of him and the piercing, hyper-observant intensity of his blue eyes made you take a subconscious step back, your boot heel clicking sharply against the marble.
Bucky paused instantly. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze dropping to your defensive stance, then to the white-knuckled grip you had on your bags, and finally back to your wide, anxious eyes. The guarded, distant expression he usually wore around the Tower melted away, replaced by a soft, cautious gentleness.
"Sorry," he said quietly, keeping his voice low and level. He raised his right hand slightly, showing he was unharmed, while keeping his metal left hand tucked securely in the pocket of his sweatpants. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, giving you ample time to back away if his presence made you uncomfortable. "Didn't mean to jump you. It's... a lot to take in at first, isn't it? The whole place."
"Just a bit," you admitted, your voice trembling as you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since you crossed the threshold. "I'm supposed to be on floor seventy-two, but I... I don't even know how to work the elevator. I don't want to break anything."
Bucky set his glass down on the edge of the kitchen island with a soft, glassy clink. "Let me help."
He closed the distance between you with slow, unhurried steps. When he reached you, he didn't crowd your space. Instead, he reached down and easily swept up your two heaviest suitcases in his right hand, lifting them as if they were filled with feathers rather than your entire life. He gestured toward the elevator bank with his head.
"Floor seventy-two is the residential wing," Bucky said, walking a half-step ahead of you to guide the way, his broad back a solid, protective shield in front of you. "It's quieter up there. Less of Stark's flashing gadgets. Less people, too."
The elevator doors opened silently, revealing a wood-paneled interior that felt slightly warmer than the rest of the lobby. You stepped inside, and Bucky followed, placing your bags neatly in the corner before tapping the button for seventy-two.
The ride up was quiet, but it wasn't the suffocating, awkward silence you had feared. Bucky stood near the control panel, keeping a respectful distance. He kept his eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers, giving you the space to breathe and adjust. You sneaked a glance at him in the reflective metal of the elevator doors. Even in the dim light, his profile was striking, his jaw clenched in quiet thought.
When the doors finally chimed and slid open to a softly carpeted, dimly lit hallway, Bucky led you down the corridor. The walls were lined with closed doors, the quiet hum of the building's climate control the only sound. He stopped in front of a door marked with your name.
He set your bags down gently beside the doorframe. He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, his metal left hand still hidden. He looked down at you, his blue eyes incredibly soft in the warm hallway light.
"Here you go," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave as if sharing a secret. "If you ever get lost, or... or if you just need something. Anything at all. My room is just down the hall. Right at the end. You can always ask me."
"Thank you, Bucky," you said, the tension finally leaving your shoulders, a genuine smile touching your lips. "Really. I don't think I would have made it past the lobby without you."
He gave you a small, tentative nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Goodnight."
As Bucky turned to walk back down the corridor, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the communal kitchen area at the end of the hall. Sam Wilson was leaning against the wall, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand and a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face. He had clearly been watching the entire exchange.
"Well, look at you, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood," Sam whispered loudly as Bucky approached. "Didn’t know the Winter Soldier offered a midnight room-service concierge. Do you get tips for that?"
Bucky’s ears flushed a bright, unmistakable pink under his long hair. He glared at Sam, his eyes narrowing as he shoved past him with a muttered, "Shut up, Sam."
"Oh, come on!" Sam chuckled, turning to follow him down the hall, his voice echoing slightly. "You even carried her bags! My back hurts just watching you be that polite! Since when do you carry anyone's bags?"
"I'm going to throw you off the roof, Wilson," Bucky growled back, though there was no real venom in it—just a desperate desire to hide the blush creeping up his neck.
_______________________________________________
Three weeks in, you had quickly learned that the easiest way to navigate the Avengers Tower was to live like a ghost. The common areas were constantly bustling with loud, larger-than-life personalities, and you felt like an interloper. To avoid the midday rush, you started setting your alarm for 5:30 AM, slipping out of your room to enjoy the quiet of the communal kitchen before the rest of the team woke up and filled the space with clanging pans, loud banter, and overwhelming energy.
But there was one major obstacle to your peaceful mornings: Tony Stark’s Italian espresso machine. It was a massive, chrome monstrosity that looked more like a spaceship control panel than an appliance. Every time you tried to use it, it hissed violently, beeped in harsh reprimand, or demanded a software update in a language you didn't speak.
On a Tuesday morning, you walked into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes, ready to battle the machine for a cup of tea. You were yawning, your hair messy, wrapped in a comfortable cardigan.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Sitting on the marble countertop was your favorite ceramic mug—the one with the chipped handle you always chose. Next to it sat the kettle, silently steaming, and a small, neatly arranged plate holding two bags of your favorite chamomile tea and a single silver spoon.
The kitchen was completely empty, bathed in the soft, gray light of the dawn.
You blinked, looking around. "FRIDAY? Did you do this?"
"I am programmed for many tasks, but I do not curate tea selections," the AI responded smoothly from the ceiling.
You smiled, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. You made your tea, wondering who had been so thoughtful.
The next morning, it happened again. This time, the kettle was hot, and there was a small jar of raw honey sitting next to the mug, the lid already loosened so you wouldn't have to struggle with it. Beside it was a tiny post-it note with a hand-drawn arrow pointing to the honey.
On the fifth morning, your curiosity got the better of you. You decided to slip down ten minutes earlier, creeping quietly down the hallway in your thick socks.
The kitchen lights were dimmed, the city outside the glass windows still shrouded in pre-dawn blue. Standing by the counter, his back to you, was Bucky. He was wearing his usual gray t-shirt, his hair pulled back into a messy bun.
He was carefully placing a fresh mug on the counter. With agonizing slowness and absolute precision, his heavy, silver metal fingers picked up a single tea bag by its paper string. He placed it perfectly beside the cup, aligning it with the spoon. He looked incredibly focused, his brow furrowed and his tongue slightly poking out of the corner of his mouth as if he were defusing a bomb rather than prepping breakfast.
You leaned against the doorframe, folding your arms, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "You know, you could just invite me to breakfast."
Bucky jumped, his metal hand twitching and nearly knocking the silver spoon off the counter. He spun around, his eyes wide, his face instantly turning a deep, burning crimson. He looked at the mug, then at you, and quickly shoved both of his hands into his pockets.
"I—I wasn't..." Bucky stammered, his usual cool, stoic demeanor completely evaporating into thin air. "I just... I wake up early. Old habits. And I noticed you always fight with the espresso machine. It's loud. Thought I'd save you the trouble. And the noise."
"It's incredibly sweet of you," you said, stepping into the kitchen and approaching him, your eyes locked onto his flustered face. "Thank you, Bucky. Really. The honey yesterday was a nice touch."
"It's nothing," he muttered quickly, his eyes darting toward the hallway exit like a trapped animal. "Just... making some for myself anyway. I'll let you get to it. Enjoy your tea."
Before you could say another word, he practically bolted out of the room, his long strides carrying him away in a flash.
From the shadow of the kitchen island, a tablet was slowly lowered. Natasha Romanoff was sitting on a barstool, a mug of green juice in her hand and a smug, highly amused expression on her face. She had been sitting there the whole time, completely unnoticed.
She didn't look up from her screen, but as Bucky’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, she spoke smoothly.
"You know, Barnes," Natasha called out, her voice carrying easily through the quiet kitchen, "if you put that much attention into your target practice, you'd actually hit the bullseye occasionally."
From down the hall, the only response was the loud, embarrassed slam of Bucky's bedroom door.
Natasha looked at you over the top of her tablet, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. "Cute," she murmured, taking a sip of her juice.
_______________________________________________
The rain was lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tower library, creating a steady, rhythmic static that made the cavernous room feel incredibly cozy. The library was three stories high, filled with rows of old wooden bookshelves and comfortable leather furniture. You were curled up on the massive leather sofa, wrapped in a thick knit blanket, completely absorbed in a romance novel.
The heavy wooden doors of the library creaked open. Bucky stepped in, holding a dusty paperback. He stopped when he saw you, hovering awkwardly near the entrance, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Oh. Sorry," Bucky said, gesturing toward the door. "I didn't know anyone was in here. I can go. Don't want to disturb you."
"No, stay!" you said, shifting your legs to make room on the massive couch. "There's plenty of space. It's nice in here today."
Bucky hesitated, his eyes lingering on the empty spot next to you before he walked over. Instead of sitting on the couch, however, he opted for the heavy armchair positioned directly across from you. He sat stiffly, his back straight, his book open in his lap. But he wasn't reading. His eyes kept darting over the top of the pages to watch you.
An hour passed in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rain against the glass and the occasional turning of a page.
Then, Bucky cleared his throat softly. "Is, uh... is the light better over there?"
You looked up from your book, blinking. "Yeah, the reading lamp is right above me. Why? Do you want me to turn another one on for you?"
"Just... thinking I might get a headache over here," he muttered, standing up. He walked over to the couch, sitting down on the absolute opposite end. He was so far away he was practically resting on the armrest, his body angled toward his book.
You hid a smile behind your pages. "You can come closer, Bucky. I don't bite. I promise."
He gave a quiet, self-deprecating huff but slid a few feet closer, his posture relaxing slightly.
Another thirty minutes passed. The rain grew heavier, casting the room in a soft, dim light. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between you shrunk. First, he shifted to get more comfortable. Then, he leaned back against the cushions, his shoulder drifting closer to yours. By the time the clock chimed 4:00 PM, Bucky was sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his broad body.
He wasn't even looking at his book anymore. He was looking at yours.
"What's it about?" he asked softly, his voice low and intimate, so as not to disturb the quiet of the room. "The story."
You turned to him, your face lighting up as you began to explain the plot. You talked about the characters, the drama, the slow-burn romance, gesturing with your hands as you got excited. Bucky didn't interrupt once. He just rested his chin on his right hand, his blue eyes fixed entirely on your face, a soft, incredibly captivated smile playing on his lips. He looked completely mesmerized—not by the story you were telling, but by the sheer, unbridled joy in your voice and the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed.
Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the dark hallway outside the glass doors of the library.
You both turned instantly. Tony Stark was standing in the corridor, his phone held up, a massive, devilish grin on his face. He quickly tapped his screen, his thumbs flying across the keyboard.
A second later, your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up, and Bucky leaned over your shoulder to look. It was a message in the group chat.
> Tony: Beauty and the Winter Beast. Shhh, don't scare him, he's actually socializing.
> [Image attached: Bucky looking at you with a look of pure, undivided devotion]
Bucky glared at the glass doors, his jaw clenching as his metal hand tightened into a fist. But Tony was already sauntering away down the hall, throwing a peace sign over his shoulder.
Bucky looked back at you, his face burning red, but he didn't move away. In fact, he slid a little closer, his arm brushing against yours. "He's an idiot," Bucky muttered, though he didn't deny the photo's caption.
_______________________________________________
It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and the Avengers Tower was uncharacteristically quiet. Most of the team had headed out on a rare free weekend, leaving only a skeleton crew behind. You had decided to spend your afternoon baking, occupying yourself with a recipe for homemade cinnamon rolls that required a significant amount of kneading.
You were up to your elbows in flour, your hair pinned up haphazardly, hum-singing a quiet melody to yourself as you worked the sticky dough on the marble kitchen island.
The glass doors lids open, and Bucky walked in, carrying a basket of clean laundry he had just fetched from the residential level. He paused, his gaze instantly locking onto you. A soft, warm expression immediately settled over his features, his broad shoulders losing their habitual tension.
"Smells good in here," he murmured, setting the basket down on a nearby chair. He walked over to the island, leaning his hip against the edge, watching you work with a look of quiet fascination.
"Baking therapy," you smiled, blowing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Unfortunately, the action only succeeded in smudging a white streak of flour across your cheek.
Bucky let out a soft, low chuckle. He didn't say a word. Instead, he reached out with his flesh hand, his warm, rough thumb gently sweeping across your cheekbone to brush the flour away. His touch was incredibly light, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. His blue eyes darkened slightly as they dropped to your lips, before darting back up to your eyes.
"There," he whispered, his voice suddenly husky. "Got it."
"Thanks," you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flip in your chest. You looked down at the dough, suddenly finding it very hard to concentrate. "Do, uh... do you want to help? The dough is incredibly stubborn today."
Bucky looked at his hands—his flesh right hand, and the heavy, silver metal of his left. A familiar shadow of hesitation crossed his face. "I don't think I'd be very good at that. Might crush it."
"Nonsense," you said firmly. You grabbed his right wrist, pulling his warm hand down onto the cool marble, placing it directly over the ball of dough. "Just press down with the heel of your hand, fold it over, and repeat. Like this."
You stood close, your shoulder brushing his chest as you guided his hand through the motion. Bucky held his breath, his chest expanding against your side. He worked the dough with agonizing, careful gentleness, his movements incredibly deliberate as he adapted his immense strength to the delicate task.
"See? You're a natural," you smiled, looking up at him.
Bucky didn't look at the dough. He was looking down at you, his breath warm on your forehead. "Only because I have a good teacher," he whispered, repeating your words from the gym weeks prior.
The moment stretched, thick and heavy with a quiet, domestic intimacy that made your knees feel weak. You realized then that these quiet, ordinary moments with him were fast becoming the anchor of your entire life.
_______________________________________________
It was a rare Sunday where absolutely nothing was expected of anyone. The sun poured through your bedroom window, painting bright geometric patterns across the rug. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, a sewing needle threaded with dark gray string held between your teeth as you meticulously repaired a tear in the seam of Bucky’s favorite heavy-knit cardigan.
Bucky was lying lengthwise across the foot of your bed on his stomach, his chin resting on his crossed forearms, watching you work. His long hair was completely unbound, spilling over his shoulders, and he looked profoundly content just being in your orbit.
"You don't have to fix that," he said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I could've just asked Tony for a replacement. Or thrown it out."
You took the needle out of your mouth, casting him a playful, disapproving look. "Throw it out? It's perfectly good wool, Bucky. Just because you got it caught on a tactical rack downstairs doesn't mean it's trash. Besides, you look nice in this color."
Bucky’s gaze softened exponentially. He reached out with his flesh hand, his large, warm fingers lightly brushing against your ankle where it peeked out from your sweatpants. He didn't pull away, just kept his hand anchored there, absorbing the touch.
"My mother used to stitch things like that," he murmured, a rare, unprompted memory of the 1930s slipping out. "Sitting by the window in the apartment. She'd fix Steve’s trousers because he was always tearing them running away from guys three times his size."
You paused your needle, looking down at him with a tender smile. "Did she teach you?"
"A little," he admitted, a small, nostalgic smirk lifting his lips. "But my fingers were always too clumsy. Even back then." He shifted slightly, his eyes dropping to his silver metal hand resting flat against your duvet. "Definitely too clumsy now."
"Hey," you said softly, setting the cardigan down in your lap. You reached forward, sliding your hands beneath his large metal palm, lifting it up and turning it over so you could interlock your fingers with his cybernetic ones. "Your fingers aren't clumsy. I've watched you handle tea bags like they were made of spun glass. You are incredibly gentle, Bucky. Don't talk down about yourself."
Bucky stared at where your small fingers were woven seamlessly between his vibranium ones. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his chest expanding against the mattress. He didn't speak, but he pulled your hand up to his face, pressing his lips firmly against your knuckles, holding the kiss there for several long, breathless seconds. The sheer weight of his silent gratitude filled the sunny room, sweeter than any spoken promise.
_______________________________________________
The silence of the 3:00 AM corridor was shattered by a sound that made your blood run cold.
It was a muffled, choked gasp, followed by the heavy, metallic thud of something striking a wall, and then a low, desperate groan.
You dropped your glass of water onto the kitchen counter, the liquid splashing over the marble, and ran down the hallway. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the sound of your own breathing loud in the empty corridor. The sounds were coming from Bucky’s room at the very end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale, cold moonlight cutting across the dark hardwood floor inside.
"Bucky?" you whispered, pushing the door open slowly.
He was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, his chest heaving violently. He was shirtless, his broad back slick with cold sweat. His right hand was clawed tightly into his hair, pulling so hard his knuckles were stark white. His metal left arm hung completely limp at his side, a heavy, useless weight that he seemed completely disconnected from. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the far wall, seeing things that weren't there. He was trapped in the past, drowning in a memory of cold snow, blood, and the metallic tang of fear.
"No, no, no," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked, raw, and barely recognizable. "Please... I can't... I don't want to do this anymore... please..."
You didn't run for Steve. You didn't panic.
Slowly, deliberately, you crossed the room and dropped to your knees directly in front of him on the floor. You kept your distance at first, ensuring he didn't feel cornered in his dark room.
"Bucky," you said, your voice steady, soft, and quiet, a gentle anchor in the storm of his mind. "Bucky, look at me. It's me."
He didn't hear you. He let out a ragged, terrified gasp, his body shaking violently as a tremor ran through his shoulders.
"Bucky, I'm going to touch you, okay?" you whispered, moving closer.
Slowly, you reached out and placed your warm hands over his bare knees, pressing down firmly to ground him to the physical reality of the room. "Feel the floor. You're in the Tower. You're in New York. You're safe. I'm right here with you."
At the warmth of your hands, Bucky flinched, his head snapping down. But he didn't pull away.
You slid your hands up, gently reaching for his left arm. You didn't avoid the metal. You didn't treat it like a weapon or a curse. Instead, you slid your warm palm down the cool, smooth vibranium of his forearm, eventually wrapping your fingers entirely around his metal hand. You squeezed his cold, rigid fingers with all the strength you had, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.
"It's just me, Bucky," you murmured, leaning in closer so he could hear you over the rushing sound in his ears. "I've got you. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me. In and out."
A long, shuddering gasp broke from his chest, his shoulders dropping slightly. The blank, terrified fog in his blue eyes began to clear, slowly focusing on your face, your eyes, your hands. He looked down at his lap, his gaze landing on your small, warm hand completely encasing his cold, metallic fingers.
"You're... you're here," he whispered, his voice trembling like a child's.
"I'm right here," you smiled softly, squeezing his hand again, feeling the metal fingers slightly twitch, returning the pressure. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe, Bucky. The Winter Soldier is gone. You're just Bucky."
You stayed on the floor with him for hours. You helped him sit up, made him a warm cup of herbal tea, and sat next to him on the edge of the bed in complete, comfortable silence, your hand never leaving his. As you watched him slowly drift back to sleep, his features finally relaxing in the soft light of the fading moon, a profound realization washed over you.
You were falling for him. You didn't just care for him as a friend; you wanted to protect him, to hold him, to be the one who pulled him out of the dark.
_______________________________________________
The following afternoon, the training gym was empty save for Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, who were running a high-intensity tactical sparring drill. The air was thick with the dull thud of heavy strikes against hand-pads.
Bucky entered the gym quietly, his arms wrapped in white athletic tape, his jaw tight. He picked up a pair of heavy leather gloves but didn't put them on. He just leaned against the edge of the elevated boxing ring, watching them.
Steve paused mid-stance, catching the distinct, heavy weight of Bucky’s presence. He lowered his pads, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "You look like you didn't sleep a wink, Buck. Everything alright?"
Bucky didn't answer right away. He stared down at his taped hands, his thumbs tracing the edges of the cloth. "She came into my room last night," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable register that instantly made Sam stop his footwork drill.
Sam walked over, grabbing a towel from the corner turnbuckle. "The night terrors?"
"Yeah," Bucky rumbled, a slow, trembling breath escaping him. "The whole room went black. I couldn't breathe. I was back in the snow. I was screaming at her to leave, yelling that I was a monster, that I’d break her." He looked up, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and completely stripped of his usual defensive walls. "And do you know what she did? She didn't call for backup. She didn't back away. She dropped to her knees right in front of me and grabbed the metal arm. Both hands. Held it like it was just... part of me. Forced me to feel her heartbeat."
Steve’s expression softened exponentially, a profound, deeply emotional look of relief washing over his face. He walked over to the edge of the ring, leaning his forearms against the ropes to look down at his lifelong friend. "She stayed?"
"She stayed for hours," Bucky whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at Sam, then back to Steve, his broad chest rising and falling as if he were carrying the weight of the world. "I don't understand it. I’ve spent seventy years being forced to tear things apart, and she looks at me and just sees... a man worth saving. The old noise, the programming—whenever she's in the room, it just goes completely quiet. I'd do anything for her, Steve. Anything. I'm entirely gone. I love her so much it feels like it's going to split my chest wide open."
Sam stared at him for three seconds, completely stunned by the raw intensity of the confession, before a massive, proud grin broke across his face. He threw his towel onto the floor and clapped Bucky hard on his flesh shoulder.
"Well, look at that," Sam said, his voice thick with genuine affection beneath his usual teasing tone. "The terrifying Winter Soldier is officially a goner. It’s about damn time, Barnes. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and frankly, we all knew it before you did."
Steve reached over the ropes, his large hand gripping Bucky's neck with the deep, protective brotherhood of Brooklyn. "She loves you too, Buck. You don't have to be afraid of it anymore. Let yourself have this."
Bucky let out a ragged, huffed breath, a small, incredibly relieved smile finally touching his lips as he nodded against Steve's grip.
_______________________________________________
The charity gala in the main ballroom of the Tower was a glittering, suffocating nightmare of flashing cameras, clinking champagne glasses, and hundreds of wealthy strangers laughing too loudly. The air was thick with perfume and expensive cologne.
You stood near the edge of the room, holding a glass of sparkling water, keeping a constant eye on Bucky. He was dressed in a sleek black suit that fit his broad frame perfectly, making him look incredibly handsome. But he looked like a caged animal. His collar was too tight, his shoulders were stiff, and his eyes kept darting to the exits as the press corps crowded around the Avengers table, the strobe lights of their cameras flashing rapidly and relentlessly.
A loud glass shattered across the room, followed by a sudden burst of startled, sharp laughter.
Bucky flinched violently, his right hand instantly clenching into a tight fist, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was starting to spiral, his breathing hitching as the loud noises and flashing lights triggered his combat reflexes.
Before anyone else in the crowd could notice his distress, you weaved through the sea of socialites. You slipped your hand directly into his right hand, your fingers interlocking with his, offering a sudden, warm anchor.
Bucky looked down at you, his eyes wide and panicked, his chest heaving.
"Hey," you said, your voice a calm, steady whisper that cut through the roaring din of the ballroom. "I am absolutely starving, and the catering here is terrible. Come with me to the pantry? I want to steal some of those fancy chocolate desserts before Stark eats them all."
Bucky stared at you, his heart pounding, before a wave of pure, overwhelming relief washed over his face. "Yeah," he breathed, his grip on your hand tightening. "Yeah, let's go. Please."
You pulled him out of the ballroom, navigating the quiet hallways until you slipped through a side door into the dark, quiet prep kitchen and back into the pantry. The heavy steel door shut behind you, instantly cutting out the deafening noise of the party.
Bucky leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes as he let out a long, ragged exhale. He looked down at you in the dim light of the pantry, his blue eyes soft and filled with a profound, quiet devotion.
"You didn't want chocolate, did you?" he asked quietly, a small, tired smile touching his lips.
"I mean, I wouldn't say no to it," you smiled, looking up at him, your hand still holding his tightly. "But I wanted to get you out of there more. You looked like you were about to punch a reporter."
Bucky let out a soft, genuine laugh, the tension fully leaving his shoulders. "You're amazing, you know that? You always know exactly when to pull me out."
Outside the pantry glass, Colonel James Rhodes watched the door close. He turned to Bruce Banner, nodding toward the hallway.
"Look at that," Rhodey said, a soft smile on his face. "He's got a guardian angel now. Best thing that ever happened to him. He's actually smiling."
Bruce smiled, taking a sip of his sparkling water. "Yeah. It really is. She's good for him."
_______________________________________________
The sun had long set, leaving the common room in a deep, peaceful quiet. You sat on the floor of the living room, a soft microfiber cloth and a small bottle of specialized, non-abrasive synthetic lubricant resting on the coffee table in front of you. In your lap lay Bucky’s spare vibranium hand-plate—the protective casing he had taken off earlier because the joint was clicking. He had left it on the workbench, and you had quietly brought it up to clean the stubborn grit out of the intricate gold filigree.
You were so focused on carefully wiping down the delicate grooves that you didn’t hear the elevator doors slide open.
"You know, those plates cost more than a high-end sports car," a voice remarked quietly.
You gasped, nearly dropping the heavy metal plate. Tony Stark was standing by the bar, holding an empty tumbler. He wasn't wearing his usual cocky armor; he just looked tired, his hair slightly disheveled. He walked over, his eyes tracking the cloth in your hand, then moving to your face.
"I'm just cleaning the seals," you said defensively, cradling the plate a little closer to your chest. "The dust from the upstate mission got into the tracking track. It was making a clicking sound that was driving him crazy."
Tony sat down on the armchair opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He studied you for a long, quiet moment. The usual sarcastic glint in his eyes was replaced by a genuine, searching curiosity.
"Why do you do it?" Tony asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I mean, really. The guy is a walking museum of defense mechanisms. He's grumpy, he's quiet, and half the time he looks like he wants to disassemble my coffee maker with his bare hands. But you... you treat him like he's made of glass. You polish his armor, you make his tea, you sit in the dark with him. What is it?"
You set the cloth down, your fingers tracing the cool, elegant gold line of the vibranium. You let out a soft, steady breath, finally putting into words what you had been feeling for months.
"Because everyone else in this world looks at him and sees what he can do," you said quietly, looking Tony dead in the eye. "To the world, he’s either a threat, a weapon, or a legendary hero from a history book. Even to himself, he's just a collection of mistakes he can't undo."
You looked down at the plate in your lap, a soft, incredibly tender smile touching your lips.
"But when I look at him... I just see Bucky. I see the man who notices when I'm overwhelmed and quietly carries my bags. I see the man who takes ten minutes to carefully set up a tea bag just so I don't have to hear a loud espresso machine in the morning. He has so much gentleness inside him, Tony. He’s spent seventy years being forced to break things, and all he wants to do now is protect them. When I'm with him, I don't feel like an outsider in this giant tower. I feel safe. I feel seen. Caring for him isn't a chore. It's the easiest, most natural thing I've ever done."
Tony stared at you, completely silenced. For once, the fast-talking billionaire didn't have a witty comeback or a sarcastic quip.
He slowly stood up, nodding his head toward the plate in your lap. "The blue microfiber cloth works better on the gold joints," he said softly, a genuine, respectful smile touching his face. "Less static. Keep doing what you're doing. He needs it."
As Tony walked back to the elevator, you didn't notice the shadow standing in the darkened hallway just beyond the kitchen. Bucky had been standing there, intending to grab a glass of water. He had heard every single word. His hand was pressed against the doorframe, his chest heaving as your words washed over him, filling the empty, cold spaces of his heart with a warmth so fierce it brought tears to his eyes.
_______________________________________________
The communal living room was packed.
The giant flat-screen TV was playing a classic action movie, and the team was scattered across the massive sectional couch.
Bucky was sitting on the far end of the couch, leaving a respectful, wide gap beside him. He sat quietly, watching the screen but looking slightly isolated from the group.
You walked into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn. Instead of sitting on the empty armchair, you walked straight over to Bucky and sat down right next to him, closing the gap completely. Your shoulders brushed, and you could feel the instant, rigid tension in his body as he held his breath, terrified of crowding you or making you uncomfortable.
As the movie progressed, the air conditioning in the room kicked in, sending a cold draft through the space. You shivered slightly, subtly shifting closer to Bucky’s side, seeking his warmth.
He noticed. He didn't say a word, but he slowly draped his right arm over the back of the couch behind you. He didn't touch you yet, leaving his hand hovering, giving you the choice to lean in or stay put.
You smiled, leaning your head back against his broad shoulder and reaching over to rest your hand gently on his knee.
Bucky let out a long breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. His arm droped around your shoulders, pulling you securely against his side, creating a warm, protective cocoon that shielded you from the draft and the rest of the room. He rested his cheek against your hair, his grip firm and loving.
From the floor, Clint Barton was stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. He blinked, nudging Natasha with his elbow, pointing a piece of popcorn at the two of you.
"Ten bucks says they’re holding hands under that blanket," Clint whispered loudly to Natasha, not even trying to hide his voice.
Without even taking his eyes off the TV screen, Bucky reached over with his metal hand, grabbed a thick throw pillow from the side, and launched it with perfect, superhuman accuracy directly into Clint's face.
You burst out laughing, the sound bright and clear, and Bucky’s arm tightened around you, a quiet, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as he pulled you closer.
_______________________________________________
It was a freezing, miserable Thursday afternoon, and a brutal sleet storm was rattling the floor-to-ceiling glass of the common area. You had come down with a mild head cold—nothing serious, but enough to make you feel congested, chilly, and thoroughly miserable. You were huddled on the sectional sofa, wrapped in three different blankets, your nose a faint, irritated pink.
The glass doors slid open, and Bucky walked in. He had just finished a grueling physical therapy session down in the medical bay, his hair damp and his shoulders slightly stiff.
He took one look at your bundled, shivering form, and his stoic expression instantly morphed into a look of deep, focused concern.
"You're freezing," he said, walking over and kneeling by the side of the couch. He reached out, his warm flesh hand gently pressing against your forehead to check your temperature. His palm was incredibly soothing against your cool skin.
"Just a little cold," you mumbled, your voice congested. "And my throat is scratchy."
Bucky didn't say another word. He stood up and marched straight into the kitchen. For the next ten minutes, you heard the quiet, rhythmic sounds of him moving around—the soft click of the kettle, the opening of the pantry, and the distinct, sliding sound of a knife on a cutting board.
When he returned, he was carrying a single, massive ceramic mug. Steaming hot water was infused with fresh ginger slices, a thick squeeze of lemon, and a generous dollop of honey.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, gently pulling you up so you were leaning against his side. He held the mug in his right hand, blowing on the surface to cool it before holding it to your lips.
"Drink," he murmured softly. "It'll help the scratchiness."
You took a slow, warm sip. The spice of the ginger and the sweetness of the honey instantly coated your raw throat, making you let out a soft sigh of relief. "It's perfect. Thank you, Bucky."
You reached out to take the mug, but your fingers were shivering so hard the hot liquid sloshed near the rim.
"I've got it," Bucky whispered.
Instead of letting you struggle, he adjusted his position. He slid behind you, pulling you back so you were resting entirely against his broad chest, your back flush against his stomach. He wrapped his strong arms around you, his heavy, silver metal left arm resting securely across your lap to hold you steady, while his warm flesh right hand held the mug. Together, your hands clasped around the ceramic.
With his metal hand acting as a solid, unyielding brace and his body heat radiating through your blankets like a furnace, the shivering stopped almost instantly. He patiently held the cup for you, guiding it to your lips every time you wanted a sip, his chin resting gently on the top of your head.
"Better?" he rumbled, the vibration of his voice traveling straight through your back.
"Much better," you whispered, closing your eyes as you let the cozy, overwhelming safety of his embrace wrap around you.
By the time the storm outside began to clear, you had fallen fast asleep, completely secure in his arms. Bucky didn't move an inch. He simply set the empty mug on the table, tightened his grip around your waist, and let himself drift off to the steady, peaceful rhythm of your breathing.
_______________________________________________
The common room was a chaotic blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of sweet vanilla frosting. It was your birthday, and the team had gone all out. You stood by the coffee table, surrounded by a mountain of colorful wrapping paper and bows. You had already received some incredible, characteristically grand gifts: a sleek, custom-designed tablet from Tony, a beautifully restored vintage camera from Steve, and a gorgeous, tailored leather jacket from Natasha.
But throughout the entire evening, your eyes kept drifting to the back of the room.
Bucky was standing quietly by the bar, leaning his hip against the counter. He was wearing a soft, dark crewneck sweater that made him look incredibly cozy, his long hair pushed back behind his ears. In his right hand, he held a medium-sized box wrapped in simple, slightly uneven brown butcher paper, tied with a neat piece of twine. He looked incredibly nervous—his blue eyes darting to you, then down to the box, his thumb running anxiously over the rough paper.
When the crowd finally thinned and Tony dragged Steve away to argue about a playlist, Bucky took his cue. He walked over, his steps slow and deliberate, and stopped in front of you.
"Hey," he said, his voice a quiet, gravelly murmur that instantly cut through the room's background noise. He held out the package. "Happy birthday."
"Bucky," you smiled, taking the box. The weight of it was surprising, solid and steady. "You didn't have to get me anything. Really. Your presence is enough."
"Just... open it," he whispered, his cheeks flushing a faint, endearing pink. He tucked his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tense as he waited.
You untied the twine and peeled back the brown paper. Sliding the lid off the cardboard box, you pushed aside a layer of soft white tissue paper.
You stopped breathing.
Resting inside was a pair of shoes. But they weren't just any shoes. They were a pair of classic Mary Janes made of the softest, richest cherry-red leather. They had the signature delicate T-strap, a small silver buckle, and a perfectly rounded toe.
A sudden, sharp wave of nostalgia hit you so hard it made your chest ache. Your mind immediately flashed back to a quiet evening months ago...
The storm outside the library windows had been relentless, but inside, the fire was roaring. You were curled up on the rug with your back against Bucky’s shins as he sat on the couch, reading. You had been flipping through an old photo album your parents had mailed you.
You had stopped on a faded, grainy photograph of yourself at six years old, sitting on a playground swing. You were laughing, your head thrown back, wearing a bright yellow dress and a pair of shiny, scuffed red shoes.
"What are you looking at?" Bucky had asked, his deep voice rumbling above you. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees to look over your shoulder.
"Just... these," you smiled softly, tapping the photo. "My red Mary Janes. I was completely obsessed with them when I was little. I wore them until my toes curled and the soles literally fell off. My mom eventually had to throw them away in secret because I refused to take them off, even to sleep."
"Yeah?" Bucky let out a soft, low chuckle, his eyes warm.
"Yeah," you sighed, a little wistfully, tracing the tiny scuffed toe in the photo. "I've spent years—literally years—trying to find another pair just like them. But they’re never the right color, or the leather is too stiff, or the strap is wrong. I guess they just don't make them like that anymore. It’s silly, but... I really miss those shoes."
Bucky hadn't said anything for a long moment. He had just stared at the photograph, his blue eyes incredibly focused, as if he were memorizing every single detail of the stitching, the specific shade of cherry-red, and the shape of the buckle.
You stared down into the box.
You reached in, your fingers trembling as you lifted one of the shoes. The leather was unbelievably supple, smelling of high-quality craftsmanship, and the shade of cherry-red was exact. It was the precise, vibrant hue from your childhood memory.
"Bucky..." your voice was barely a whisper. You looked up at him, your eyes instantly bright with tears. "How... how did you...?"
"I remembered," Bucky said softly. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning your face, searching for your reaction with an anxious intensity. "I knew they had to be perfect. The right leather, the right strap. I... I had a cobbler in Brooklyn custom-make them. I gave him the photo you showed me. Took him a few tries to get the dye exactly right, but... I wanted you to have your red shoes back."
You looked at the shoes, then at Bucky, who was standing there looking at you like his entire world hung on your next breath.
It was the most thoughtful, deeply personal thing anyone had ever done for you. It wasn't a high-tech gadget or a luxury item; it was a piece of your childhood, a piece of your heart, brought back to life because he had listened to you on a random rainy Tuesday.
You let out a wet, breathless laugh. Without care for who was watching, you set the box down on the table, took a step forward, and threw your arms tightly around Bucky’s neck.
Bucky stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second—always hyper-aware of his own strength—before his arms locked around your waist. He pulled you flush against him, lifting you slightly off your feet. His head buried itself in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he held you with a desperate, fierce tenderness.
"I love them," you whispered into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. "I love them so much, Bucky. Thank you."
"Happy birthday," he murmured, his voice thick with a relief so profound it made his chest shake against yours. He didn't let go, holding you close in the middle of the crowded room, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.
Over by the bar, Wanda Maximoff watched the two of you, a soft, incredibly knowing smile on her face. She took a sip of her drink and nudged Natasha, who was watching with a rare, quiet fondness.
"You know," Wanda murmured, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "usually people buy rings when they want to show that level of devotion. But Bucky just went and raised the bar for every man in this Tower."
Natasha academic smirked, raising her glass in Bucky’s direction. "Stark is going to be furious that his multi-million dollar tablet got upstaged by a pair of red shoes."
_______________________________________________
The day after your birthday, the frantic energy of the party had settled, but the high-vibrational thrill of his gift still pulsed under your skin. It was just past midnight, and the Tower was completely dark. You couldn't sleep. The shiny, cherry-red Mary Janes were sitting on your rug, catching the moonlight. On an impulse that made your heart skip, you slid your feet into them, buckled the delicate silver T-straps, and slipped out of your room.
The polished hardwood corridors of the residential floor were a silent gallery of shadows. The only sound was the rhythmic, crisp click-clack of your new leather soles echoing softly off the walls.
You walked down to the massive panoramic observation deck, where the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked a sleeping Manhattan.
Standing right at the edge of the glass, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers, was Bucky. He didn't look up when the glass doors slid open, but the moment your shoes made a sharp click against the metallic trim of the floor, his head snapped around. His eyes dropped immediately to your feet, and a remarkably soft, dazed look washed over his features.
"They fit," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a wave of fierce pride.
"Perfectly," you smiled, walking over to join him at the railing. The red leather gleamed under the city lights outside. "I couldn't sleep. I just... wanted to wear them. I feel like I'm six years old again, running around the backyard."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling chuckle, moving his broad frame just an inch closer so his shoulder brushed yours. "You look beautiful. The color is exactly how I remembered it from the photo."
"You have an incredible memory, Bucky Barnes," you whispered, turning your back to the glass and leaning against the rail, looking up at him.
"Only for things that matter," he replied instantly, his blue eyes dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your gaze with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
The silence stretched, no longer comfortable, but charged with a thick, heavy longing that made the air between you feel electric. You took a half-step forward, the click of your shoe sharp in the quiet space. Bucky’s hands slowly slipped out of his pockets. His right hand hovered near your waist, his fingers twitching as if he desperately wanted to pull you into his space but was holding himself back by a thread.
"Bucky..." you breathed.
"We should get some sleep," he muttered abruptly, his jaw clenching as he pulled his hand back, the old walls slamming shut in a flash of panic. "It's late. Happy birthday again."
Before you could reach for him, he turned and walked away into the shadows, leaving you standing alone by the glass, the crisp click of your red shoes the only sound left in the dark.
_______________________________________________
The training gym was empty, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Bucky’s metal hand striking a heavy leather punching bag. The air in the room was warm and carried the sharp scent of sweat and leather.
You walked in, wearing your workout gear, holding a roll of athletic tape. "Need a hand wrapping those?"
Bucky stopped his strike, the heavy bag swinging wildly on its chain. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his damp, grey t-shirt. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, a soft, warm smile breaking through his exhaustion when he saw you. "Yeah. Thanks. Could use the help."
He sat on the edge of the elevated boxing ring, his legs dangling over the side. You stepped between his knees, unravelling the white athletic tape. You worked slowly, your fingers brushing against his warm skin as you wrapped the tape tightly around his knuckles, his palm, and his wrist.
The silence between you was heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that had been building for months.
"You're getting good at this," Bucky murmured, his voice low and intimate, his blue eyes fixed entirely on your hands as you worked.
"I have a good teacher," you replied, looking up to meet his gaze.
Your faces were only inches apart. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the deep blue of his eyes, and trace the slight stubble along his jawline. Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, almost magnetically, his right hand slid up to rest on your waist, his grip tightening just enough to pull you a fraction of an inch closer.
He looked down at your lips, his jaw clenching. His eyes were filled with a sudden, agonizing longing. For a second, you thought he was finally going to lean in. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, waiting.
But at the last second, Bucky closed his eyes, let go of your waist, and took a step back, running a hand through his damp hair. His voice was strained, thick with frustration and fear.
"We... we should take a break," he muttered, looking away at the floor. "I'm sweating. I don't want to... I should go. Clean up."
Before you could say anything, the heavy double doors of the gym swung open. Thor bounced into the room, his booming laughter echoing off the walls. He looked at Bucky’s flushed, tense face, then at your breathless expression, a giant grin breaking across his face.
"A break indeed, Friend Barnes!" Thor boomed, slamming his heavy hand onto Bucky’s back so hard the supersoldier stumbled forward. "Though I believe the only battle you are fighting here is with your own stubborn silence! Speak your heart before the lightning strikes, brother!"
Bucky groaned loudly, grabbing a towel from the bench and throwing it completely over his face to hide his embarrassment. "I'm going to throw you out a window, Thor," he muttered from beneath the terrycloth.
_______________________________________________
The thunderstorm outside didn't just rattle the glass of the Tower; it felt as though it were tearing the sky apart. Inside Bucky’s room, the only light came from the violent, erratic blue flashes of lightning cutting through the pitch black, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor.
Bucky hadn't left his room in over twenty-four hours. The silent, suffocating weight of his own mind had finally closed in on him, triggered by the raw, terrifying realization of how deeply he had fallen for you.
You overrode his door scanner and pushed the door open.
"Get out."
The voice didn't sound like Bucky. It was a hollow, dead rasp, coming from the corner of the room. He was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest. He was stripped down to a dark tank top, his metal left arm shaking violently, the gears clicking in a frantic, distressed pattern.
"Bucky," you said, your voice trembling but resolute. "I'm not leaving you like this."
"I said get out!" he suddenly roared, scrambling to his feet and backing himself into the wall like a cornered animal. "Do you have any idea what's in my head right now? What I'm seeing? I can't look at you without seeing the blood on my hands. I can't breathe!"
You didn't flinch. You closed the distance until you were standing only inches from him. "Then let me help you breathe. Let me in, Bucky. Stop fighting me."
"I am trying to save you!" he screamed, the sound raw and agonizingly painful. In a desperate burst of panic, he grabbed you by the shoulders with his flesh hand, shoving you back a step. "I don't know how to love you without wanting to touch you. And I don't know how to touch you without remembering what these hands have done. I am a weapon. You look at me and you see a man, but I look in the mirror and I see a monster that is going to break you!"
He collapsed back against the wall, sliding down until his knees hit the floor, his shoulders shaking with violent, broken sobs. "I want you so bad. But I am poison. Please... don't make me ruin you."
You dropped to your knees right in front of him. With absolute, unyielding force, you grabbed his shaking metal left arm, refusing to let him wrench it away. You pulled his heavy vibranium hand toward you and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart, forcing him to feel the rapid, frantic beat of your life beneath his metal fingers.
"Does this feel broken to you?" you whispered, your tears hot as they fell onto his silver fingers. "My heart is beating because of you. I am alive, and I am safe, and I am not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Let me love you, Bucky. Please, just let me."
Bucky stared at his metal hand pressed against your chest. He felt the steady, warm thump of your heart beneath his cold fingers—a life he wasn't destroying, a life that was choosing him. A ragged, choked breath escaped him. The paralyzing fear collapsed, and he lunged forward.
His mouth crashed down onto yours with a bruising, desperate hunger. The kiss was wild, intense, and raw, tasting of salt and tears. His tongue parted your lips, claiming your mouth completely as his flesh hand tangled fiercely in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
A low, primal growl tore from his throat as the emotional dam broke entirely, turning the raw angst into an overwhelming, unquenchable physical desperation.
In a single, fluid motion, his heavy metal hand locked around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and pinning you against the wall. The contrast of the cool wall against your back and his scorching, massive body pressing into your front made your breath hitch.
"God help me," Bucky groaned against your lips, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. His blue eyes were dark, stormy, and completely blown out with desire. "You're everything I think about. Every night. It’s driving me insane. I love you. Tell me I can have you."
"Yes," you whined, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, your fingers clawing at the broad muscles of his shoulders. "Bucky, please."
He didn't wait. His hands slid under your clothes, his warm skin and smooth, cool vibranium tracing the curve of your hips, completely consuming you in a chaotic, breathless rush of pure, unchecked desire. He kissed your jaw, your throat, biting gently at the column of your neck until you were arching against him, gasping his name into the dark. Every touch was heavy, possessive, and thick with the realization that he didn't have to be afraid of his own strength with you—you wanted all of it.
"I've got you," you murmured against his damp skin as he buried his face in your neck, his body trembling with the sheer force of his release. "I've got you, Bucky. I'm right here."
"I love you," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone, his arms locking around you so tightly you felt entirely welded to him. "God, I love you so much. Don't let me go."
"Never I love you James…" you whispered, sealing the promise in the quiet dark of the fading storm.
_______________________________________________
The violent fury of the storm outside had finally settled into a soft, steady patter of rain against the glass, casting a serene, almost hypnotic quiet over Bucky's bedroom. The air was cool, but the space between the two of you was thick with a warm, heavy peace.
Bucky was still sitting on the floor, his back rested against the foot of his bed, his legs stretched out. He looked utterly exhausted, the emotional storm having drained every ounce of his supersoldier energy. His chest rose and fell in slow, quiet breaths.
You stood up quietly, your joints popping in the silence. Bucky’s eyes followed you instantly, a flicker of that old, anxious panic parting through his gaze as if he feared you were leaving.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, reaching down to press a soft kiss to his temple. "I'll be right back. I promise."
You walked into his dark, spacious bathroom. You ran the tap until the water was comfortably warm, dipping a soft, clean cotton washcloth into it. You grabbed a small jar of soothing, lavender-scented skin balm—something you had bought him weeks ago to help with the irritation around his cybernetic ports, though he had been too stubborn to use it himself.
When you returned, you dropped back down to your knees between his legs. Bucky watched you with wide, vulnerable eyes, his hands resting loose and open on his thighs.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice incredibly soft and raspy.
"A clean-up," you smiled gently, folding the warm washcloth over your hand. "You're covered in sweat and tears. Let me take care of you."
You raised your hand, pausing to let him see what you were doing. Bucky gave a slow, tentative nod, closing his eyes as you gently pressed the warm cloth to his forehead. You wiped away the dried sweat, moving down to trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones, his jaw, and the bridge of his nose. Your touch was feather-light, incredibly deliberate. Bucky let out a long, trembling sigh, his entire body melting under your care.
"You're too good to me," he mumbled, his eyes still closed. "I don't deserve this."
"Quiet," you murmured affectionately, wiping a stray tear track from the corner of his eye. "You deserve everything."
You set the washcloth aside and opened the jar of balm, warming a small dollop between your palms. Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly as you reached for his left side. The seam where his vibranium arm met his flesh shoulder—the angry, red scar tissue and metallic plates—was his deepest source of shame. He hated looking at it, let alone letting anyone touch it.
"Can I?" you asked softly, holding your warm hands just an inch away from the joint.
Bucky hesitated, a heavy swallow working its way down his throat. But he looked into your eyes, saw nothing but pure, unadulterated love, and slowly nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
You gently pressed your warm palms against the delicate, scarred flesh around his collarbone and shoulder blade. You massaged the balm in slow, circular motions, working out the tight, painful knots of muscle that had built up from hours of him clenching in panic.
Bucky gasped softly at the relief, his head falling back against the mattress. A low, rumbling groan of pure comfort vibrated deep in his chest. Your small, warm hands slid effortlessly over the boundary where flesh met cold silver metal, treating both with the exact same tenderness. You rubbed his cybernetic forearm, your fingers tracing the elegant, glowing gold seams of the vibranium, showing him that every single inch of him was safe in your hands.
"Does that feel okay?" you whispered, leaning in so your breath fanned his neck.
Bucky didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached out with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, gently halting your movements. He pulled your hand up to his lips, pressing a slow, incredibly deep kiss into the palm of your hand, his eyes burning with an intense, quiet devotion.
"It feels like peace," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled you up by your waist, guiding you to crawl up onto his lap. You wrapped your legs around him, burying your face in his neck as his strong arms locked around you, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the entire universe. "It feels like home.”
Can you please do a story like a one-sided enemies to lovers where the reader thinks bucky hates them so they automatically just not like him but they eventually learn that..that's just how bucky looks. He always looks upset and angry all the time so it wasn't directed at them, he's just like that.
Face Value
$ log - you were convinced bucky barnes was a cold, arrogant agent who despised you — so you made it your personal mission to hate him right back. it took an assignment in riga, a broken sensor, and a remarkably good bowl of soup to realise that his intentions were far warmer than you ever imagined.
$ warn --sfw --fluff --gn!reader --awkward!cutie!bucky --enemies-to-lovers(one-sided) --miscomm(heavy) --stuck-in-the-safehouse-tg --only-one-bed --hes-adorable
$ wc -w 8.7k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
$ echo "okay I went crazy-style on this, enjoy" > authors-note.txt
0001 — one
The first time you met Bucky, he looked at you as though you’d keyed his car.
You’d been at the compound for all of three hours. You still had your lanyard on, alongside the new-hire packet tucked under your arm because nobody had shown you where to put it.
Upon walking into the common area kitchen to fill a water bottle, you found him already there — leaning against the counter with a mug in his left hand. The moment you stepped through the door, he turned his head and simply — stared.
It wasn't a glance, nor was it a polite scan-and-dismiss. It was a full, sustained, unblinking stare — brows drawn tight, jaw set, and his mouth pressed into a flat line. It was as if you’d interrupted something sacred, as though your mere existence in the doorway was an affront to whatever silent communion he’d been having with his coffee.
"Hi," you said. "I'm —"
"I know who you are." He took a sip, never once blinking. "Welcome."
It was the least welcoming greeting you’d ever received. The word came out as if he were legally compelled to say it — as though someone had a gun to his back, mouthing say the nice thing whilst he white-knuckled his way through the syllable.
You filled your water bottle in silence, fully aware of him watching you before you finally made your escape.
That, as far as you were concerned, was the entire thesis of Bucky: hostile on arrival, aggressive on eye contact, and thoroughly allergic to basic human warmth.
Case closed.
Nothing about the compound gave you any reason to revise that opinion.
Over the following weeks, you accumulated evidence much like a prosecutor building a trial — methodically and without the slightest interest in the defense. He glared at you across the briefing room table, just as he did in the lift. He glowered at you in the corridor while you were simply trying to reach the gym, continuing the routine once you were inside.
On one occasion, he held a door open for you. This might have passed for a kind gesture, had his expression not suggested he was actively weighing up whether to slam it shut on your hand. Passing through quickly, you muttered a thank you, subsequently spending the next ten minutes wondering what you’d done to personally offend a hundred-and-six-year-old super soldier.
To make matters worse, this treatment seemed exclusively reserved for you.
Sam gave Bucky relentless, industrial-grade grief on a daily basis, receiving nothing worse than a tired sigh in return. Natasha spoke to him in brief Russian phrases that made him almost — almost — soften around the eyes. Steve, naturally, could coax out something adjacent to a smile, provided the lighting was right and the conversation touched on baseball.
You, meanwhile, received the murder stare.
Consequently, you took the only reasonable course of action: you decided to hate him back. Nothing loud or dramatic — you were a professional, after all. Yet if Bucky insisted on looking at you like you were gum on his tactical boot, you were more than happy to match his energy. You ceased saying hello, just as you stopped making eye contact. Whenever his name arose in briefings, your gaze remained glued to the nearest screen, offering nothing beyond what was strictly required.
In your professional opinion, it was a perfectly proportional response. He had started it, after all.
Except, as it turned out, he hadn't started anything at all.
0010 — two
Steve, for all his tactical brilliance, possessed the interpersonal radar of a golden retriever at a dog park. Which is to say: he assumed everyone was having as good a time as he was, believing that if they weren't, they simply required a more intriguing chew toy.
"I want you two running point on Riga," he said, tapping something on his tablet without looking up. "Buck, your ground coverage coupled with their aerial support makes for a clean overlap. No blind spots."
You felt your left eyelid twitch.
"Seems efficient," Bucky remarked from across the table. He spoke in that low, even tone you had long since catalogued as dangerously neutral, which was, in reality, merely his natural way of speaking.
"Incredibly efficient," Steve agreed, radiating the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely loved logistics. "You'll insert here, sweep the perimeter in tandem, and report back. Forty-eight hours, tops."
You opened your mouth to suggest — diplomatically, calmly, and with exquisite professionalism — that perhaps literally anyone else on the roster might prove a better fit. Clint. Wanda. A reasonably trained Labrador. However, Steve was already moving on to exfiltration windows, whilst the moment sailed past like a ship you hadn't boarded.
Bucky glanced at you across the table. Although you didn't look back, you could feel it regardless: the stare. That ever-present, searing, what did I do to you in a past life stare, which you had fully reinterpreted as I am imagining your demise in vivid detail.
Riga was cold and grey, smelling faintly of rain-wet concrete. Bucky crouched behind a low wall, running through the sweep route as though he had memorised every sewer grate in the Eastern Bloc. Which, to be fair, he probably had.
"If we cut through the service corridor on the east side," he said, tracing a line on the projected map between you, "we avoid the camera cluster at the northwest junction. That shaves off thirty seconds and gives us a cleaner sweep."
It was a good call — objectively and tactically sound. Naturally, you hated it.
"Alternatively," you countered, "we take the northwest junction. The camera cluster has a six-second rotation gap offering more than enough cover, whilst saving us from rerouting through a corridor we haven't physically cleared."
Bucky looked at you. There was that look again: that infuriating, immovable expression. "The corridor's been cleared on satellite."
"Satellite isn't boots on the ground, a fact I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate."
A brief pause followed. He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, like a cat processing new information it had already deemed irrelevant.
"Right," he said simply. "Northwest junction. Six-second gap."
There was no argument, no pushback, and no retaliatory escalation. Desperate for him to fight you on it — to give you something concrete to push against — you were met instead with immediate agreement. He adjusted and moved on. You couldn't even determine whether his baseline glare had shifted, as it remained entirely one temperature: a perpetual overcast with no forecast of change.
Infuriating.
Taking the northwest junction proved successful; the six-second gap worked seamlessly. Bucky offered no comment afterwards, a silence you promptly interpreted as resentful, even if, by any objective measure, it was merely quiet efficiency.
By hour thirty, you had swept two-thirds of the perimeter, flagged three points of interest, and exchanged roughly forty words that weren't operationally necessary. Bucky held position whenever required, adjusted without complaint when you called an audible, and covered your flank with the mechanical precision of someone who had been doing precisely that for the better part of a century.
When you snapped at his suggestion to double back on the north quadrant — "We've already cleared that, so unless you want to walk the same block a third time, let's finish before the century's out" — he studied you for a long moment, uttered a brief "Copy," and carried on.
By every metric that mattered, you worked brilliantly together. That was easily the most annoying aspect of the entire operation.
Steve's check-in crackled through the comms at hour thirty-six. "How's it looking out there?"
"Clean sweep," Bucky reported. "On schedule."
"Good to hear. Really good. You two are a natural fit, so I'm going to keep this pairing going."
The line clicked off before you could object.
Somewhere across the rooftop, Bucky shifted his weight without making a sound, having never once felt the need to fill a silence. You, meanwhile, were mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to Steve regarding the actual definition of the word natural.
The extraction window opened at dawn. It was a simple retrieval — collecting an intel package from a secure drop followed by a confirmation sweep for surveillance, wrapping up before the city woke up properly. It was the kind of job that barely qualified as a mission, resembling more of an errand, assuming your errands typically involved fake passports and a concealed weapon in your waistband.
Bucky moved through the drop site with an efficient, practiced quiet. Covering the perimeter, you tagged two potential cameras before feeding him the all-clear. He retrieved the package, confirmed the seal, and stowed it without ceremony.
"Clean," he reported over the comms.
"Obviously," you shot back, unable to help yourself.
The walk to the vehicle spanned six blocks through early-morning foot traffic. Bucky fell into step beside you — maintaining not a companionable proximity, but rather the tactically sound distance of a partner keeping visual range. Keeping your eyes fixed forward, you occasionally caught the peripheral flicker of him looking over, despite his efforts to look straight ahead as well.
At the fourth block, he spoke. "You did good work on the north sweep."
You nearly tripped. It wasn't a physical stumble, but rather a sudden jolt behind your ribs, as the compliment arrived so entirely stripped of inflection that it took a full three seconds to confirm it wasn't an insult.
"Thanks," you replied, as though the word were costing you money.
He offered a single nod before looking ahead once more. His expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the exchange — neither when he spoke, nor when you responded, nor now. It was the same furrowed brow, the same hard-set jaw, and the same general aura of a man who held a personal grievance against the concept of sunlight.
Walking the remaining two blocks in silence, you climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of Riga without incident.
In the passenger seat, Bucky stared out of the window, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.
In the driver's seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, contemplating how deeply, profoundly, and cosmically unfair it was that Steve had designated your personal nemesis as your ideal work partner.
Bucky glanced over at you once more. You caught it in the corner of your eye — the slight turn of his head and the weight of his attention settling on the side of your face like a physical presence.
He looked away a moment later. Had you been watching, you might have caught a fleeting micro-expression that, on a more animated face, could have passed for confusion: a subtle narrowing of the eyes accompanied by a barely-there tilt of the head. It was the physical equivalent of a quiet huh.
Yet you were not watching. You were driving, nursing your resentment, and dreading the next mission you would inevitably be shackled to him for.
Bucky turned his gaze back out of the window.
Feisty, he thought, though not in explicit words. It was more of a general registration of facts: Teammate. Competent. Annoyed for some reason. Right then.
He let the matter drop.
0011 — three
The second phase of Riga went sideways on account of Bucky, and he had the decency to admit it — which made the entire situation infinitely worse.
It should have been straightforward. The intel package retrieved from the drop site pointed to a secondary location: a warehouse on the industrial fringe of Vecriga, flagged for potential weapons caching. Steve wanted confirmation before committing a full team, meaning it remained just the two of you — still purely recon, still strictly a matter of looking and reporting.
Bucky took the south entrance whilst you took the north — a standard split providing clean coverage without anything overly elaborate. Having swept your half in twelve minutes and tagged two points of interest, you reported clearly, subsequently waiting for his confirmation.
It failed to arrive.
What came instead was the muffled crack of a door being forced open from the inside. This was followed by three seconds of silence that felt significantly longer, before Bucky’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and flat: "Contact. Four hostiles, south corridor. I tripped a sensor."
You were already on the move. "You tripped a sensor?"
"There was a secondary grid. It wasn't in the schematics."
"So check for a secondary grid!"
"I'm aware of the oversight." A brief pause ensued, accompanied by the sound of distant, contained gunfire. "Heading to you. Thirty seconds."
He burst through the connecting corridor like a freight train with security clearance — fast, controlled, without a single wasted movement, yet carrying four exceptionally motivated hostiles funnelling in behind him. He had dropped two already, though the remaining four had evidently summoned reinforcements.
"An oversight," you hissed, falling into position beside him behind a concrete support column. "You call six armed hostiles an oversight?"
"I call the sensor an oversight; the hostiles are merely a consequence." Checking his magazine with a mechanical click, he remained as calm as a man sorting his morning post. "I ought to have caught it. That's on me."
There it was: no excuse, no deflection, and no complaints about incomplete schematics or how it could have happened to anyone. It was simply a clean, unvarnished admission of fault, delivered with the same flat affect he applied to everything else — as though accountability were merely another line item on the operational checklist.
You wanted to strangle him.
You wanted to seize him by the front of his tactical vest and shake him until something other than that granite composure gave way, purely because he had no right to be so utterly reasonable about it.
How dare he own his mistake with quiet professionalism when you had been actively gearing up for a proper row?
You had an entire speech prepared — reckless, sloppy, typical — only for him to dismantle it in two short sentences by simply agreeing with you.
"I'm going to kill you," you said.
"After the hostiles," he replied, which might have passed for a joke, had his face offered any confirmation.
They advanced in pairs. The warehouse consisted entirely of long sightlines and sparse cover — a layout ill-suited for defence and even worse for retreat, leaving forward progression as the sole option.
Bucky moved left, drawing fire toward the heavier cover near the loading bay, whilst you veered right to utilise the elevated walkway for a tactical angle. For thirty seconds, the response was clean and coordinated — the precise sort of synchronisation Steve would have had framed and hung on a wall.
Then the third pair flanked wide, resulting in one of them getting behind you.
You heard it before you saw it: the scrape of a boot against the metal grating of the walkway — far too close and coming from the wrong direction. Spinning round, you fired and caught him in the shoulder, yet his momentum carried him forward as a burst from his automatic weapon chewed through the railing to your left.
Dropping off the walkway to avoid the spray — rolling through a two-metre fall purely on instinct — you came up in the open on the warehouse floor, stranded between two columns of cover with nothing but concrete dust and bad options.
The remaining hostile on the upper level held the high ground. You could see him repositioning, his barrel swinging round to track your movement. Meanwhile, the nearest cover stood four paces away, which was roughly two paces more than you had time for.
At that moment, Bucky hit you from the side like a wall with a pulse.
It wasn't a tackle, nor was it a shove. It was something altogether more deliberate: his arm wrapping round your waist as his body pivoted to place himself between you and the muzzle flash, dragging you both behind the nearest column in a single, brutal motion that briefly lifted your feet off the ground. Your back struck the concrete just as his chest slammed against yours. His left arm braced against the wall beside your head, his metal fingers digging shallow grooves into the surface with a sound guaranteed to haunt your next several attempts at sleep.
He fired over your shoulder without once looking away from you. Two shots rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the floor above.
Silence settled over the warehouse like dust after a demolition.
You were breathing heavily; he was not.
His heartbeat against your collarbone remained steady, measured, and offensively calm — the resting rhythm of a man whose circulatory system simply refused to acknowledge combat as a cardiovascular event. His face sat inches from yours as he scanned past you, his eyes tracking the upper walkway, the exits, and the corners, conducting a very focused threat assessment.
You, on the other hand, could register nothing else.
He was warm, which served as your first entirely unhelpful observation. Beneath the Kevlar, the grime, and the faint metallic tang of discharged rounds, he felt warm, broad, and solid in a manner resembling architecture rather than a person.
Your hands were resting on his vest again — a recurring habit you genuinely needed to address — and from this distance, you could see that his eyelashes were dark and unreasonably long. Furthermore, a small scar sat at the corner of his jaw that you had never previously noticed, owing to the fact that you had never been this close, alongside the small detail that you hated him.
You hated him — that remained vital. You were furious.
He had tripped a sensor, dragged you into a firefight, and then possessed the sheer audacity to throw himself in front of a bullet meant for you as if it were nothing. Protecting your body with his was apparently just another Tuesday to him, and now he stood there with his arm caging you in, his ridiculously muscled chest pressed against yours, leaving you absolutely, categorically, and without question hot, bothered and —
"Clear," Bucky said, looking down at you.
The stare remained identical to always — completely unreadable — except that from seven centimetres away, it felt less like I want you dead and more like I am looking at you because you are here and I am thorough. "You good?"
"Peachy," you managed.
Stepping back, he holstered his weapon. He offered you a single, efficient once-over — not lingering or appreciative, but rather a simple field check akin to inspecting a piece of kit after a drop — before turning to clear the rest of the warehouse.
"Sorry about the sensor," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.
You stood there for a moment, back pressed against the column, vest askew, with your heart executing something architecturally unsound in your chest. Your face felt hot, your hands felt foolish, and somewhere amidst the wreckage of your higher reasoning, a small, traitorous voice pointed out that pure American muscle was not a phrase you ought to be associating with a man you'd spent months despising.
You instructed the voice to shut up. Naturally, it refused.
By the time you caught up with him at the south exit, you had reassembled your composure into something functional, if not entirely convincing. Bucky crouched by the door, checking the exterior. As you approached, he looked up with that exact, unchanging, immovable expression and said, "We should report the secondary grid to Steve. My error; I'll log it."
"Damn right you will," you replied, albeit with significantly less venom than intended.
He nodded once before turning his attention back to the door, completely failing to notice that your ears were bright red — because Bucky, as a rule, simply did not notice things like 'ears'.
0100 — four
The safehouse was Steve's idea, because of course it was.
"Sit tight," he instructed over comms, speaking with the serene authority of a man issuing orders from a heated facility several countries away. "The firefight flagged local attention, so I need twenty-four hours to reroute extraction without drawing eyes. There's a safehouse logged in the system — Bucky, you know the one off Avotu iela?"
"I know it," Bucky replied.
"Great. Supplies should still be stocked from the last rotation. Hunker down, stay off the radar, and I'll have you out by tomorrow evening."
The line went dead. You stared at the comm in your hand as though it had personally betrayed you.
Twenty-four hours. In a safehouse. With Bucky Barnes.
Steve would answer for this. Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day, in a time and place of your choosing, Steven Grant Rogers would look you in the eye and reckon with the cumulative consequences of his logistical enthusiasm.
The safehouse was a third-floor walk-up in a residential block that looked like every other on the street — beige concrete, narrow windows, and a front door requiring a keycode that Bucky punched in from memory without hesitation.
Inside, it was sparse in the way all safehouses were sparse: functional furniture, blackout curtains, a bathroom with aggressive water pressure and no hot water, a kitchen stocked with tin cans and dry pasta, alongside, inexplicably, a full spice rack.
There was only one bedroom. However, you had yet to discover that detail.
Bucky executed a sweep of the flat in under two minutes — checking windows, exits, sightlines, and the building's stairwell — before returning to the main room with a nod that signified clear and absolutely nothing else.
Having taken up position at the far end of the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, you watched him move through the space with the efficiency of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms he didn't wish to be in.
"I'll make something," he said, already opening cupboards.
"I'm not hungry."
Your stomach growled with immaculate comedic timing. Bucky paused, hand on a cupboard door, yet he offered no comment and made no attempt to smile. He simply resumed opening the cupboard, which was somehow far worse than if he had laughed outright.
He proceeded to make soup.
You didn't know what you had expected — something perfunctory, perhaps, assembled with the same grim pragmatism he brought to everything else. A tin of broth heated in a pot, perhaps with some pasta thrown in for caloric necessity.
Instead, Bucky stood at the narrow safehouse cooker and diced an onion with a knife never intended for onions, moving with the quiet focus of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and had no intention of explaining why.
He sautéed garlic — actual garlic, peeled and minced, from a bulb he had found in the crisper drawer alongside potatoes that had no right being that fresh in a safehouse. He added tinned tomatoes, a selection of dried herbs from the inexplicable spice rack, the potatoes cut into even cubes, and a splash of something from a bottle bearing a Czech label that might have been vinegar, wine, or lighter fluid.
It smelled incredible.
You watched this unfold from your position at the counter — still with arms crossed, still glaring — feeling the mounting indignation of a person whose nemesis was failing to behave according to the established narrative.
Enemies did not make soup. Enemies did not dice onions with careful, practised hands. Enemies did not stir a pot with a wooden spoon, taste from the rim, and subsequently add more salt with the measured consideration of someone who understood that soup was a dish worth getting right.
He set a bowl in front of you without ceremony before sitting down across the narrow table with his own and picking up his spoon.
You glared at the soup. The soup failed to glare back, sitting there instead and steaming gently, smelling like something a grandmother would make if she’d happened to have a vibranium arm and the emotional range of a concrete wall.
You ate the soup.
It was — and you would take this to your grave before admitting it aloud — delicious. The potatoes were tender without being mushy. The broth possessed depth — actual depth, featuring layers of flavour that had no business existing in a meal assembled from safehouse scraps by a man who looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to participate in civilian life.
Across the table, Bucky ate in silence, just as you ate in silence. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic alongside the distant hum of Riga's evening traffic filtering through the blackout curtains.
You were glaring at him over the rim of the bowl.
You knew you were glaring and found yourself unable to stop. Every spoonful felt like a personal offence — not owing to the soup, which was infuriatingly above reproach, but purely on principle. He had no right to be good at this. He had no right to sit there, eating soup he had made with his own two hands — one of which was made of metal and had attempted to kill multiple heads of state — looking for all the world like a man entirely at peace with his evening.
He wasn't at peace with his evening; he was simply eating soup.
Yet he did notice you were quiet — quieter than usual, which was quite a feat given that your usual baseline around him sat somewhere between terse and legally admissible silence. Glancing up once, he caught the edge of your expression, filing it away as he filed most things about you: without reaching any conclusions whatsoever.
Rough day, he thought. The warehouse was a lot. The sensor business rattled them. Fair enough.
It had not occurred to Bucky, at any point in the preceding months, that your hostility towards him was personal.
Having considered and dismissed several theories — that you were private, focused, cold towards everyone, or merely adjusting to the team — he had landed on the most generous possible interpretation every single time. The notion that you simply didn't like him, specifically as an individual, had never crossed his mind, as Bucky did not assign himself enough importance in other people's emotional landscapes for that to feel plausible.
You finished the soup, as did he. Taking both bowls to the sink without asking, he washed them by hand, thorough and unhurried, whilst you sat at the table staring at the back of his head, trying desperately to maintain the structural integrity of a grudge that was developing hairline fractures.
He dried the bowls, put them away, and wiped down the counter.
You hated him — obviously. However, the soup had been exceptionally good, and the counter was immaculate.
"I'll take the first watch," he said, settling onto the couch with a clear sightline to the front door.
"Fine."
"Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long extract."
"I know."
He looked at you. You looked away first — a new development, and one that neither of you chose to examine.
0101 — five
The bedroom situation revealed itself with the slow, inevitable horror of a punchline that ought to have been obvious from the start.
There was a single bed: full-sized, pushed against the far wall, and made up with military corners alongside a single wool blanket that looked as though it had been government-issued during a war — quite possibly the one Bucky had personally fought in. Accompanying it were a single pillow, one nightstand, and an overhead light with a pull chain that lent the entire space the ambience of an interrogation cell.
You stood in the doorway whilst Bucky remained directly behind you. Neither of you spoke for a long, damning moment.
"I'll take the floor," he offered.
"No."
"It's not a problem. I've slept on worse."
"I said no." Turning round — a mistake, as it turned out, given his proximity — you had to look up to meet his eyes, which were performing their usual trick of boring into you as if you owed him money. "I'll take the floor. You take the bed."
Bucky's brow furrowed. Or rather, it furrowed further — it was already permanently set that way by default, yet it deepened to a degree you hadn't previously known was architecturally possible. "That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
"You're smaller than me. The bed is more efficient for —"
"I don't care about efficiency, Barnes. Take the bed."
"I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor."
"You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing the floor. Independently. Of my own volition."
This was — a fact you were distantly aware of even in the moment — not actually about chivalry, comfort, or any rational metric of who ought to sleep where.
It was entirely about the fact that Bucky had suggested the bed, and you would rather lie on cold hardwood until your spine fused than accept a single accommodation from a man who had spent months staring at you as if you were a code he was trying to crack, only to decide you weren't worth the effort.
Bucky looked at you, and you looked back at him. The standoff held for a stretched, ridiculous beat — two highly trained operatives with a combined century of combat experience, thoroughly deadlocked over a mattress.
"We could —" He stopped, recalibrated, and started again carefully, in the manner of a person approaching a suggestion they already know will go badly. "We could share it."
"Absolutely not."
"It's a full. There's room."
"There is not room."
There was, objectively, room.
A further eleven minutes of negotiation ensued — eleven minutes that could have been spent sleeping, maintaining perimeter awareness, or doing literally anything other than arguing about a bed with a man whose face hadn't changed expression once throughout the entire exchange.
In the end, the solution was reached not through compromise, but through mutual exhaustion: you on the left side, him on the right, with a gap between you wide enough to accommodate a respectably sized third person, or possibly a coffin, which felt appropriate.
You lay on your back, rigid, arms at your sides, staring at the ceiling. The blanket covered you to mid-chest. Although your boots were off, everything else remained on; you were certainly not changing clothes in a safehouse with Bucky on the other side of a bed you were sharing against every instinct you possessed.
He lay on his back, equally rigid, with hands folded over his stomach as he too stared at the ceiling. The blanket covered him to the waist. Having removed his jacket and gloves but nothing else, the plates of his left arm caught the ambient glow of the streetlamp outside in the dim light filtering through the window.
Silence followed — a long, heavy, weighted silence.
Steve Rogers, you thought, with the focus and clarity of a prayer, I am going to find you, and I am going to make you understand what you've done. When the history books document your demise, they will note that it was thoroughly deserved.
Somewhere beyond the curtains, Riga hummed its quiet nighttime hum. A car passed, a dog barked, and the kitchen refrigerator cycled on with a low rattle that settled into white noise.
Bucky shifted. Not towards you — if anything, he pressed further into his own edge, as though attempting to grant the gap between you additional square footage through sheer force of will. The mattress dipped slightly with the movement before settling into stillness once more.
More silence followed. You could hear him breathing — a steady, measured rhythm suggesting either deep calm or trained control. Unable to tell which, it bothered you that you were listening closely enough to wonder.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice was quiet. It wasn't soft — Bucky didn't do soft, or if he did, you had never been granted access to it — yet it was low and careful. He directed his gaze at the ceiling, speaking in the manner of someone who had determined that eye contact would prove a tactical error.
"What?" you said, flat and with your guard firmly up.
A pause followed while he chose his words with the deliberation of a man disarming a device he didn't fully understand — which, in a sense, he was.
"Why do you glare at me?"
The question landed in the dark between you like a stone dropped into still water: simple, direct, and genuinely, painfully confused. It was neither accusatory nor hurt, but merely curious — like a puzzle he had been turning over in his hands for months and had finally decided to open here, in the dark, lying on his back and addressing the ceiling, having apparently calculated that looking at you while asking would make whatever was already wrong significantly worse.
You didn't answer immediately, far too blindsided by the fact that he had noticed. This was insane in retrospect because, of course he had noticed — you had been glaring at the man with the intensity of a sustained laser for the better part of six months.
"Why do I glare at you?" you repeated, as though the question had been delivered in a language you didn't speak.
"Yeah." Still staring at the ceiling, still careful. "I've been — I don't think I've done anything to you. I've tried to run through it, and I can't find the point where I —" He paused. "I've been professional. I've followed protocol, and I've done everything by the handbook. Yet you look at me like I've murdered your cat."
"Because you glare at me!"
It came out louder than intended. You felt the bed shift as he reacted —not flinching, but merely offering a slight turn of his head, which he immediately corrected back to facing the ceiling. "You've glared at me since my first day at the compound. You looked at me like I'd committed a federal crime simply by walking into the kitchen. Every briefing, every corridor, every — you just stare at me, Barnes, as if I've personally wronged your bloodline. So yes, I glare back. What did you expect?"
Silence.
A long, heavy silence.
The sort of silence that possessed a distinct shape.
"Oh," Bucky said.
A single syllable, loaded with the slow, dawning weight of a revelation he hadn't seen coming, precisely because it had never once occurred to him as a possibility.
You heard him exhale through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but something in between that sounded like a man arriving at a destination he wished he hadn't.
"That's —" He stopped, then started again. "That's just my face."
"What?"
"That's how I look." His voice had grown careful again, though in a different register now — less disarming-a-bomb and more confessing to a crime he hadn't realised he'd committed. "Sam told me about it last year. He said I — the word he used was intense. I've been working on it."
A beat passed.
"Apparently, I have not been successful," he added, with the quiet devastation of a man confronting a failed self-improvement project. "My sincere apologies."
You lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling Bucky had been using as a conversational safe harbour, feeling the entire scaffolding of the last six months begin to buckle.
That was simply his face.
The glare, the stare, the flat, searing, unblinking hostility around which you had constructed an entire narrative of enmity — it was merely his face. It wasn't directed at you, nor was it directed at anyone else. It was simply the natural resting state of a man whose features had been frozen, thawed, wiped, reset, and reassembled enough times that they had settled on murder as their factory default.
He had been working on it. Sam had told him, and he had tried. He had been making an active, conscious effort to look less like he was plotting the downfall of everyone in his immediate vicinity, yet the gap between his attempt and his result was apparently so microscopic that you hadn't detected a single pixel of difference.
"Barnes," you said slowly.
"If it helps, I — it's not intentional. It's not — I'm not thinking hostile thoughts when I look at you. I'm usually not thinking anything specific. I'm just..."
"Looking."
"Looking. Yeah."
Another silence descended, though this one differed markedly — less loaded and more bewildered, representing the shared quiet of two people arriving at the same understanding from opposite ends of a very long, highly unnecessary misunderstanding.
"I owe you an apology," you said, the words tasting like something you ought to have uttered months ago, which made them harder to get out, not easier.
"You don't."
"Barnes, I've been horrible to you."
"You've been direct." He said it as though he meant it — not being generous or diplomatic, but simply accurate, by his measure. "I've had worse."
"That's not a particularly high bar."
"It's an honest one."
You lay there with that thought for a moment, letting the recalibration settle.
Every interaction — every terse exchange, every ignored greeting, and every pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence beyond operational necessity — replayed in fast-forward with the new context overlaid. Each one landed differently, and considerably worse. He had held doors open for you, complimented your sweep work, and made you soup. In return, you had met every gesture with the warmth of a closed fist, simply because his eyebrows didn't move the way you thought they should.
"I should also probably tell you something," Bucky said, still addressing the ceiling.
His voice had shifted once more, and had you not been lying close enough to hear the minute changes in his breathing, you might have missed the new tension within it. It wasn't discomfort or reluctance, but rather something closer to the careful steadying of a person about to step off a ledge they had been standing on for longer than planned.
"What?"
"I like you."
The words hit the dark ceiling and hung there, suspended, whilst your brain ran them through several rounds of processing, returning an error every time.
"I —" He cleared his throat. "I like working with you. Your tactical instincts are — the northwest junction call was good. It was better than my call. Furthermore, the way you handle aerial overwatch possesses a precision that — it makes my job easier, which isn't something I say about many people. I actually like that you argue with me, too. Most people don't; they either defer or avoid, whereas you just — " He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling with his right hand. "You come straight at it."
He was rambling.
Bucky — who usually communicated in sentence fragments, silences, and single-word affirmatives — was rambling. The words spilled out in a steady, almost helpless stream, as if he had uncorked something he didn't know how to reseal. The ceiling received the full force of it, given that he still hadn't looked at you and, at this point, probably couldn't.
"And the — the attitude. I know it was directed at me, and I understand that now, but even before I understood it, it didn't bother me. I thought it was simply how you were with everyone. I thought, they’re sharp, they’re focused, and they doesn't waste words, and that's —" He paused, swallowing hard. "I like that. I like all of it. And — you're not going to believe this — the glaring. Even the glaring. You commit to it. There's a — you're very —"
He stopped, breathing out as the sentence died a merciful death somewhere between his intention and his ability to articulate it.
"I don't care if you snap my ears off," he said quietly. "I never have."
On your side of the bed, behind the safety of the gap that now felt less like a demilitarised zone and more like the only barrier preventing you from doing something irreversible, you stared at the ceiling as the universe rearranged itself.
He liked you.
He liked you.
Bucky — whom you had spent six months hating with the dedicated focus of a doctoral thesis, whom you had categorised, filed, and sealed under enemy with absolute certainty — liked you.
He had liked you, quite possibly the entire time. He had appreciated your tactical calls, your aerial work, your stubbornness, and your glaring — which he had apparently found more charming than threatening.
This recontextualised every single moment you had ever shared into something so fundamentally different from what you had believed that your brain was essentially executing a factory reset in real time.
The Big Bang, as they said, originated from a single point of infinite density before expanding outwards in every direction at once. This felt remarkably similar, except the point of infinite density was Bucky saying I don't care if you snap my ears off in the dark, whilst the expansion represented every assumption you had ever made about him detonating simultaneously.
He had gone quiet. The ramble had passed itself, leaving him lying there, still aimed at the ceiling, presumably regretting every word he had spoken while steeling himself for whatever you were about to throw back at him.
The gap between you felt enormous — and suddenly, completely absurd.
0110 — six
You rolled over.
Not gradually, nor cautiously, and certainly not with the measured calculation of someone who had spent the last several hours maintaining the maximum possible distance from the man beside them.
You simply turned, crossing the gap as though it had never existed, before propping yourself up on your elbow on his side of the bed — close enough that your shadow fell across his chest.
Bucky went very still: the sort of still that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact that his entire operating framework for this interaction had just been upended without warning. He had been braced for a multitude of possible responses — silence, anger, dismissal, or a scathing deconstruction of every word he had just uttered — yet certainly not this. He had not anticipated you being right there, leaning over him and looking down at him with an expression he had never before seen on your face, leaving him without a filed reference for it.
You were smiling.
It broke something in him — not loudly or dramatically, but with the quiet internal shift of a gear slipping into a position it hadn't known existed. He had seen you focused, furious, mid-combat, mid-argument, and mid-glare. He had catalogued every version of your face that you had ever shown him, yet none of them — not a single one — had included this. Open and bright, your eyes creased at the corners whilst your mouth curved in a way that made you look like an entirely different person, or perhaps the exact same person with a wall removed.
"Are you serious?" you asked.
He blinked. "About what?"
"Barnes. Are you serious? You like me?"
"I — yes. I just said — I spent a significant amount of time just saying —"
"You like me." You said it again, not because you required confirmation, but rather because the words were new and you wished to feel them in your mouth a second time. A grin spread across your face—wide, uncontrolled, and entirely without your permission — and you couldn't have stopped it had national security depended on it.
Bucky stared up at you, his lips parting, closing, and parting again. The ramble that had poured out of him minutes ago had emptied his tank entirely; confronted with the direct, beaming, up-close reality of you smiling at him, he was left with nothing.
Every word he had ever learned in two languages, alongside a handful of operationally acquired phrases in four others, had vacated the premises.
"Yes," he managed, the word sounding as though it had been dragged out of him with a hook.
You laughed.
It wasn't at him, but rather at the situation, at yourself, and at six months of wasted hostility collapsing in real time. The sound landed on Bucky like something physical, making his chest shift beneath it. You watched his throat work through a swallow, observing his eyes as they tracked across your face with the bewildered focus of a man seeing a new colour for the first time and not yet trusting that it was real.
"You absolute idiot," you said, as your hand found his jaw.
His breathing changed. You felt it — the catch, the skip, and the barely perceptible hitch of someone whose body had just been informed of a development his brain hadn't authorised. Your fingers rested against the edge of his jaw, your thumb lying along his cheekbone. His skin felt warm beneath your hand — warmer than you had expected, which was a foolish thing to have expectations about, given that thirty seconds prior you had still been on your side of the demilitarised zone pretending to hate him.
"You —" he began.
"Shut up. I'm having a moment."
Your other hand landed on his shoulder — not in a grip or a shove, but in simple contact. With your palm resting on the curve of muscle through his shirt and your fingers settling against the junction of his neck, you felt him tense beneath you. He didn't pull away, but held himself in the rigid stillness of someone who didn't trust himself to move, having not yet determined what the correct movement ought to be.
You were slightly draped across him now, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, and your weight shifted onto his side of the bed. You were close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils had widened in the low light. This was uncharted territory for both of you, obviously.
Yet watching it happen to him was something else entirely: observing the composure that had survived decades of ice, combat, and reprogramming falter over the simple, devastating fact that you were touching his face and smiling about it.
"Hi," you said, foolishly.
"Hi." His voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard before—rough at the edges and quiet in the middle. His right hand came up slowly and carefully, as though reaching for something he expected to be snatched away, hovering near your elbow without quite landing. "You're — this is — I thought you hated me."
"I did hate you."
"And now?"
"Now I'm re-evaluating my methodology."
His hand landed. Gentle and uncertain, his fingers wrapped round your forearm with a pressure so light it was barely there, as if holding something he had been told was fragile without being informed where the cracks were.
You watched his eyes search yours — back and forth, quick and unguarded, stripped of the flat intensity you had been misreading for half a year. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring; he was simply looking at you. For the first time, you could see what was actually present beneath the granite: a banked, cautious want, held at arm's length for so long he had forgotten he was doing it.
"For the record," you said, "the soup was incredible."
A sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, nor quite a breath, but something in the middle. It was an involuntary noise that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a full smile, nor even half of one, but a subtle shift — a fracture in the architecture — that transformed his entire face in a way that made your stomach drop pleasantly into your shoes.
"Noted," he said.
"And the business where you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me —"
"Standard protocol."
"It wasn't, actually."
"It felt standard."
"Barnes."
"Yeah."
You leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't graceful, as the angle was wrong. You were still propped half on your elbow and half on his chest, your hand sliding from his jaw to the side of his neck as you closed the gap, your nose bumping his because geometry refused to cooperate with the urgency of the moment. Yet his mouth was warm, and when he took a full second to respond, you almost pulled back — nearly retreating to your side of the bed to die of mortification in peace — before his hand tightened on your arm. His other hand came up to the back of your head, and he kissed you back with a quiet, focused intensity suggesting he had been considering this for significantly longer than the duration of your conversation.
He kissed in the same manner he did everything else: thoroughly, unhurriedly, and deliberately, without a single wasted movement. His fingers slid into your hair whilst his thumb traced the line behind your ear, tilting his head to fix the angle problem you had created.
Distantly, in the remaining functional portion of your brain, you thought, Ah, so this is what it's like when he isn't on the other side of a room looking as though he wants to murder me.
It was better — categorically, unreservedly, and across every imaginable metric.
You broke apart just far enough to draw breath, his hand remaining in your hair while yours stayed on his neck. The gap between you had been reduced to practically nothing, leaving the wool blanket as a lost cause somewhere around both your waists. He was looking at you with an expression that, for the first time since you had known him, you could actually read.
"Just to be clear," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "this means you don't hate me."
"This means I don't hate you."
"Right." His thumb moved against your scalp — slowly and absent-mindedly, as though he were doing it without realising. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."
You kissed him again — because he had said good like a man who had just been told the war was over, because his hand was tangled in your hair, and because his voice was wrecked.
You had six months of hostility to make up for, and you intended to be exceptionally thorough about it.
0111 — seven
Steve opened the safehouse door at 0600 with his shield strapped to his back, a cereal bar in hand, and the calm, satisfied expression of a man who had successfully rerouted an extraction under pressure — feeling, frankly, rather pleased with himself.
"Rise and shine, I've got us a window —"
He stopped dead.
You were on the bed, and Bucky was on the bed.
More accurately, you were on top of Bucky — your fingers tangled in his hair, his arm hooked securely round your waist, and your mouths occupied in a manner that had absolutely nothing to do with a mission debrief. The wool blanket had been kicked onto the floor at some point during the night, alongside, apparently, every professional boundary either of you had ever maintained.
Steve stared.
Breaking apart, Bucky's hand remained precisely where it was. You looked at Steve, Steve looked at you, and Bucky looked at Steve with the exact same unreadable expression he always wore — which, given the context, was doing a spectacular amount of heavy lifting.
The cereal bar lowered slowly to Steve's side.
"I —" Steve began.
"Morning," Bucky said.
"You —" Steve pointed at you, then pointed at Bucky, before pointing at the non-existent space between you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The strategic mind that had orchestrated the fall of HYDRA and the defence of three continents was, for the first time in recorded history, attempting to process something it had failed to anticipate.
"This is —" He took a step backwards. "I'm going to — I'll be in the — you have ten minutes."
The door clicked shut, followed by footsteps retreating down the corridor at a pace that could only be described as fleeing.
You looked at Bucky, and Bucky looked back at you. His hair was a disaster, whilst your shirt was untucked. Neither of you had slept for more than two hours, both of you looked it, and somewhere on the other side of the door, Steve was having a private reckoning with the direct consequences of his own tactical genius.
"He's splitting us up," you said. "You realise that, don't you? After this, he'll never put us on the same mission again."
Bucky's mouth executed that familiar movement — the subtle shift, the fracture in the architecture, the not-quite-smile that remade his entire face and caused your chest to do something structurally inadvisable.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."
He didn't sound remotely bothered by the prospect.
From the corridor, muffled and vaguely traumatised, came Steve's voice: "Ten minutes, Buck!"
You kissed him again — partly because Steve had set a deadline, and mostly because spite had always been your love language.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker
summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... shout out to my girls who have been hearing me yap about this fic for months 😭 thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌
summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggie—"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okay—"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I said— "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"O—Okay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
You both know she's been listening to every word.
The walk to the café is silent.
The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."
Bucky lost his nerve.
"So, Friday… at seven."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell me—"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Bucky—"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
Summary: What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. Besides, there are plenty of ways to talk.
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): brining back Bucky Barnes the flirt. he never died because i said so. set around TFATWS. I couldn't find any canoncial evidence of Bucky speaking French but I didn’t look that hard. you don't need to translate anything to understand what's happening, but if you want to please feel free!
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: google translate French, gratuitous use of italics. Bucky Barnes goes to the club, cursing, grinding on the dance floor, hot and heavy make out, oral (fem receiving)
DT: the bestest betas a girl could ever ask for, my sweet @artficlly, @heldbybarnes, and addy (I still can’t believe you know French), thank you guys so much for reading I truly would not have made it through this last stretch of writing without you. I owe you all a billion kisses or Jell-O shots, please let me know what you prefer!
also dividers by the extraordinarily talented @barnesonly
Bucky's first mistake was taking his eyes off the target.
Eyes straying from his mark across the room, first exit, second exit, and the large window. His eyes sweep the entire room, mentally checking every off every possible escape route. Calculating every possible entrance where someone could sneak in. Call it an old habit, call it paranoia, call it boredom. Bucky doesn't fucking care, it's just what he does. Working or not.
Whatever it is, it leads to his eyes sweeping right over you.
Bald suit, bald suit, gaudy heiress, bald suit, you, bald suit, billionaire-
You.
That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take.
It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you.
Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand.
He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline.
The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you.
Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd.
He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view.
It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.
His fourth mistake is looking at your lips.
Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you.
It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier.
Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection.
Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static.
Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you.
A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie.
When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense.
He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.
It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.
You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word.
Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech.
It hits him all at once.
He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-
He can't understand a word you say.
What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either.
It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.
You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match.
Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty.
You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.
Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?
"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"
Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream.
He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.
Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky.
"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.
His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.
He wants to know yours. Badly.
Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.
He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.
That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere.
Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.
“I see you’ve met Sirène.”
Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?
“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.
“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”
The bald suits, presumably.
“Oh.”
“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.
While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.
You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.
“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.
“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”
Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.
He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something.
Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.
"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."
Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.
Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could.
Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.
"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease.
"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."
"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over.
"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"
"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."
Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus.
He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in.
With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece.
"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."
You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head.
"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."
Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen?
"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip.
He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response.
"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"
Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for.
"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."
He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.
"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.
One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve.
His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so.
You beam, smile widening with approval.
"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted.
You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."
"He's headed toward you." Sam translates.
You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."
"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor.
"My pleasure." Bucky agrees.
With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.
Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.
Or more specifically, test his sanity.
With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to.
And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French.
They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company.
If he can even call it that.
What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head?
Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees.
What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?
Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.
You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle.
Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find.
Instead he asks you to teach some more French.
Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky.
Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.
Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?
Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?
Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.
That one is probably his favorite.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork.
He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about.
You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence.
Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand.
"I'm not exactly sure how to-"
You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place.
"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod
Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.
At least he's pretty sure that's what it was.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now.
And it hurts his ears.
Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-
What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting.
You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt.
"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."
Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.
He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."
Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice.
"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided.
"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?"
Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?"
Bucky shrugged.
"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned.
The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-"
"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted.
"No."
"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.
Bucky's protest died on his tongue.
"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."
So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club.
He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust.
Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there.
Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you.
He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam.
"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.
You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by.
When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked.
"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder.
Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar.
Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth.
"You look good enough to eat."
Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction.
"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."
Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified.
His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway.
You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"
Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer.
The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting.
Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?
His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.
"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink.
Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night.
As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music.
"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before.
"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't."
By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long.
He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.
It's three songs, maybe four.
Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.
Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper.
Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck.
Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular.
Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.
You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth.
His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest.
He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder.
He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel.
For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak.
Mercifully, he's fluent.
His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose.
The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all.
Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off.
He definitely wants to find out if there's more.
"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room.
He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared.
It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of.
"I don't know what that means but it turns me on."
Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge.
"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper.
Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand.
"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."
You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."
"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song."
You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."
He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself.
His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst.
Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his.
It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.
Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes.
Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.
The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.
When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look.
Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession.
You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it.
When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question.
"Ramène- à ta maison?"
"Can I take you home?"
Both of you are answered with another kiss.
Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox.
Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much.
He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch.
You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.
It makes his head feel warm to think about.
The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it.
He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket.
The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle.
Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you.
You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.
He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.
For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so.
It must show on his face.
"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"
He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."
You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact.
Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you.
Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket.
A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen.
Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes.
Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.
Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up.
The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.
Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare.
When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute.
Then you nod.
It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper.
He throws it so hard it hits the wall.
You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush.
It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead.
A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin.
Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible.
It would make even the worst cowards brave.
Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions.
Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed.
They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.
The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception.
There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail.
He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them.
Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.
"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."
As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands.
Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.
"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.
Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it.
His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin.
He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass.
The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit.
Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in.
The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years.
One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss.
Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly.
"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!"
Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan.
His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand.
Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you.
It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-
"Bucky!"
You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.
His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.
Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.
Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart.
His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs.
Then it all bursts.
His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue.
Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source.
You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name.
As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down.
You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus.
"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"
Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place.
He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away.
"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"
You groan, pulling his lips back to yours.
Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.
"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?"
When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night.
He kisses you again, even harder this time.
Yeah, he thinks, it was.
Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)
Summary:
After a mission goes wrong, you and Bucky Barnes are forced to hide out in your remote mountain safehouse for the winter.
There is one bed, too much snow, and far too many things neither of you knows how to say.
Author’s Note:
listen. bucky barnes in a remote cabin with one bed and enough emotional baggage to heat the whole mountain. that’s it. that’s the thought.
bucky was my first blorbo and has been my blorbo for sooo long so i couldn't resist writing for him. this has been the longest fic i have written (17.9k words total!!) so i hope it doesn't flop lol
also had to split this fic into two because it was too long. enjoy!
[Part 2]
The mission went bad in the kind of way that made Tony’s voice go very quiet over comms. That was usually the first sign. Tony joked when things were inconvenient, insulted people when they were difficult, and became aggressively flippant when the situation edged toward catastrophic. Silence meant he was doing math too quickly for language. Quiet meant the numbers were ugly.
“Extraction point two is compromised,” Natasha said.
You crouched behind the broken shell of an overturned transport truck, snow blowing sideways across the road hard enough to sting the exposed strip of skin between your mask and collar. Fifty yards ahead, the HYDRA convoy burned in pieces along the mountain pass, black smoke torn apart by the wind before it could rise. The medical tech you had been sent to recover was secured in the case at your feet, but the mission had stopped being about recovery twenty minutes ago.
Now it was about getting out alive.
“Define compromised,” Sam said over comms.
A missile struck the ridge above extraction point two before Natasha could answer. The mountain answered with a low, terrible groan. Snow broke loose in a white sheet, swallowing the tree line, the road, and two HYDRA vehicles stupid enough to be parked below it. The blast wave rolled over the pass a few seconds later, rattling your teeth and showering your position with ice.
Sam swore.
“Defined,” Natasha said.
Bucky landed beside you a moment later, metal hand skidding over the hood of the transport truck as he dropped into cover. His hair was damp with melted snow, his tactical jacket torn at the shoulder, and there was blood on the left side of his face that probably was not his. He looked at the case by your feet, then at the ridge, then at you.
“Tell me you have a worse idea than going downhill,” he said.
You checked the magazine in your rifle. “That depends. Do you consider stealing from HYDRA morally or emotionally restorative?”
His mouth twitched. “Both.”
“Then yes.”
A bullet hit the truck hard enough to punch through the metal above your head. Bucky shifted instantly, putting his body between you and the incoming fire before you could tell him not to. It was not dramatic. That was the problem with him. He protected people the way other men breathed, with no announcement and no expectation of gratitude.
You elbowed him in the ribs anyway. “I’m wearing armor.”
“You’re also breakable.”
“And yet charming.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
He glanced at you, eyes sharp despite the storm. “Loudly?”
“Deafeningly, Barnes.”
Another burst of gunfire tore through the truck. Bucky leaned out, fired three shots, and dropped two men with the kind of clean precision that made the Winter Soldier files look less like old history and more like a warning label everyone had chosen to ignore.
Then he ducked back down and said, “You’re bleeding.”
You looked at your arm. There was a shallow cut through the fabric near your bicep, dark blood already freezing at the edges. “You interrupted my charm to criticize my blood volume?”
“Just observing.”
“You observe too much.”
“Only when I’m worried.”
The words were too steady to be a joke.
For half a second, the storm seemed to mute itself around you.
Then Steve’s voice cut through the comms, strained and distant. “All teams, fall back to extraction three. Repeat, extraction three.”
You and Bucky looked at each other.
You both knew before Tony said it.
“Cap,” Tony said, quiet again, “they already have three.”
Static cracked across the line.
Then the comms died.
Not faded. Not weakened.
Died.
You stared at the silent earpiece, then ripped it out and shoved it into your pocket. Bucky did the same. Neither of you spoke for a second. Above you, the sky had gone white with worsening snow. Below you, HYDRA was moving up the road in tactical pairs, too organized for panic, too prepared for this to be improvisation.
“They had our fallback routes,” Bucky said.
“Yes.”
“They knew the order.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “Inside intel.”
“Or hacked protocols.”
“Either way, we can’t go where they expect.”
“No.”
A smile pulled at your mouth despite the cold, danger, and blood loss. It was not a happy smile. You had never been very good at those in the field. This one was sharper and older, the kind of expression that made Clint once tell you that you looked like you were about to make a morally flexible decision.
Bucky noticed.
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I have a place.”
“An Avengers place?”
“No.”
“A legal place?”
“Define legal.”
“Doll.”
The nickname slipped out low and exasperated, almost lost beneath the wind.
You hated that it warmed you.
You lifted the case strap over your shoulder and checked the road behind you. “We need one of their snowcats.”
Bucky looked over the side of the truck. A HYDRA snowcat was parked near the bend, engine running, guarded by three armed men and half-hidden behind a wall of blowing snow.
He looked back at you. “That one?”
“You see another?”
“No.”
“You scared?”
His face went very still.
For one second, you thought you had misstepped. Bucky Barnes was not a man people teased easily, not because he lacked humor, but because most people did not know where the old bruises were. You usually did. That was the strange part. You had known almost from the beginning, as if the shape of his silence had taught you the boundaries before either of you had named them.
Then his eyes flicked over your face, and something like amusement moved beneath the exhaustion.
“Of you driving?” he said. “A little.”
You grinned.
He shook his head once, almost fond. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re about to help me commit grand theft snowcat.”
“That a real charge?”
“It will be once Tony hears about it.”
Bucky leaned out of cover and fired. The first guard dropped. You moved before the second hit the ground.
The run to the snowcat was a blur of snow, gunfire, and the hard burn of cold air in your lungs. You were fast, but you were still human. That mattered more in weather like this, when every step punched through powder and the wind tried to shove you sideways off the road. Bucky moved like something heavier than the storm. Not untouched by it, because he was not invincible, but altered by the serum enough that the mountain seemed to negotiate with him differently.
He reached the third guard before the man could turn his rifle toward you. Metal flashed. The rifle broke in two. Bucky drove his elbow into the man’s jaw with enough force to drop him instantly, then turned back to cover you as you reached the snowcat door.
“You know how to drive this?” he asked.
You yanked the door open and threw the case inside. “I know how to drive everything.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s an Avenger yes.”
“That makes it worse.”
You climbed in, found the ignition panel, and jammed your knife under the casing. The wires sparked once. Bucky hauled himself into the passenger seat just as bullets struck the rear panel, and the whole vehicle lurched when you crossed the right leads.
The engine roared.
“See?” you said. “Everything’s fine.”
Bucky grabbed the dashboard as you sent the snowcat fishtailing hard across the road and through the gap between two burning vehicles.
“Fine is doing a lot of work there.”
“You complain more than I expected for a man from the forties.”
“You drive worse than I expected for a woman with control issues.”
You shot him a look.
He looked back, expression almost innocent.
Almost.
Then something slammed into the rear of the snowcat, and the windshield cracked in a spiderweb pattern across Bucky’s side.
“Hold on,” you snapped.
“I am holding on.”
“Better.”
You took the snowcat off the road.
For several minutes, the world became white violence and gravity. The vehicle groaned over buried rock and fallen branches, treads grinding through snow deep enough to bury the lower panels. You drove by memory, instinct, and the hard-copy map of the mountain you had spent years pretending you did not need. HYDRA followed for the first mile. Then the storm thickened, the terrain worsened, and the last pursuing engine faded behind you.
Bucky was quiet for too long.
You glanced at him and saw his hand pressed against his lower side. Blood had soaked through his jacket beneath the armor plating, dark and steady.
Your stomach dropped. “You’re hit.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You are the worst patient on the planet.”
“I heal fast.”
“You also bleed first.”
His eyes moved to yours, and for a moment, the banter stripped away. Beneath it was pain, yes, but also something steadier. Trust, maybe. That was inconvenient.
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
You wanted to snap at him. You wanted to tell him that accelerated healing did not mean he was healed, that the serum did not make him magic, that he was still a body full of nerves and blood and scar tissue, even if he could survive more damage than anyone else on the team. Instead, you gripped the wheel harder and kept driving into the storm.
“Press harder,” you said.
He obeyed without argument, which told you more than the blood did.
The safehouse was another forty minutes up the mountain.
It took nearly two hours.
By the time the cabin came into view, the snowcat was limping on a damaged tread, and you had lost feeling in two fingers. The storm had erased the trail behind you as quickly as you made it. The sky was dark now, though it could not have been later than afternoon. Winter in the mountains did that. It collapsed time until there was only cold, white, and the next five feet in front of you.
Bucky lifted his head when the cabin appeared between the trees.
From the outside, it looked like a forgotten ranger station, half-buried in snow, with weathered logs and a porch sagging under ice. No lights showed in the windows. No smoke rose from the chimney. It looked abandoned.
That was the point.
“This yours?” he asked.
“No.”
He gave you a look.
You killed the engine. “Fine. Yes.”
“Does anyone know about it?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“No.”
“Not even Romanoff?”
“Especially not Romanoff.”
His mouth twitched, though his face was pale. “She know you think she doesn’t know?”
“She suspects. That’s different.”
“It’s really not.”
You opened your door and nearly lost it to the wind. “Stay there.”
Bucky looked offended. “I can walk.”
“You can also bleed internally, but I’m not encouraging that either.”
It was quiet, rough with pain, and gone quickly, but it hit you in the chest all the same. Bucky did not laugh often at the compound. Not like that. With Sam, he snorted. With Steve, he smiled like the past had put a hand on his shoulder. With you, sometimes, he laughed before he could stop himself.
The team had noticed.
No one had said anything because the team liked having all their bones intact.
You stepped out into the snow and came around to his side. He had already opened the door because of course he had. The second his boot hit the ground, his knee dipped. You caught him under the arm before he could recover.
His whole body went rigid.
So did yours.
For one suspended second, the storm moved around you while neither of you breathed. His weight was warm and heavy against your side. Your hand was braced against his back. You felt the reaction in him before he forced it down: the old animal recoil from unexpected touch, the reflexive inventory of threat, restraint, escape.
You started to let go.
His right hand closed lightly around your sleeve.
“Don’t,” he said.
Not a command. Not quite a request.
You adjusted your grip without looking at him. “Then stop trying to collapse politely.”
“Didn’t want to ruin the mood.”
“What mood?”
“The one where you pretend you’re not worried.”
You looked up at him.
Snow clung to his lashes. His mouth was pale with cold. Blood was still seeping beneath his fingers.
You hated him a little for seeing you so clearly.
“You’re delirious,” you said.
“Probably.”
“Good. That means I can ignore you.”
“You always do.”
“That is objectively untrue. I listen to at least forty percent of what you say.”
“Generous.”
“I’m known for my charity.”
He leaned more of his weight on you then. Not all of it. Bucky was too stubborn and too enhanced for that, even wounded. But enough that you knew he trusted you not to treat the need like weakness.
That warmed you more dangerously than any fire could have.
You got him inside.
The cabin’s first room was a lie: old hooks, dusty shelves, cracked linoleum, a rusted stove that had not worked in years. You locked the outer door, then crossed to the far wall and pressed your thumb against a knot in the wood paneling. Something clicked behind the structure. A second door opened inward, steel beneath pine, hidden so cleanly even Bucky’s eyebrows rose.
“Paranoid,” he said.
“Prepared.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Paranoid is when nothing happens. Prepared is when you’re right.”
He looked at the blood on his hand, then at the steel door.
“Prepared,” he conceded.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t say it was healthy.”
“I didn’t ask.”
The real safehouse was warm only in potential, but even cold, it had the solid security of a place built by someone who had imagined every possible failure and given each one a shelf, lock, or backup switch. You entered the code with your body blocking the keypad, then reset the alarm grid, engaged the shutter locks, and kicked the generator into full power.
Lights flickered on.
Bucky stood in the main room and took it all in.
The woodstove. The radio station. The reinforced shutters. The weapons locker hidden behind the false bookcase. The medical cabinet. The pantry visible through the kitchen doorway, with its rows of labeled cans, sealed grains, flour, spices, oils, dried pasta, and emergency chocolate, all sorted by expiration date. The chest freezer hummed quietly in the corner, packed with meat and vegetables wrapped in butcher paper.
He went very still.
You knew what he saw because you saw it too, every time you came here after pretending for months at the compound that you were normal about having a bedroom with no lock on the outside.
A safehouse like this was not built by someone who trusted rescue.
It was built by someone who expected to survive alone.
Bucky did not say that.
Instead, after a moment, he looked at the pantry and said, “Emergency emotional support trail mix?”
You blinked.
Then you remembered the labeled jar in your compound locker. The one he had apparently noticed.
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “Second shelf on the left.”
His gaze softened.
It was small. Barely there. But he was always careful with you in ways he did not bother being with anyone else, and the worst part was that you had started being careful back.
You dropped the med kit on the kitchen table. “Sit down, Barnes.”
He looked at the chair, then at you. “You going to boss me around the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That word did something inconvenient to your pulse.
Bucky’s mouth curved like he heard it.
You pointed at the chair. “Do not make me regret saving your life.”
He sat, still watching you with that faint, exhausted amusement.
“You didn’t save my life,” he said.
You slipped the rifle strap off your shoulder and set the rifle aside. “I’m about to dig a bullet out of you in a cabin no one knows exists while a blizzard buries the mountain and HYDRA hunts us with stolen Avengers protocols. I’m absolutely saving your life.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“Okay,” he said. “Then thank you.”
It was too direct.
You turned away first.
“Shirt off,” you said, pulling on gloves.
The amusement returned, quieter now. “Trying to get me naked already?”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll forgive the optimism.”
“Didn’t hear a no.”
You looked at him over your shoulder.
Bucky was pale, injured, and sitting in your kitchen with one hand pressed against a bullet wound, but his eyes were bright with something that looked dangerously like flirtation.
It should have been ridiculous.
Instead, it made you think of every briefing room where he had stood silent beside you, every mission where he had covered your six without being asked, every morning in the compound kitchen when he wordlessly put your preferred mug beside the coffee maker before leaving everyone else to fend for themselves.
You pulled the med tray closer. “You’re very confident for someone I’m about to stab with forceps.”
His smile deepened.
“Only with you.”
That was unfair.
So you pretended you had not heard it.
The bullet came out clean.
Mostly.
Bucky sat through the procedure with the kind of stillness that made your teeth ache. People thought the Winter Soldier’s silence meant he did not feel pain. They were wrong. You had seen the way his jaw tightened when the forceps went too deep, the faint tremor in his human hand when the wound was flushed, the way his breathing turned deliberate once pain started pressing at his ribs.
The serum helped. You knew that. His modified super-soldier physiology meant faster clotting, accelerated tissue repair, greater tolerance for blood loss, and a recovery timeline that made ordinary medical charts look like decorative pieces. It did not make him untouched.
It did not make him less human.
“Yellow?” you asked when his hand clenched around the edge of the table.
His eyes flicked to yours.
There was a pause, small enough that most people would have missed it.
Then he said, “Not yellow.”
You nodded and kept working.
The first time you had used the color system with him had been during a training exercise at the compound when Tony’s new restraint foam had malfunctioned and pinned Bucky’s left arm to the floor. Everyone else had been shouting. Tony had been apologizing at the speed of light. Steve had looked like he was three seconds from tearing the entire room apart with his bare hands.
You had crouched in front of Bucky, held his gaze, and said, “Color?”
The room had gone quiet.
Bucky had stared at you with his chest heaving and his eyes too far away.
Then, through gritted teeth, he had said, “Yellow.”
You had told everyone to shut up, made Tony slow the release of the solvent, and stayed where Bucky could see you until the foam dissolved.
Afterward, Sam had looked at you in the kitchen and said, very carefully, “You two always do that?”
You had said, “Do what?”
Sam had looked at the mug of coffee you were making exactly the way Bucky liked it and decided, with rare wisdom, to leave the question alone.
Now, in your safehouse kitchen, Bucky watched you stitch his side with that same old focus.
“You okay?” he asked.
You glanced up. “I’m not the one with a hole in me.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m concentrating.”
“You concentrate louder than this.”
“That sentence makes no sense.”
“It does to me.”
You tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. “That sounds like a personal problem.”
His mouth curved. “There you are.”
You pressed gauze over the wound a little harder than necessary.
He huffed a pained laugh. “Mean.”
“Annoying.”
“Bossy.”
“Bleeding on my table.”
“Your table seems sturdy.”
“My table is rethinking its standards.”
Bucky watched you tape down the bandage. “You always like this with the team?”
“With the team, I am a delight.”
“You told Stark his personality was a workplace hazard.”
“It is.”
“You told Steve his moral authority had a volume problem.”
“It does.”
“You told Sam—”
“Sam deserved it.”
“I hadn’t even said what.”
“He usually does.”
Bucky laughed again, softer this time. The sound settled into the quiet places of the cabin like the first real warmth of the night.
You stepped back. “There. Try not to tear it open doing something stupid.”
“You saying I do stupid things?”
“I’m saying you do heroic things and pretend there’s a difference.”
His expression flickered.
Too close, then.
You cleaned the instruments and turned toward the sink. “Bathroom is down the hall. Shower if you can stand without face-planting. Clothes in the bedroom closet. Men’s sizes too.”
Bucky’s gaze moved to you. “Why?”
“Because sometimes I need disguises.”
“You keep men’s clothes for disguises?”
“I keep everything for everything.”
He was quiet for a moment.
You knew what was coming before he said it.
“You were ready to disappear.”
The sink water ran cold over your gloved hands.
You shut it off. “You need to clean up before the bandage sets weird.”
“Doll—”
“Don’t.”
The word came out sharper than you intended.
Bucky stopped.
You looked at the sink instead of him. “Don’t call me that when you’re about to say something perceptive.”
Silence.
Then, quietly, “Okay.”
That was worse, somehow.
The first night, you offered him the bed because he had been shot and because even with accelerated healing, his body needed rest. He refused because of course he did. Bucky Barnes had survived nearly a century of war, torture, brainwashing, cryostasis, and government oversight, only to be defeated by the possibility of accepting reasonable accommodations.
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” you said.
He stood beside the couch with a blanket in his hand. “No.”
“Excellent argument. I see why Steve values your input.”
“You sleep in the bed.”
“It’s my safehouse.”
“Exactly.”
“So I decide who sleeps where.”
“Great. You sleep in the bed.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
For a man who spent most of his time avoiding attention, Bucky could become immovable with truly irritating speed. It was not the Winter Soldier in him, not really. It was Brooklyn stubbornness layered beneath trauma and guilt and whatever terrible masculine code had convinced him that comfort was something other people deserved first.
“You have stitches,” you said.
“They’ll hold.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You did them.”
That stopped you.
Bucky looked almost pleased with himself.
You narrowed your eyes. “That was manipulative.”
“That was trust.”
“Worse.”
His expression softened at the edges.
You hated how good he was at that. Being sharp enough to meet your bite, then gentle enough to make you feel like you had bitten something unarmored.
“Couch,” he said.
“You’re too tall for the couch.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not the goal.”
His gaze returned to yours.
The words had escaped before you could make them casual. For a second, they sat between you with all the dangerous tenderness you had not intended to show.
Then Bucky nodded once.
“I know,” he said.
You fled into practicality because it had never betrayed you.
“Fine. Bleed on my couch. See if I care.”
“I won’t bleed on your couch.”
“You’d better not. I like that couch more than most people.”
“More than me?”
You were already halfway to the bedroom when he said it.
You stopped.
Bucky’s voice had been dry, almost playful, but there was something under it. Something that made the air feel thinner.
You turned back just enough to look at him. “You’re growing on me.”
His face changed.
Barely.
Enough.
You closed the bedroom door before either of you could make it worse.
At 3:41 in the morning, you woke to the sound of a man choking on a scream.
You were out of bed before you were fully conscious, knife in hand, heart slamming hard enough to bruise. The bedroom was dark. The safehouse was silent except for the wind scraping tree branches along the roof and the low orange glow of the woodstove bleeding through the open crack beneath the door.
You opened the door slowly.
Bucky was on the floor beside the couch.
He had fallen or thrown himself there, tangled in the blanket, one hand braced against the floor and the other clamped hard over his bandaged side. His chest rose and fell too fast. His metal fingers had crushed the leg of the coffee table, bending it inward like wire. His eyes were open, but they were not seeing the room.
You set the knife down on the nearest shelf before you spoke.
“Bucky.”
His head snapped toward you.
You stayed several feet away. “It’s me. You’re in the safehouse. Mountain cabin. Blizzard outside. You were shot, but I fixed it because I’m extremely talented and very annoying. Nobody’s here except us.”
His breathing scraped through the dark.
You kept your voice even. “You with me?”
For a few seconds, nothing changed.
Then he blinked. His face shifted as the nightmare released him piece by piece, leaving him pale, damp-haired, and ashamed on your floor.
“Yeah,” he rasped.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Cabin.”
“Do you know who I am?”
His throat moved. “You.”
“That’s specific.”
His laugh sounded broken. “Sorry.”
“You apologize too much.”
“Sorry.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
This time, the laugh came closer to real, though it faded quickly. He looked down at the crushed coffee table with visible shame, and something in you twisted in recognition. You knew that look. The old disgust. The fear of what your body could do before your mind had fully returned to it.
“I’ll fix it,” he said.
“It was ugly anyway.”
His eyes flicked up.
You walked to the stove and fed it another log, slow enough not to startle him. Then you sat on the floor across from him, leaving space between your knees and his.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know.”
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
He looked away.
The storm filled the silence.
After a while, he said, “Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know if I’m out.”
You rested your forearms on your knees. “Out of HYDRA?”
“Out of the chair. Out of the ice. Out of the room.” His voice stayed quiet, but each word seemed dragged through something jagged. “Depends on the dream.”
You did not say you were sorry. People said sorry when they did not know what to do with pain that could not be fixed, and he had probably had enough pity to last several lifetimes.
Instead, you said, “That sounds like hell.”
His mouth tightened. “Yeah.”
You looked at the shutters. “When I was a kid, I used to sleep with my shoes on.”
Bucky went very still.
You had not meant to say it.
Maybe the safehouse made confession easier. Maybe the storm did. Maybe it was him sitting on the floor looking like the war was still happening behind his eyes, and maybe some stupid part of you wanted him to know he was not the only person whose body kept old score.
“My father left twice,” you said, staring at the stove because eye contact would make it impossible. “First time for three days. Second time for good. My mother wasn’t much better at staying. After a while, I stopped unpacking. Slept with shoes on. Kept cash in a sock under my mattress. Stole canned food from the kitchen and hid it in my closet because I thought if everyone left, I’d still be able to eat.”
The words made the cabin feel too small.
Bucky did not interrupt.
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Turns out if you give a girl abandonment issues and tactical training, she grows up to build apocalypse pantries in the mountains.”
His voice was gentle when he answered. “Makes sense to me.”
You hated that.
You hated the way it made your throat close, the way he did not laugh or tell you it was sad or try to reassure you with something broad and useless. He only accepted the truth as if it had weight and shape.
“Don’t make that face,” you said.
“What face?”
“The one where you understand me.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Want me to misunderstand?”
“It would be more convenient.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I bet.”
You stayed on the floor until the worst of the nightmare left his face. Eventually, he got back onto the couch with careful movements, hand pressed lightly to the bandage at his side. You watched him settle beneath the blanket, too large for the couch, too stubborn to admit discomfort.
When you returned to the bedroom, you left the door open.
Neither of you mentioned it in the morning.
The blizzard lasted nine days.
By the end of the first week, the safehouse had become a world with a rhythm. Bucky chopped wood from the covered stack outside once his wound closed enough that you stopped threatening to tie him to a chair. You checked the perimeter sensors, radio frequencies, and generator. He cleaned weapons at the kitchen table. You cooked because the kitchen was yours and because feeding someone was easier than admitting you liked watching him eat.
He was polite about it at first, almost painfully so.
Then he tasted the pasta sauce you made with canned tomatoes, garlic, red pepper flakes, dried basil, and a little sugar, and his entire expression changed.
You pointed your fork at him. “Do not look surprised.”
He swallowed. “I’m not.”
“You thought I only ate protein bars and vengeance.”
“I’ve seen your locker at the compound.”
“That was one time.”
“You labeled trail mix as ‘emergency emotional support.’”
“And I stand by that.”
He smiled into his bowl, and you had to look away.
The one bed became unavoidable on the tenth night.
The generator had been sputtering all afternoon, and by evening, the backup system switched into conservation mode. Heat dropped first in the outer rooms. Frost gathered in the mudroom. The main room stayed livable because of the stove, but the bedroom was the warmest, tucked deep into the reinforced back section of the cabin where the mountain itself insulated the walls.
Bucky stood in the bedroom doorway and looked at the bed as if it were a tactical problem.
It was not a small bed, exactly, but it was not large enough for strangers. A full mattress. Heavy blankets. Flannel sheets. Two pillows. One knife already beneath yours.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I won’t freeze.”
“Fine. You’ll be very stoic and mildly hypothermic.”
His brows lifted. “Mildly?”
“I’m being optimistic.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
Your hand tightened around the blanket you had been folding. “That doesn’t mean you have to now.”
He looked at you then.
The room went still.
You hated when he did that, when he saw past the shape of your argument to the wound under it. You were not being kind. You were being practical. He was injured. The main room would get cold. He needed rest. That was all.
That was not all.
Bucky seemed to know it, but he did not call you on the lie.
Instead, he said, “Are you okay with it?”
The question was careful. Not hesitant. Not embarrassed. Careful in the way a man became when he understood that closeness could be loaded.
You looked at the bed, then at him.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You changed in the bathroom. He changed in the bedroom. When you came out in thermal pants and an oversized shirt, he was already under the covers on the far side of the mattress, lying stiffly on his back like he had been arranged there by a funeral director.
“You look comfortable,” you said.
“Shut up.”
A laugh slipped out of you, soft and unplanned.
His eyes warmed.
You climbed into bed with your back to him and enough space between your bodies to preserve the fiction that this was not intimate. For a while, neither of you moved. The wind pressed hard against the cabin. The blankets trapped heat. You could hear Bucky breathing behind you, too steady to be asleep.
After twenty minutes, he said, “You always sleep with a knife under your pillow?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
You frowned into the dark. “That’s it?”
“Was there supposed to be more?”
Most people would have made it about themselves. They would have asked whether you thought they were dangerous, whether you trusted them, whether the knife was necessary. They would have turned your fear into their injury.
Bucky only shifted slightly, giving you easier access to your pillow.
Your throat tightened.
“You always sleep like you’re waiting for someone to drag you out of bed?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
Then, barely audible, he said, “That’s it?”
“Was there supposed to be more?”
His exhale was slow, and something in it sounded like relief.
You slept better than you expected.
After that, the bed became part of the routine.
You both pretended it did not matter. You lay on your side. He lay on his. You kept space between you, a narrow strip of untouched mattress that somehow felt more intimate than contact. Sometimes you woke from your own dreams with your heart racing and found him awake beside you, silent and present. Sometimes he woke from his nightmares with a strangled breath, and you talked him back to the cabin without touching unless he asked.
The first time he did ask, it was not with words.
He woke hard, body twisting away from something that was not there, and you said his name into the dark. His hand shot out, not grabbing, just reaching. You placed your fingers against his wrist.
“Cabin,” you said softly. “Snow. Me.”
His pulse hammered beneath your touch.
He turned his hand palm up.
You slid your fingers into his.
For a while, you stayed like that. Not holding him down. Not pulling him close. Just there, your hand in his while the nightmare faded.
In the morning, neither of you mentioned it.
That became routine too.
By the third week, Bucky knew where you kept the extra coffee filters, which floorboards creaked near the mudroom, how to coax the old generator into running when it developed a temper, and which jars in the pantry you had filled with peach preserves because the labels had peeled off two summers ago.
You knew he liked coffee too strong, hated being approached from behind, preferred the left side of the bed because it let him see the door, and sometimes hummed songs under his breath while he sharpened knives. Old songs. Sweet ones. The kind that sounded strange coming from a man with blood under his fingernails and war behind his eyes.
One morning, while snow fell in thick curtains outside, you caught him reading one of the battered paperbacks from the shelf near the stove.
You stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Are you reading my romance novel?”
Bucky looked up, completely unashamed. “Maybe.”
“That one has pirates.”
“I noticed.”
“And a tragic duke.”
“Also noticed.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you judging my literature?”
“Doll, I’m halfway through chapter twelve, and if Captain Rourke doesn’t kiss the widow soon, I’m throwing this book into the fire.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then you laughed so hard you had to grip the doorframe.
Bucky’s smile started slowly, as if he was not used to letting it happen, but once it arrived, it changed his whole face. Younger. Softer. Devastating in a way you did not have defenses for.
You turned back into the kitchen before he could see too much.
The men hunting you found the lower perimeter in late January.
You knew because one of the motion sensors went dead during a storm that was not strong enough to kill it. The second followed eleven minutes later. By the time you reached the radio room, Bucky was already behind you, rifle in hand, hair still damp from the shower.
You spread the map across the desk. “At least four.”
He leaned over your shoulder, close enough that his chest almost brushed your back. “Could be testing the boundary.”
“They’re too far west for that.”
“You have cameras?”
“Passive thermal. Hardline only.”
“Show me.”
You did.
Five heat signatures moved between the trees below the ridge, ghostly white against black. Two snowmobiles. Professional spacing. White gear. Rifles. Not locals. Not lost.
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
“They don’t know where the cabin is,” he said.
“Not yet.”
“They will if we let them keep looking.”
“I know.”
You went out together.
The storm helped. Snow blurred the world, swallowing sound and shape. You moved through the pines with rifles wrapped in white cloth, communicating in hand signals because voices carried strangely in heavy weather. Bucky was almost silent beside you. For all his size, he moved like the mountain had granted him permission.
The first two men followed the false trail exactly as designed. The snow beneath them gave way in a controlled slide, dropping them hard into the ravine below. Their shouts vanished under the crack of breaking ice and the heavy rush of powder. One voice cut off at once. The other carried for a few seconds longer, ragged and furious, before the mountain swallowed that too.
The third saw you. He raised his rifle, and Bucky hit him from the side like a falling tree.
The fourth fired. Bark exploded near your cheek. You dropped, rolled, and returned fire. The man went down with a shout, leg hit, weapon gone into the snow.
The fifth came from behind. You heard him too late. An arm locked around your throat and dragged you back against a body that smelled like sweat and gun oil. Cold metal pressed beneath your jaw.
“Drop it,” he snapped.
Bucky froze.
His eyes went to the pistol under your chin, and for one terrible second, his face emptied of everything except fear.
Not for himself.
For you.
That hit harder than the gun.
“Drop it,” the man repeated.
Your fingers loosened around your rifle.
Bucky’s gaze flicked once to your left hand.
Trust was a stupid thing. Dangerous. Overrated. A trap people baited with warmth and sprung when you needed them most.
You dropped the rifle.
The man laughed.
You drove your boot down on his instep, slammed your head back into his nose, and twisted as his grip faltered. The pistol slipped away from your jaw. You caught his wrist. Bucky moved.
It was over in seconds.
The man hit the snow unconscious. Bucky stood over him, chest rising and falling, metal hand flexed at his side. You touched your throat and felt the tender bruise forming beneath your chin.
“You okay?” he asked.
His voice was too controlled.
“Yes.”
“He hurt you?”
“No.”
His gaze dropped to your throat.
You stepped close and caught his chin before you could think better of it, forcing him to look at your face. He went very still under your hand.
“Bucky,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Something in him shuddered, though his body barely moved.
For half a second, neither of you spoke.
Then, from somewhere below, a man groaned.
The sound dragged both of you back into the woods.
You let go of Bucky’s chin.
The fourth man was still breathing where he had fallen, one hand pressed uselessly against the snow. The third lay too still near the trees. Down in the ravine, movement shifted beneath the powder.
They had found the cabin.
They had seen your faces.
One of them had gotten close enough to put a gun under your jaw.
There were rules for this, too.
You had always needed rules. Without them, anger could become anything. A fire. A hunger. A thing with teeth.
So you waited for anger to come.
It came.
Hot. Familiar. Easy.
You did not let it choose.
That was the point of rules.
The two of you moved through the trees without speaking. Bucky took the left side of the ravine. You took the right. The storm worked around you, dragging snow over boot prints, broken branches, blood, the black mouths of weapons half-buried in white.
When it was done, the woods were quiet again.
Not peaceful.
Quiet.
Dead men could not describe the cabin. Dead men could not count your weapons, repeat Bucky’s face into a radio, or tell HYDRA which way you ran when the smoke went out.
You were not merciful, exactly.
Mercy was something you offered when the cost was yours alone. This would not have been. This would have cost Bucky. The cabin. The fragile, half-frozen life you had carved out of the mountain with locks and salt lines and a loaded rifle by every door.
HYDRA had taught both of you what happened when the wrong people walked away with information.
So they did not walk away.
Back at the cabin, Bucky said nothing.
Neither did you.
You stripped the weapons outside first. Magazines. Bolts. Blades. Radios. Anything useful came inside. Anything traceable went into the burn barrel. The rest you left for the storm.
The cabin had an expiration date now. You both knew it. Maybe hours. Maybe days. HYDRA would notice when their men did not report in. Someone would come looking. Someone always came looking.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the storm was still yours.
Inside, wet gear hung near the stove. Snow melted from your sleeves in slow, dark drops. Your rifle lay across your knees as you wiped it down with steady hands you did not entirely feel.
Bucky stood near the door in a black thermal shirt, jaw tight, bruised knuckles raw where the skin had split. He had been quiet too long.
Then he turned on you.
“You trusted me.”
You looked up from the rifle. “Yes.”
“In the woods.”
“That is where we were.”
His jaw clenched. “You dropped your weapon.”
“You told me to.”
“I looked at your hand.”
“You looked like you had a plan.”
“That’s not the same thing as knowing I’d get there in time.”
“No,” you said. “It isn’t.”
He stared at you like you had cracked open the floor beneath him.
You set the cloth aside. “Don’t make it weird.”
“That ship sailed weeks ago.”
The laugh that left you was too soft to be useful.
His expression shifted at the sound, the anger blunting into something more vulnerable and far more dangerous.
“Why?” he asked.
You could have lied. You were good at lying. You could have given him an answer about tactics, probabilities, angles, the knife in your sleeve. Every word would have been true enough to hide behind.
Instead, you said, “Because I trust you.”
Bucky went silent.
You hated how much that silence mattered.
The stove popped. Snow melted from the ends of his hair and slipped down the side of his throat. He stood there with damp lashes, bruised knuckles, and a wound you had stitched with your own hands, and you wanted him so sharply it felt like pain.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
You stood.
The room changed.
He did not move toward you. That was the thing that undid you first. He stayed exactly where he was and let you choose the distance. Bucky Barnes, who could cross the room faster than thought, stood still and waited.
So you walked to him.
“If you kiss me,” you said, “you don’t get to pretend tomorrow that you didn’t.”
His eyes darkened. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“If this is adrenaline—”
“It’s not.”
“If this is because we’re trapped—”
“It’s not.”
“If this is because I almost got shot—”
His right hand rose slowly, giving you time to stop him. You did not. His fingers touched your cheek with such care that it was almost worse than roughness would have been.
“It’s because I think about kissing you when we’re eating breakfast,” he said. “And when you’re checking the locks. And when you’re yelling at the generator. And when you fall asleep pretending you’re not tired.”
Your mouth went dry.
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.
“It’s because you trusted me out there,” he said, quieter now, “and I realized I want you to trust me in here too.”
“Bucky.”
“Tell me no.”
You didn’t.
He kissed you like he was afraid of getting it wrong.
You had expected hunger. There was hunger, yes, in the way his breath changed when your hands closed around the front of his shirt, in the way his fingers slid into your hair and held there like he needed something to anchor him. But the kiss itself was careful. Slow. Bucky tilted your face up and kissed you like he was asking a question he would survive hearing no to.
It ruined you.
You made a frustrated sound against his mouth and pulled him closer. His hand tightened in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your thoughts scatter.
He broke the kiss at once.
“Okay?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”
His gaze searched yours.
You realized, suddenly and horribly, that he was checking for fear. Not nervousness. Not desire.
Fear.
The heat in your body softened into something worse.
You cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.
“Green.”
His eyes closed for half a second.
When he opened them, there was so much need in his expression that it should have frightened you. It did not. Maybe because it was not taking. Maybe because he was holding himself back so carefully that the restraint itself felt like a kind of devotion.
“Green,” he repeated.
This time, when he kissed you, he let himself want.
The kiss deepened quickly, turning messy and hot in front of the stove while snow battered the shutters and your wet gear dripped onto the floor. His hands stayed careful at your waist.
Yours did not.
You pushed under his shirt, felt the warm strength of his body, and he shuddered against your mouth.
That was the thing that stopped you.
Not because it was bad.
Because it was too good.
You pulled back, breathing hard.
Bucky froze instantly. “Red?”
“No,” you said quickly. “No. Just—”
You looked at him, at the mouth you had just kissed, at the eyes too dark with want, at the man who had spent weeks sleeping beside you without taking an inch you did not give.
You wanted him.
You also wanted not to run from the feeling by turning it immediately into something you understood how to control.
“Not tonight,” you said.
His expression changed only slightly, but you saw the care settle into place.
“Okay.”
“You’re not mad?”
He blinked, almost offended. “No.”
“You’re disappointed.”
“Yeah,” he said, honest enough to make your chest hurt. “But not in you.”
You looked away.
He caught your hand before you could retreat completely, then loosened his grip at once, giving you the choice.
You stayed.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
The words struck harder than they should have.
You laughed softly, defensive and not very convincing. “Dangerous thing to say in my abandonment bunker.”
His mouth curved. “Preparedness bunker.”
“Thank you.”
“I still didn’t say it was healthy.”
“I still didn’t ask.”
He kissed your knuckles once, so briefly you could have pretended it did not happen.
You did not.
That night, you slept on your side of the bed, and he slept on his.
In the morning, you woke with his hand resting carefully over yours in the space between you, as if he had reached in his sleep but still knew to not take too much.
You let it stay.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Winter Soldier divider ❤️💛
Warnings: explicit sexual content, mutual pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, flirting, dirty talk, public flirting, model!reader, Avenger!reader, Bucky Barnes is bad at feelings, reader is a menace, oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink, light manhandling, possessive sex, multiple orgasms
Summary:
You have been shamelessly flirting with Bucky Barnes for months, mostly because watching him pretend not to enjoy it is too much fun to resist.
He thinks he has your little game under control until a gala puts you in front of cameras, admirers, and one man who gets close enough to make Bucky finally stop pretending.
Author’s Note:
written for this request
i have been trying to post this since 7 am this morning but the airport wifi sucked and i havent had time until now to sit down and properly format everything for tumblr (and it's 10:25 pm)
Bucky Barnes first realized you were going to be a problem on a Tuesday morning, which felt insulting.
Problems, in his experience, usually had the decency to announce themselves with gunfire, alarms, compromised exits, or Sam Wilson saying, “Don’t be mad,” in a tone that guaranteed Bucky was about to be furious. They did not usually stroll barefoot into the Avengers compound kitchen wearing a silk robe, sunglasses indoors, and an expression that suggested you had never suffered a consequence in your life.
You had been an Avenger for three days.
Technically, you had been an Avenger for longer than that, if he counted the months of files, interviews, mission assessments, and cautious deliberation that had led Fury to finally put your name on the team roster. You had enhanced reflexes, a combat record that even Natasha raised an eyebrow at, and the kind of public image Stark’s media people had described as “valuable but chaotic.” You were a model, an occasional actress when a director could afford your schedule, a fixture at fashion weeks, charity galas, beach clubs, magazine covers, and gossip columns. You were also a very competent fighter with a worrying talent for making people underestimate you until they were already on the floor.
Bucky did not underestimate you.
That was what he told himself, anyway, watching you open every cabinet in the kitchen like you were personally offended by storage.
“Where do rich people hide mugs?” you asked.
Sam, who had been leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and the grim, protective posture of a man guarding the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, looked at you over his spoon. “You mean cabinets?”
“I checked cabinets.”
“You checked one cabinet.”
“It disappointed me.”
“There’s a difference.”
“This kitchen has seven ovens,” you said. “That feels excessive for people who eat protein bars like they’re being punished.”
“That’s because we are,” Sam said.
“You poor thing. Do you want me to call someone?”
“God, you’re worse before coffee.”
You gasped. “I haven’t had coffee?”
“You’re standing in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been betrayed by architecture.”
Bucky had not meant to laugh. It escaped him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath against the rim of his mug, but you heard it. Of course you heard it. Your attention snapped to him with terrifying precision.
Your sunglasses slid down your nose.
“Oh,” you said, with the pleased interest of a cat finding a glass too close to the edge of a table. “You laugh.”
“No,” Bucky said.
Sam snorted into his cereal.
You smiled at Bucky as if he had personally made your morning. “That was definitely a laugh.”
“It was a cough.”
“You should see a doctor about that. It sounded handsome.”
Bucky stared at you.
Sam put his spoon down. “And there it is.”
“There what is?” you asked, all innocence, which made it worse.
“The thing you do.”
“I do many things.”
“Yeah, and most of them are illegal in at least three states.”
You drifted closer to the counter, apparently unconcerned by the fact that Bucky had looked less startled the last time a man had pulled a knife on him in a parking garage. You rested your elbows on the marble and propped your chin in one hand, turning the full force of your attention on him.
“What’s your name again?”
“You know my name.”
“I know lots of names.” You smiled wider. “I wanted to hear you say it.”
Bucky took a sip of coffee. It bought him three seconds and no dignity.
“Barnes,” he said finally.
“Barnes,” you repeated, like you were trying it on. “Cute.”
“No.”
“Strong. Classic. Slightly broody. Very marketable.”
“I’m not marketable.”
“That’s what makes you marketable.” You lifted your sunglasses from your face and pushed them up into your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over one day.”
Bucky blinked.
Sam closed his eyes as if in prayer.
You said it so easily, so brightly, that for a second Bucky did not know what to do with it. People flirted with him sometimes. Not often, not casually, and never with the delighted confidence of someone announcing tomorrow’s weather. The flirting he noticed usually came wrapped in caution, curiosity, or the strange, hungry attention people gave the Winter Soldier when they had read too much, understood too little, and wanted to see what a ghost looked like up close.
This was different. You were not looking at the Winter Soldier. You were not even looking at Sergeant Barnes, the tragedy, the history lesson, the man out of time. You were looking at Bucky, annoyed and under-caffeinated at the kitchen island, with his hair still damp from the shower and his left hand curled around a mug someone had bought as a joke because it said “I survived another meeting that should have been an email.”
“I’m not something to win,” he said.
Your expression changed only slightly. The smile stayed, but something behind it softened with recognition, like you had heard the line he had not said and decided not to touch it in front of Sam.
Then you leaned across the counter, stole Sam’s coffee, and said, “We’ll workshop the phrasing.”
Sam made a wounded noise. “That was mine.”
“You called me ‘worse before coffee.’ This is justice.”
“I called you worse before your coffee.”
“Details.”
Bucky left the kitchen before you could catch the second laugh.
That was where it started.
It should have ended there, but you treated restraint like a rumor and Bucky’s sanity like a hobby. Within two weeks, you had settled into the compound as if you had been born under Stark-grade security lights. You learned where Tony hid the expensive snacks, which elevators were fastest when FRIDAY was not pretending not to judge you, and which training rooms had the best lighting for the occasional sponsored workout post Pepper pretended not to know about.
You were good at being watched. That was the thing Bucky noticed first, even before the flirting became a problem with a schedule. Cameras loved you. Rooms adjusted around you. People tracked your movements before they knew they were doing it, drawn by the easy glamour of someone who knew exactly how she looked and had decided to make that everyone else’s issue. You could turn your head half an inch and change the temperature of a photograph. You could laugh at a reporter’s question and make it sound like an answer.
Bucky understood performance. He had been made into one. The difference was that yours belonged to you. He respected the precision of it. The public saw sparkle, flirtation, lazy smiles, and a model who sometimes saved the world and somehow emerged from the fight with her eyeliner still intact. The team saw more. They saw the hours in the gym, the quick reads you made in the field, the way you listened when Steve gave instructions and ignored him when you had a better plan. They saw that you could play dumb in four languages and threaten someone in six.
Bucky saw all of that.
He also saw the way you looked for him when you entered a room. That was harder to ignore.
At first, he assumed you did it to everyone. You were friendly with Sam, outrageous with Tony, conspiratorial with Natasha, affectionate with Wanda, and shamelessly dramatic with Thor, who adored you after you once told him his arms looked like a horny Renaissance sculptor had carved them. You flirted like breathing, lightly and often, always with enough humor that nobody had to take it seriously unless they wanted to.
With Bucky, you made it personal. You found him in the gym one morning while he was working through a knife sequence alone. The compound was quiet, still blue with early light, most of the team asleep or pretending to be. He caught your reflection in the mirrored wall and kept moving, blade turning between his fingers as he shifted his weight, stepped, struck, pivoted, and reset.
“Morning, future husband.”
The knife stopped in his hand.
He looked at you through the mirror. “No.”
“You’re right. Too soon.” You set your water bottle on the bench. “Morning, future emotionally unavailable boyfriend.”
Bucky resumed the sequence. “That’s worse.”
“Morning, handsome man who definitely missed me.”
“I didn’t know you were gone.”
“That’s hurtful and untrue. You stared at my empty chair at dinner.”
“I was looking at the door.”
“Because you hoped I would come through it.”
“Because I was considering leaving.”
You pressed a hand to your chest. “God, the passion.”
He turned, knife loose in his hand. “Do you ever get tired?”
“Of you? Never.”
“Of talking.”
“Also no.”
Bucky pointed the knife toward the door. “Some of us are training.”
“Wonderful. I love a man with discipline.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not training in that.”
You glanced down at yourself, as if surprised to discover you had arrived dressed for exercise. “This is athletic wear.”
“That sweatshirt has no back.”
“It has some back.”
“It has sleeves and ambition.”
You grinned. “You noticed.”
Bucky made the mistake of looking. The sweatshirt dipped low between your shoulders, leaving a long line of bare skin above the band of your sports bra. It was impractical, which probably meant it cost more than some cars. It was also distracting, which was clearly the point.
He looked away too late.
You saw it. You always saw it.
“I knew you liked me,” you said.
“I noticed fabric was missing.”
“You noticed my back.”
“Hard not to when half your shirt surrendered.”
Your laugh came bright and easy. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to flirt back.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You’re bantering. That’s flirting with plausible deniability.”
“It’s arguing.”
“With cheekbones like yours? Impossible.”
Bucky exhaled and turned back toward the mirror. “Are you here to train or talk?”
“I can do both.”
“I’m devastated.”
You came onto the mat beside him and held out your hand. “Give me a knife.”
“No.”
“Afraid I’ll impress you?”
“Afraid you’ll stab me to make a point.”
“Only a little.”
He should not have given you one. That was his first mistake. His second was forgetting that beneath the designer nonsense and the sparkling public menace was someone Fury had recruited for a reason.
You moved beautifully. Bucky had seen you fight on missions, but missions were dirty and practical, all impact and adaptation. Here, with nothing exploding and no one yelling in his ear, he could see the shape of your training. You were fast, lighter on your feet than he expected, with a dancer’s control and a vicious sense of timing. You let him push you back twice, then changed rhythm on the third pass and came under his guard, stopping the dull practice blade a breath from his ribs.
You looked up at him through your lashes.
“Oops,” you said.
Bucky’s hand closed around your wrist.
You did not pull away.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your pulse beat steadily beneath his fingers, quick but controlled. You were warm from sparring, a flush high on your cheeks, and a loose strand of hair caught at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky noticed it. He hated that he noticed it.
Your smile softened into something less theatrical. “You okay?”
The question slipped under his ribs more effectively than the knife would have.
He let go. “Fine.”
You tilted your head. “That means yes, or that means stop asking?”
“It means fine.”
“Mm. We’ll workshop that too.”
“There’s no we.”
“There will be.” You spun the practice knife once and offered it back handle-first. “I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“Foreplay.”
Bucky choked on air.
You patted his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll win you over one day.”
He watched you leave because apparently he had lost control of his eyes.
From the doorway, without turning around, you called, “I can feel you staring.”
“I’m checking that you’re leaving.”
“Progress!”
After that, Sam started keeping score.
Every compliment became a point. Every accidental smile became evidence. Every time you blew Bucky a kiss across a briefing room, Sam looked personally blessed by the universe. Bucky threatened to throw him off the roof twice. Sam remained unmoved.
It would have been easier to ignore if you flirted with Bucky the way you flirted with everyone else, bright and careless and harmless enough to laugh off. But you saved him seats. You asked him to watch your back even when you did not need watching. You looked for him when you entered a room, and sometimes, when the joke softened at the edges, Bucky caught the dangerous shape of something honest underneath.
He liked your precision. He liked the moments when the smile slipped sideways into something observant. He liked that when you teased, you watched for the line. He liked that you had never once called his left arm cool, had never asked to touch it, had never stared at the place where metal met skin with anything but the same open appreciation you aimed at the rest of him.
He liked you, and that made the flirting dangerous.
Bucky had spent too long as a weapon in other people’s hands to enjoy becoming anyone’s entertainment. He knew that was not what you were doing. He knew it with the part of him that assessed threats and the quieter part that had begun to understand kindness when it wore teeth. Still, knowing did not make it easy.
You were a public person. You had exes whose names still trended whenever you attended the same event. Actors, athletes, heirs, musicians, one princess whose denial in an interview had been so unconvincing that even Steve had understood it. You had a reputation the tabloids loved because it sold beautifully: glamorous, flirtatious, unserious, impossible to keep, impossible not to want.
Bucky did not care about tabloids. He cared that you laughed when other people flirted with you. He cared that sometimes you touched their arms. He cared that you were generous with your attention in a way that made everyone feel chosen for exactly as long as you wanted them to. He cared that he had no right to care. He cared that the idea of being one more person orbiting you, one more name in a gossip column, made something old and defensive curl beneath his ribs.
So he pretended not to want.
It worked about as well as all his other bad ideas.
The mission in Prague should have helped. It did not.
You handled a weapons broker with old Hydra ties in a red dress and heels, broke his composure with a smile, and nearly broke his foot when he touched you without permission. Bucky watched from surveillance while Sam and Natasha pretended not to notice the exact moment his jaw locked.
By the time the mission went bad, you had already put two men down, stolen a handgun from a third, and greeted Bucky in the hallway with blood on your knuckles and a cheerful, “Hi, handsome.”
He caught your chin to check the graze on your cheek before he could stop himself.
“Careful,” you said softly. “A girl might think you like her.”
“Extraction first,” he said.
“Romance later?”
“Move.”
“Bossy,” you said, and then you moved.
After Prague, the teasing changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice immediately. You were still shameless at breakfast, still dramatic in the gym, still prone to calling him gorgeous in public just to watch his left eye twitch. But sometimes, when the room was empty or nearly empty, you let the joke soften at the edges.
You brought him tea one night without making a big deal of it, setting the mug beside him on the balcony and leaning against the railing with your own. The city glittered below the tower, restless and alive.
“You’re thinking loudly,” you said.
He looked at you. “Didn’t know that was part of your power set.”
“It’s not. You get a line between your eyebrows.”
“Maybe I’m brooding.”
“You do that too, but this is different.”
He huffed, taking the mug. “You catalog my facial expressions?”
“Only the handsome ones.”
“Sounds time-consuming.”
“It is, but I’m committed.”
The familiar rhythm was there, but gentler. Bucky let it sit between you.
After a while, you asked, “Do you hate it?”
“What?”
“All of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the tower, the team, the city, the life none of you had chosen cleanly. “The attention.”
He looked down at the tea. “Some days.”
“Yeah.”
“You?”
You smiled without much humor. “Some days.”
It should have surprised him. It did not.
You turned your mug in both hands, rings catching the light. “People think it’s the cameras that get old, but cameras are easy. They don’t want anything you can’t predict. It’s the people who look at you and decide they know what’s there. The ones who think access and affection are the same thing.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You’re good at making them think they got something.”
“I had to be.” You glanced at him. “It’s easier to choose what they take.”
He understood that too well.
Something in his expression must have shown it, because your voice gentled. “I don’t flirt with you because I think you’re easy to embarrass.”
“I am not easy to embarrass.”
“You once short-circuited because I called you pretty.”
“I didn’t short-circuit.”
“You walked into a chair.”
“It was in the way.”
“It was furniture, baby. That’s where it lived.”
Bucky shook his head, but the laugh came easier this time.
You smiled into your mug. “I flirt with you because I like you.”
The air changed.
You did not look away. Neither did he.
“You like everybody,” he said, because old defenses were familiar and his voice still worked around them.
Your smile stayed, but something in it dimmed.
“I’m nice to everybody,” you said. “That’s different.”
He knew that. He had known it for a while, which made his answer crueler than he meant it to be.
You looked back out over the city. “Anyway. Don’t look so scared. I wasn’t asking you to catch up all at once.”
He should have said something then. He knew that later, with a clarity that annoyed him. He should have told you that he liked you too and had no idea what to do with it because wanting things still felt like reaching across a minefield. He should have done anything except stand there holding the tea you had brought him and watching you retreat behind a smile.
Instead, he said nothing.
You did not punish him for it. That would have been easier. You kept being yourself, kept calling him handsome, kept saving him the seat beside you in briefings and pretending it was because you needed “emotional support eye candy.” But you stopped letting the softer moments linger.
Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you now.
Which was why the gala was a disaster before it even started. The event was one of Tony’s, though Pepper had done the actual work and Tony had mostly provided money, branding, and three separate opinions nobody asked for. Bucky tried to get out of it. Steve said attendance mattered. Sam said Bucky needed to stop treating black tie like a war crime. Natasha said nothing, which was worse because her silence contained judgment.
Then you walked into the common room before the cars arrived, and Bucky forgot every argument he had prepared.
You were wearing gold. Not bright gold, not the kind that shouted for attention because it did not know what else to do. This was deeper, warmer, a liquid shade that caught the light when you moved and made your skin look sunlit. The dress crossed over your chest and left your shoulders bare, fitted through the waist before falling in a long line that split high over one thigh. Your hair was styled away from your face. Your mouth was painted soft and glossy. Diamonds winked at your ears like little threats.
The room went briefly, stupidly quiet.
Tony recovered first. “Okay, great. So we’re all underdressed at our own event.”
“You look beautiful,” Steve said.
Wanda smiled. “Very beautiful.”
Sam whistled. “Damn. Barnes, you breathing?”
Bucky looked at him with murder in his heart.
You turned toward Bucky last, which was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate because he knew you now, knew the rhythm of your performances, the way you built a moment and chose where to land it. Your eyes moved over him in his black suit, slow enough to be rude, warm enough to make his spine tighten.
“Well,” you said. “There goes my ability to behave.”
Tony groaned. “Please don’t start before we’re in public.”
“I make no promises.”
Bucky adjusted his cuff because his hands needed something to do. “You ever behave?”
“For you? I could be convinced.”
“Unlikely.”
“Progress,” you said, pointing one manicured finger at him. “You didn’t say impossible.”
Sam leaned toward Steve. “I give him two hours.”
Steve looked confused. “For what?”
“For whatever emotional constipation this is to resolve.”
“I can hear you,” Bucky said.
“I know.”
You crossed the room and stopped in front of Bucky. Up close, your perfume wrapped around him, warm amber and something floral he could not name. Your smile was bright enough for the room, but your eyes searched his face with a quieter question beneath it.
“You clean up nice, Barnes.”
“So do you.”
For once, the answer came without a fight.
Your expression flickered.
Then Tony clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Compliments exchanged. Sexual tension acknowledged by everyone except the two people causing it. Let’s go raise money.”
Bucky was going to kill him.
The gala was worse than he expected. Not because of the security. That was manageable. Not because of the crowd either, though he disliked being surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand and pretend they were not checking whether the metal one felt cold.
It was you. It was the way you belonged there.
The second you stepped onto the carpet, the cameras found you. Your whole posture shifted, not into someone false, exactly, but into someone sharpened for public consumption. You became the woman from magazine covers and fragrance campaigns, the one whose face sold fantasies Bucky did not want to examine too closely while standing three feet away from you.
Reporters called your name, and you gave them what they wanted. A smile over your shoulder. A laugh when one of them asked who you were wearing. A teasing answer when another asked whether there was anyone special in your life.
“Oh, I’m working on it,” you said, and somehow your eyes found Bucky past the cameras.
The reporters followed your gaze.
Sam made a sound as if he were choking on joy.
“Is that Sergeant Barnes?” someone called.
You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Is it?”
“Are you two here together?”
Bucky braced himself.
You only smiled and said, “We’re teammates.”
It was the right answer. The professional answer. The safe answer.
Bucky hated it.
Then you reached back without looking, caught his sleeve, and tugged him forward.
“Come on, handsome,” you murmured, low enough that only he heard. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”
“You’d enjoy that too much.”
“Depends where.”
His brain briefly stopped producing language.
You smiled for the cameras.
Bucky stood beside you under the lights and tried not to look like a man thinking about teeth marks on your skin.
Inside, the ballroom was all polished marble, tall windows, white flowers, and wealth pretending to be benevolence. The Avengers were strategically scattered around the room, mingling with donors and keeping a casual watch, but Bucky barely paid attention to any of it.
You disappeared into the crowd like light through water.
He tried not to watch. He failed immediately.
Everywhere you went, people leaned in. Men and women, donors and celebrities, people with expensive watches and practiced laughs. You gave them that glittering public smile, touched a forearm here, accepted a kiss on the cheek there, let someone admire your dress with a grace that made Bucky’s hand curl around his glass until he heard the stem complain.
Sam appeared at his side. “You’re gonna break that.”
Bucky loosened his grip.
“You know,” Sam said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure look like you’re planning to challenge half the room to ritual combat.”
“I’m watching security.”
“Security is not six foot two, British, and trying to make her laugh by the ice sculpture.”
Bucky’s gaze moved before he could stop it.
Sam hummed. “Interesting.”
“I hate you.”
“That has been established.”
The man beside you was exactly the kind of person Bucky had seen in magazines he pretended not to notice on coffee tables. An actor, probably. Handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark blond hair, a white dinner jacket, and the lazy confidence of a man used to doors opening before he touched them. He was standing too close. You did not seem bothered. That was part of the problem.
You laughed at something he said.
Bucky hated him.
“Who is he?” Bucky asked.
“Oh, we’re doing that?”
“Wilson.”
Sam took a sip of champagne and looked delighted by the entire situation. “Julian Hale. Actor. British. Very famous cheekbones. Dated a princess once, if the internet is to be believed, which it isn’t, but sometimes it gets lucky.”
Across the room, Julian Hale touched your waist.
It was brief. A guiding hand, barely there, the kind of touch that could be explained away by the crowd, by the noise, by the half step he encouraged you to take so someone could pass behind you. You did not flinch. You did not step away. You kept smiling.
Bucky’s vision narrowed.
Sam’s voice changed. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to invent a new international incident.”
“His hand’s on her.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s tone was careful now, without the teasing edge. “And she can remove it if she wants to.”
Bucky knew that. The knowledge landed hard because it was true. You were not helpless. You were not cornered. You had broken a weapons broker’s foot in heels and threatened his hand in Russian. If you wanted Julian Hale away from you, he would be away from you.
The problem was not that Bucky thought you needed saving. The problem was that he wanted to be allowed to care.
That was worse.
You looked up then, as if you felt the weight of him watching. Your eyes met his across the room. For half a second, the public smile slipped. Something else took its place, something private and questioning.
Bucky did nothing.
Julian leaned down to say something near your ear.
You looked away first.
Bucky set his glass on the nearest tray and walked toward the balcony. The night air helped, but not enough.
Outside, the music softened behind the closed doors, reduced to bass and strings through glass. The balcony overlooked the city, all lights and distance, and Bucky gripped the stone railing with both hands until the cold settled into his metal palm and the other hand stopped wanting to hit something.
He was being ridiculous. He knew that. He had no claim on you. He had made sure of it, in fact. Every time you had stepped closer, he had stepped back. Every time you had offered him a joke with honesty folded inside it, he had taken the joke and left the honesty untouched.
Except you had never been holding a knife.
You had been holding out your hand.
The door opened behind him.
Bucky did not turn around. “I’m not in the mood, Wilson.”
“Tragic,” you said. “I wore the good dress and everything.”
His eyes closed briefly. Of course.
You came to stand beside him at the railing, close but not touching. For once, you did not fill the silence immediately. Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye, gold dress shifting in the wind, one hand resting on the stone, the other holding your shoes by their delicate straps.
“You left your own party,” you said after a moment.
“Not my party.”
“You’re on the posters.”
“Against my will.”
“You look very handsome on them.”
He glanced at you despite himself. “That why you came out here? To tell me I photograph well?”
“I came out here because you disappeared.”
“You were busy.”
Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Was I?”
“With Hale.”
Bucky regretted it the second it left his mouth. Not because it was false, but because it sounded exactly like what it was: jealousy dressed badly as observation.
Your mouth curved. “Julian?”
“You on a first-name basis with everybody who puts a hand on you?”
The silence that followed was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut cleanly through the air between you.
Your smile faded.
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
“That came out wrong,” he said.
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“What part?”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your posture had changed, the playful ease folding away into something guarded. Not hurt, exactly, or not only hurt. Disappointed. That was worse. He had seen you deflect rudeness from reporters, donors, strangers who thought your smile gave them permission. He had never wanted to be counted among them.
“All of it,” he said.
You studied him for a moment, then looked out over the city. “He’s an actor. We did a campaign together three years ago. He flirts because he likes attention, and I let him because attention is half of this room’s currency.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Bucky’s jaw worked.
You turned toward him, shoes dangling from two fingers, the city light catching in your earrings. “Because that sounded a little like you think I don’t know when someone is touching me.”
His chest tightened. “I don’t think that.”
“Good.”
“I know you can handle yourself.”
“Great.”
“That’s not what bothered me.”
Your expression shifted.
The admission sat between you, more revealing than he had intended, but Bucky forced himself not to retreat. He was tired of retreating. Tired of watching you offer him chances while he pretended they were traps.
Your voice went softer. “What bothered you?”
He looked down at his hands on the railing. Metal and flesh. Past and present. Both capable of holding too tightly if he was not careful.
“I didn’t like him touching you.”
The honesty was rough, but it was honest.
You inhaled slowly.
Bucky made himself meet your eyes. “I know I don’t have a right to that.”
“No,” you said. “You don’t.”
The answer landed where it should.
Then you stepped closer.
“But you could,” you said.
Bucky stared at you.
The city noise seemed very far away.
You smiled faintly, but there was no performance in it now. No cameras, no audience, no easy escape disguised as a joke. “That’s been on the table for a while, Barnes.”
His heart beat once, hard.
“You flirt with everyone,” he said, because apparently some stubborn, stupid part of him needed to hear you say it again.
“I perform with everyone.” Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “I flirt with you.”
He had no defense against that.
“You told me you liked me,” he said.
“I did.”
“I was an ass.”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
Your expression softened. “I know.”
“I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“I know that too.”
The gentleness nearly undid him. Bucky could handle anger. Anger had edges he understood. He could handle teasing because it gave him somewhere to hide. But you were looking at him like you had seen the frightened thing beneath the jealousy and decided not to make it bleed for your entertainment.
He wanted to kiss you so badly it felt like pain.
You seemed to read that too. Your mouth curved, the menace returning just enough to make his pulse jump.
“Careful,” you said. “You’re looking at me like I’m winning.”
Bucky turned fully toward you. “You always this smug?”
“When I’m right.”
“You think you’re right?”
“I think you’re jealous, annoyed about it, wildly attracted to me, and about three seconds away from doing something reckless.”
He stepped closer. “That so?”
Your eyes brightened. “Two seconds.”
“Still think this is funny?”
“A little.” Your voice dipped. “I also think you should kiss me before I start flirting with someone else just to prove a point.”
His hand caught your waist. You went still, but not with fear. Bucky felt the change in you beneath his palm, the quick breath, the way your body answered before you had time to make a joke of it.
“Don’t,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his. “Don’t what?”
“Flirt with someone else.”
The words should have embarrassed him. Maybe they would later. Right now, with you this close and the city wind moving around you, he could not make himself care.
Your smile faded into parted lips.
“Bucky,” you said, and it was the first time you had used his name instead of Barnes.
That was what broke him.
He kissed you. For a second, it was almost careful. His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had spent months pretending was indifference, one hand at your waist, the other still braced on the railing because touching you with both felt like admitting too much at once.
Then you made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and everything careful in him snapped. Bucky pulled you closer. Your shoes dropped to the balcony with a quiet clatter, your hands coming up to grip his jacket as he deepened the kiss. You tasted like champagne and gloss, sweet and warm, and you kissed him like you had been waiting to do it for so long that patience had become offensive. Your fingers slid into his hair. He groaned before he could stop himself.
You smiled against his mouth.
He nipped at your lower lip in warning.
You gasped.
The sound went straight through him.
“Still annoying?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“Still not interested?”
He kissed your jaw, felt your pulse jump beneath his lips, and tightened his hand at your waist. “Don’t push it.”
“Oh, baby,” you breathed, and the endearment hit differently now, stripped of performance and made intimate by the way your voice trembled. “Pushing it is my best quality.”
Bucky drew back enough to look at you. Your lipstick was smudged. Your eyes were dark. The woman who had smiled for a hundred cameras looked at him like she wanted to be ruined somewhere private and had already decided he was the only man in the building qualified for the job.
His entire body went hot.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
Your brows lifted. “Are we?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
He gave you a look.
There it was again, that wicked smile. “Just confirming. You’re new to this whole admitting-things process.”
Bucky bent, picked up your shoes, and caught your hand.
You laughed as he pulled you toward the door, bright enough that two people near the bar turned to look when you stepped back inside. Sam spotted you first, his face transforming with open delight.
Bucky glared at him. “No.”
Sam’s mouth opened.
“Wilson.”
Sam closed his mouth with visible effort.
You wiggled your fingers at him as Bucky guided you past. “Goodnight, Sam.”
Sam looked as if Christmas had come early. “Goodnight, future Mrs. Barnes.”
Bucky kept walking.
You nearly tripped over your own laugh. “Future Mrs. Barnes?”
“Don’t encourage him.”
“I don’t know. It has a ring to it.”
Bucky leaned closer as you reached the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”
The sound you made was small, sharp, and not laughter.
Bucky stopped walking.
Your voice softened. “Promise?”
Something dark and hot moved through him.
“Car,” he said.
“Elevator,” you countered.
“We’re not doing this in an elevator.”
“Cameras?” you guessed.
“Cameras.”
You paused. “Right. Sensible. Deeply disappointing, but sensible.”
The ride back to the tower was torture. The partition stayed up. Your shoes lay abandoned on the floor. Your lipstick was ruined, his tie was crooked, and every time your hand drifted toward his thigh, Bucky caught your wrist before you could make the driver’s job any more uncomfortable.
“You’re very strict for a man who just dragged me out of a gala,” you murmured.
“You were going to behave until we got upstairs.”
“I never agreed to that.”
“No,” he said, pulling you across the seat and into his lap with one arm around your waist. “You didn’t.”
Your breath caught, hands landing on his shoulders as your dress rode higher over your thighs.
Bucky’s hands settled at your hips. “This a problem?”
“No.” Your voice came out softer than before. “Definitely not.”
“You wanted attention.”
“I usually do.”
“You’ve got it.”
Your smile flickered, and for the first time that night, you looked almost overwhelmed.
Bucky stroked his thumbs over your hips. “Still with me?”
“Yeah.” You let out a breath and laughed quietly. “Sorry. It’s just…”
“What?”
“You.”
That did something stupid to his chest.
His hands tightened on your hips.
“Me?” he asked.
You nodded. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Barnes.”
His body reacted hard to the words, but underneath that, something else opened, uncertain and hungry in a way that had very little to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted by someone who knew he was difficult.
“Bucky,” he said.
Your brow creased. “What?”
“My name.” He swallowed. “When it’s like this, use my name.”
The softness that moved through your expression was almost unbearable.
Then you leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, your hands gentle at the sides of his face.
“Bucky,” you whispered against his mouth.
He held you tighter.
By the time the car reached the tower, both of you looked bad enough that Natasha stopped in the lobby, took one look at your face, Bucky’s mouth, and the shoes in his hand, and smiled.
“So I see,” she said.
Bucky kept walking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Eventually.”
Clint, who had been crossing the lobby beside her with a pastry in hand, pointed at Bucky. “Steve owes Sam twenty bucks.”
Bucky closed his eyes.
You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator. “Goodnight!”
Natasha’s voice followed you. “Hydrate.”
The elevator doors closed on your laughter. Bucky hit the button for the residential floors.
You leaned against the wall, still laughing. “Hydrate.”
“Don’t.”
“I like her.”
“Everyone likes her. That’s how she gets away with everything.”
“You like me, and I get away with almost nothing.”
Bucky looked over at you. “You think you get away with nothing?”
“With you? Absolutely not. You’re very mean to me.”
“You’ve been sexually harassing me for months.”
“I have been romantically persistent.”
“You called me a slutty Victorian ghost in front of Fury.”
“You were wearing that coat.”
“It was tactical.”
“It had drama buttons.”
Bucky stepped closer. “You like the coat.”
“I love the coat. I wanted to climb you like a tree in the coat.”
His mouth twitched. “At a debrief?”
“It was a very boring debrief.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.” You hooked one finger into his loosened tie and tugged him closer. “Here you are.”
The elevator rose.
Bucky let himself be pulled. Your smile softened when he came near, and he thought, not for the first time, that the worst thing about you was not the flirting. It was the moments after, when the joke stepped aside and left all that wanting visible.
He cupped your jaw. “You sure?”
You blinked. “About you?”
“About tonight.”
The question sobered you slightly, but not in a bad way. You held his gaze. “Yes.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Two glasses of champagne over four hours, one of which I abandoned because Julian started explaining his movie to me.”
“Tragic.”
“Deeply.” Your fingers slid over his wrist. “I’m sure, Bucky.”
His name in your mouth still hit like a touch.
“And if I say something you don’t like?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you.”
“If I do something you don’t like?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“If you want to stop?”
“I’ll tell you.” Your voice softened. “I need you to believe me.”
He nodded once.
You leaned in, brushing your mouth over his. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
The elevator doors opened.
Bucky caught your hand and pulled you into the hall.
“Tell me,” he said.
Your steps faltered.
He looked back. “You had plenty to say before.”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
Bucky smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
“Oh,” you said faintly. “You’re going to be awful.”
“You like awful.”
“I like you.”
He nearly lost the thread entirely.
His room was closer than yours. He chose his because it was familiar. Controlled. Sparse, though less than it had been when he first moved in. A few books on the shelf. A jacket over a chair. Clean sheets because Steve had once broken into his room, taken one look at the bed, and muttered something about “bachelor despair.”
Bucky unlocked the door. You stepped inside and went quiet. That, more than anything, made him nervous. He watched you take in the room, the low light, the neatly made bed, the absence of clutter. There was no judgment on your face. Just curiosity, and something like care.
“You can say it,” he said.
You turned back. “Say what?”
“That it looks like nobody lives here.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“But you thought it.”
“A little.” You walked to the bookshelf, trailing one finger along the spines without pulling anything out. “Mostly I thought it smells like you.”
Bucky shut the door. “That a good thing?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Very.”
The lock clicked. The sound changed the room.
He crossed the room slowly. You stayed where you were, one hand still on the shelf, chin lifted like a challenge.
“Last chance,” he said.
Your eyes darkened. “For you or me?”
“For behaving.”
That smile again. “I already told you I’m bad at that.”
Bucky stopped in front of you. “I noticed.”
“Still interested?”
His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing the ruined edge of your lipstick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Could be a friendly escort.”
“To my bedroom?”
“You’re old-fashioned.”
His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip. “Open.”
Your lashes fluttered, and for one perfect second, you did exactly what he told you. Your lips parted beneath his thumb, breath warming his skin.
Then your eyes narrowed with returning mischief. You bit his thumb. Gently.
Bucky stared at you. You smiled around it.
He laughed once, low and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to please you until his metal hand closed around your hip and turned you, backing you into the shelf with careful force. Your breath caught. A few books shifted behind you.
“You think you’re cute?” he asked.
“I know I am.”
His mouth brushed your cheek. “You’ve been poking the monster for months, sweetheart.”
The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. He felt the effect immediately. Your breath stuttered, your hand tightening in his jacket. His gaze sharpened.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You like that.”
You looked irritated, which would have been more convincing if you were not flushed to your chest. “Don’t be so smug.”
“You’ve been smug since March.”
“I was charming.”
“You were a menace.”
“You liked it.”
His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, following the open slit in your dress. Your words caught as his fingers found warm skin.
“I did,” Bucky said.
Your eyes snapped to his.
He held your gaze, hand moving higher by slow degrees. “‘S’that what you wanted to hear?”
For once, you did not have an immediate answer.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. “You wanted to get under my skin so bad.”
“I did get under your skin.”
“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on your thigh. “You did.”
Your lips parted.
Bucky kissed you before you could fill the silence with something clever. He kissed you deep, pressing you back against the shelf until he felt your body yield beneath his. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid under his jacket, pushing it down his arms with impatience.
Your fingers went to his tie next.
Bucky caught both your wrists. You stilled immediately, breathless against his mouth.
His eyes searched yours. “Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Bucky,” you said, and the impatience in it soothed him more than any soft reassurance would have. “I swear to God, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to become difficult.”
“You’re already difficult.”
“I can get worse.”
“I know.”
You tugged against his grip. “Then do something about it.”
The last of his restraint went very, very quiet. Bucky released one wrist and guided you back toward the bed. You went willingly, though you tried to keep your smile in place. It slipped when the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He stood in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his legs.
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Your chin tipped up. “What?”
“Trying to decide where to start.”
Your breath caught.
Then, because you were you, your smile returned. “I can make suggestions.”
“I bet you can.”
“Several.”
“Generous.”
“I’m a giver.”
Bucky’s hand went to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to quiet you. “You’re a brat.”
Your eyes lit.
He felt that reaction everywhere.
“And you like that too,” he said.
You swallowed. “Definitely.”
“Better.”
Your thighs pressed together.
Bucky noticed.
He lowered himself slowly, one knee touching the floor between your feet.
Your expression changed at once.
“Oh,” you said, much smaller than before.
Bucky looked up at you, his hands sliding over your calves. “Still got suggestions?”
Your mouth opened.
No sound came out.
He smiled again, slower this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
His lips brushed the inside of your knee.
You watched him like you were afraid to blink.
“I had a whole speech prepared,” you said.
His mouth moved higher. “Did you?”
“Very persuasive.”
“I’m sure.”
“I was going to tell you how much you want me.”
He kissed the inside of your thigh, just above the slit of your dress. “I know how much I want you.”
Your breath hitched.
“Do you?” you asked.
Bucky looked up at you. “You want me to prove it?”
The answer left you quickly. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Good.”
His hands slid farther beneath your dress, slow enough to make it deliberate, warm flesh and cool metal moving over your thighs with the same careful pressure.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the mattress. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’ve listened to you run your mouth for months.” His lips brushed higher, close enough that your next breath went uneven. “Let me have my fun.”
“Your fun is very mean.”
His mouth curved against the inside of your thigh. “You want me to stop?”
Your answer came too fast to be dignified. “No.”
Bucky’s smile deepened. His hand slipped higher, thumb tracing the edge of your underwear beneath the dress, and your knees tried to close around his shoulders. He let them. He even turned his head and kissed the inside of one thigh.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
You gave a breathless laugh. “I’m being polite.”
“Liar.”
“I am a delight.”
“You’re soaked.”
Your entire body went hot.
Bucky looked up at you with the unbearable calm of a man who knew exactly what he had found. His thumb pressed again, dragging lightly over damp fabric, and your grip on the mattress tightened hard enough that your knuckles ached.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All that talking, and this is what you wanted?”
You swallowed. “Among other things.”
“Still making suggestions?”
“I’m trying to decide if I hate you.”
His eyes warmed. “You don’t.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but then he leaned in and kissed you over your underwear, and the argument vanished somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The sound that came out of you was embarrassingly soft. Bucky heard it anyway. His fingers flexed against your thighs, and the next kiss was slower, firmer, open-mouthed enough that your hips lifted before you could stop them.
He made a low sound of approval that went through you like heat.
“That’s it,” he said, the words rougher now. “There you are.”
His fingers hooked into your underwear. He paused there, waiting.
You looked down at him. “Bucky.”
That was all you had to say.
He drew them down your legs, taking his time despite the way his breathing had changed, and tucked them into his pocket with a look that made your pulse jump.
“Really?” you asked.
His hands returned to your thighs. “You want them back?”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
His smile was sharp. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he leaned in.
The first touch of his mouth was enough to knock the air from your lungs. Bucky groaned like he had been the one waiting, like the taste of you had answered some question he had been refusing to ask all night. His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, and you fell back onto one elbow, the other hand flying to his hair.
“Fuck,” you breathed.
He hummed against you.
His tongue moved over you again, and your hand tightened in his hair.
“Bucky.”
He groaned at the sound of his name, one hand sliding higher to hold your hips down when they jerked toward his mouth. His mouth was hot and merciless, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs, his metal hand cool against your hip where the dress had bunched around your waist.
You tried to say something. It came out as a broken little sound.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark enough to make your stomach twist.
“You had a comment?”
“I forgot it.”
“Good.”
“Smug,” you accused, but there was no strength behind it.
He kissed your thigh. “Pretty.”
That was unfair.
You made a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper. “You can’t call me that when you’re down there.”
“I can call you whatever I want when you’re this wet for me.”
Your head tipped back, eyes closing. “Jesus.”
“That bother you?”
“No.”
“Then take it.”
His mouth returned before you could recover, and this time, two fingers pressed against you, spreading slickness before easing inside. Your body took him greedily, clenching around the slow push of his fingers, and Bucky’s groan vibrated against your clit.
Your hand tightened in his hair again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He set a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you while his mouth worked over you with devastating focus. The room narrowed to the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the soft obscene sounds of his mouth between your legs. Your thighs began to tremble, and his metal hand shifted from your hip to your stomach, pressing you down when you tried to arch away from how good it felt.
“Don’t run,” he said against you.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m preserving my dignity.”
He laughed softly. “Little late for that.”
You would have cursed at him if he had not chosen that moment to curl his fingers again, hitting the place that made your whole body go tight. His name broke out of you, too loud, too needy, too honest, and Bucky made a sound like that alone could have ruined him.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me have it.”
The orgasm hit hard enough that the room went white at the edges. You came with his mouth still on you and his fingers buried inside you, thighs shaking around his shoulders while he worked you through it. He softened his mouth, slowed his hand, but kept touching until your breath turned into little broken sounds and you had to tug at his hair.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “Too much.”
He stopped immediately.
For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing.
Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now, and stood.
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess from your hands, his tie loose, his shirt still buttoned but wrinkled where you had grabbed him. His mouth was wet from you. He looked wrecked and controlled at the same time, which felt deeply unfair when you were sprawled on his bed with your dress around your waist and your ability to speak in complete sentences somewhere on the floor.
He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head. “You okay?”
You nodded, then remembered words. “Yeah.”
His gaze searched yours. “Too much?”
“No.” Your hand lifted to his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Just enough to make me regret every time I let you leave a room without doing that.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Every time?”
“I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”
He turned his head and kissed your palm.
You caught his tie and pulled. “Come here.”
He came willingly, covering your body with his and kissing you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and moaned into it, hips lifting against him. He was hard where he pressed between your thighs, thick and restrained by the fabric of his pants, and the feel of him made you impatient all over again.
Your hands went to his shirt.
This time, he let you.
The buttons were more difficult than they had any right to be, mostly because he kept kissing you and partly because your fingers had not fully recovered. Bucky made a low, amused sound against your mouth when you fumbled with the third one.
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
“I’m not.”
“You are spiritually laughing.”
“Spiritually?”
“Don’t question me while I’m undressing you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words were dry, but his breath caught when your hands finally pushed the shirt open. You smoothed your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard lines of muscle, the scars where skin changed and history refused to be quiet. He went very still beneath your touch.
You noticed immediately.
Your hands slowed. “Okay?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
For a second, the room held its breath.
Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Using my lines on me?”
“They’re good lines.”
His shoulders eased, just a little. “I’m sure.”
You sat up enough to kiss his chest, right over his heart. Bucky’s hand came to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You kissed another scar, then another, careful not because you thought he might break, but because you wanted him to know you saw him and wanted him anyway.
When you looked up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that stole some of the teasing from your tongue.
“Still with me?” you asked.
His hand slid along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The word came out rough.
You kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower. His hands moved over your back, finding the closure of your dress, and you let him turn you enough to work it open. The fabric loosened with a soft whisper. He drew it down carefully, and you lifted your hips so he could pull it away.
Then you were in front of him in nothing but jewelry and the ruined remains of your composure.
Bucky stared.
You gave him half a smile. “Careful. A girl might get shy.”
“No, she won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
The answer landed low in your stomach.
He touched you then, both hands moving from your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he lowered his mouth to follow. Your head fell back as he kissed and licked and learned you with the same terrible patience he had used between your thighs. When his mouth closed around one nipple and his metal hand held your waist still, you arched hard enough that he had to press you back down.
“Sensitive,” he murmured.
“Observant.”
“Smart mouth.”
“You like my mouth.”
“I do.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Heat rushed through you. “Have you?”
“Every time you called me handsome in front of half the team.”
“You poor thing.”
“Every time you blew me a kiss across the gym.”
“I was motivating you.”
“Every time you bent over a briefing table like you didn’t know what you were doing.”
You blinked. “I always know what I’m doing.”
His mouth curved. “I know.”
Then he kissed lower, over your stomach, and the laugh that had been forming turned into a gasp.
You reached for his belt. “Bucky.”
He caught your wrist again, but only to bring your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles. “What do you want?”
“You.”
“Specific.”
“You are such an asshole.”
He smiled. “Specific,” he repeated.
You stared at him, breathing hard, pride fighting a losing battle with need.
“I want you inside me,” you said finally.
His expression changed.
“I can do that,” he said.
Your smile came back, softer this time. “Competent?”
His hand went to his belt. “Very.”
He stripped without performance, which somehow made it worse, shirt hitting the floor, belt sliding free, pants pushed down with a controlled impatience that told you he was closer to the edge than he looked. When he finally climbed back over you, bare and warm and heavy between your thighs, your ability to joke deserted you entirely.
He noticed.
“Quiet again,” he said, mouth brushing yours.
“Busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Reconsidering all my life choices.”
His smile softened. “Regrets?”
“Mostly that I didn’t try harder.”
Bucky laughed, but it caught when your hand slid between your bodies and wrapped around him. He was hot and thick in your palm, his hips pressing forward before he could stop himself. His forehead dropped to yours.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” you whispered.
His eyes opened.
You smiled up at him, thumb stroking over the tip of his cock, and watched his restraint fray in real time.
He caught your wrist after another stroke. “Condom.”
It was not really a question, but you nodded toward the nightstand. “Please tell me Steve’s bachelor despair intervention included supplies.”
Bucky huffed a laugh and reached for the drawer. “He’s thorough.”
“Heroic, really.”
He found one, tore it open, then paused. “You’re sure?”
You looked at him then, at the seriousness under the heat, and something in you softened so quickly it almost hurt.
“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want you.”
His jaw tightened.
You touched his face. “Bucky.”
He kissed you as he rolled the condom on, and the kiss was so intimate that it made the next moment feel even sharper. He settled between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you. The first press of him stole the air from your lungs.
He stopped immediately. “Okay?”
“Yes.” Your hands gripped his shoulders. “Just go slow.”
His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust even though his breath was rough against your mouth and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The stretch was intense, almost too much, then perfect, then overwhelming all over again. You clung to him, nails pressing into his back, and Bucky whispered praise against your mouth until he was fully inside you and both of you went still.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
You had flirted with him for months. You had imagined this, wanted this, teased him because wanting him quietly had started to feel impossible. But imagination had not prepared you for the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body covered yours like he had finally stopped deciding whether he deserved to be there.
Your throat tightened.
Bucky brushed his nose against yours. “Hey.”
You swallowed. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You managed a smile. “You’re just a lot.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve heard that before.”
You pinched his side.
He laughed under his breath, then groaned when the movement made you clench around him. His eyes dropped closed.
“Oh,” you said, interest returning through the haze. “You like that.”
“Don’t start.”
“I think I should start.”
He drew his hips back slowly and pushed in again.
Your words dissolved.
Bucky’s smile was brief and devastating. “That’s what I thought.”
The pace stayed slow at first, deep enough to make your breath catch every time he filled you. His metal hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly, changing the angle until pleasure sparked bright and sudden through your body. Your head fell back into the pillow.
“Bucky.”
“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know, sweetheart.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing more of his weight, more of his heat, more of the quiet sounds he made when you clenched around him.
He kissed you through it. Messy, breathless kisses that kept breaking when one of you moaned or when his rhythm faltered because you dragged your nails down his back. He muttered your name against your mouth, then against your throat, then into the curve of your shoulder as the careful pace began to slip.
You liked the moment he lost patience.
You liked it more than you should have.
One second, he was controlled, moving like he could make restraint last all night if he had to. The next, your hips lifted into his at the wrong angle or the right one, and something in him broke. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with his metal hand, the cool pressure making your whole body tighten around him.
His eyes snapped to yours. “Okay?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, don’t stop.”
He did not.
The next thrust drove you higher on the bed, hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Bucky made a low, wrecked sound and did it again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours into the mattress while his free hand gripped your hip. Every thrust pushed the breath out of you. Every drag back made you desperate for the next one.
“Still got something to say?” he asked.
You tried. You really did.
What came out was not language.
Bucky’s mouth found your neck, teeth scraping just below your jaw. “Mouthy little thing until I get my cock in you.”
The words should have embarrassed you. They did embarrass you, which was unfortunately part of the problem. Heat rushed through you so sharply that you clenched around him, and Bucky swore, hips stuttering before he recovered.
“There it is,” he said. “You like being talked to like that?”
“Yes.”
His hand tightened on your wrists. “You like me jealous?”
Your eyes flew open.
He lifted his head, looking down at you with his hair falling loose around his face and his mouth swollen from kissing you. There was vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, something exposed and honest enough to change the shape of the question.
You pulled against his hold, not to get away, but because you wanted your hands on him. He understood after a second and let go.
You touched his face at once. “I like when you want me enough to stop pretending you don’t.”
His expression shifted.
Then he kissed you, and the kiss was almost too much, too deep and too honest for the frantic movement of his hips. You held onto him as he fucked you harder, his body heavy over yours, your name breaking out of him like a confession. Pleasure built again, faster this time, sharpened by the orgasm he had already given you and the steady drag of him inside you.
“Bucky,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m close.”
His hand slid between your bodies.
You nearly sobbed when his fingers found your clit.
“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel it.”
You did.
The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body locking around him as pleasure crashed hot and bright through your veins. Bucky held you through it, thrusting shallowly while you clenched around him, his mouth at your temple and his voice rough with praise you could barely understand.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, that’s it. So pretty like this.”
The praise only made it last longer.
By the time you came back to yourself, Bucky was shaking above you, jaw tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut with restraint.
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Come on, baby.”
His breath caught.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I want it.”
That was enough.
Bucky buried his face against your neck and came with a broken groan, hips pressing deep as his body finally gave in. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, your own body still trembling beneath his. For a long moment, he stayed there, breathing hard against your skin, heavy enough to ground you but not enough to hurt.
The room went quiet around you.
Eventually, his arm shifted, bracing some of his weight. “Am I crushing you?”
“A little,” you said.
He started to move.
You tightened your arms around him. “I didn’t say stop.”
His laugh was exhausted and warm against your shoulder. “Brat.”
“Sweetheart,” you corrected.
He lifted his head.
You smiled up at him, softer than you meant to. “You said it first.”
Something flickered through his face.
Then he kissed you, gentle now. “Sweetheart,” he said, quieter, like he was testing how it felt when nobody was hiding.
You felt embarrassingly close to crying, which was rude of your body after everything else it had already done tonight.
Bucky noticed. His thumb brushed your cheek. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
His brow rose.
You huffed. “I am.”
“That means yes, or that means stop asking?”
The echo of your own question from months ago made your chest ache. “It means I’m fine.”
“Mm,” he said. “We’ll workshop that.”
You stared at him.
The smile came slowly.
“Oh, you absolute nightmare.”
He kissed you again before you could say anything worse.
Afterward, Bucky cleaned you up with a gentleness that left you strangely quiet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, his boxers pulled on haphazardly, his hair a disaster and his expression too careful. He moved slowly, checking your face more than he needed to, watching for any sign that you had changed your mind now that the wanting had settled.
You caught his wrist when he finished.
“Bucky.”
He looked at you.
“I’m fine.”
His shoulders eased by a fraction. His fingers turned in your grip until he was holding your hand.
“Yeah,” he said.
You tugged lightly. “Come back to bed.”
He did.
The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him immediately, which seemed to surprise him even after everything. You rested your cheek against his chest, one leg thrown over his, the sheet pulled messily around your waist. His arm hovered for half a second before settling around you.
“You’re thinking loudly again,” you murmured.
His fingers moved once over your back. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”
You smiled against his skin. “I was unbearable before.”
“Worse, then.”
“Probably.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You can handle me.”
His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”
“You’re very competent.”
That got you a small smile.
You rested your chin on his chest. “Are you okay?”
He was quiet for long enough that you did not think he would answer. Then his hand slid slowly up your back, warm and steady.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
There was no self-pity in it. Just honesty, rough around the edges.
You softened. “Do what?”
“This.” His fingers brushed your shoulder. “Wanting someone. Having it. Keeping it without waiting for it to go bad.”
Your heart hurt.
“I don’t need you to be good at it right away,” you said. “I just need you not to punish both of us because you’re scared.”
His eyes met yours.
You held his gaze. “And I need you to talk to me before you start glaring at actors like you’re deciding where to hide the body.”
His mouth twitched. “He had it coming.”
“Bucky.”
“He touched your waist.”
“You dragged me out of the gala and fucked me in your bed. I promise you won that exchange.”
A laugh broke out of him, surprised and real, and you grinned because you had earned that.
After a moment, he said, “I don’t want to be one more person in the crowd looking at you.”
You went still.
Bucky looked away, as if the confession had cost more than he meant it to. Before he could retreat completely, you touched his jaw and guided him back.
“You’re not,” you said.
His eyes searched yours.
“You were never that,” you continued. “That’s why it was so annoying when you kept acting like you were.”
His brows lifted. “Annoying?”
“Deeply. Tragically.” You tapped his chest. “I was doing excellent work.”
“You were harassing me.”
“I was courting you.”
“You bit my thumb.”
“You liked it.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “I did.”
Your pulse jumped, even now.
Bucky noticed that too, and his expression warmed with a darker kind of satisfaction. “Interesting.”
“Behave,” you warned.
His mouth curved. “That’s my line.”
“You’ll live.”
“I might.”
You were smiling when the next words slipped out, too soft to be a joke and too honest to call back.
“I wanted a boyfriend, you know.”
He froze.
For one terrible second, all the warmth in the room seemed to hold still.
Bucky lifted his head.
You tried for a smile, but it felt shaky at the edges. “Emotionally unavailable boyfriend, technically. I’m flexible.”
His expression softened in a way that made your throat tighten.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You could have backed away. Made it a joke. Given him the escape hatch you had always been so good at pretending you did not need. Instead, you looked up at him and let the truth sit plainly between you.
“Yeah.”
Bucky’s hand came to your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, so gentle it made the rest of him feel even heavier beside you.
“I can do boyfriend,” he said.
Your heart gave a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Can you?”
“I’ll probably be bad at it.”
“I’ll workshop you.”
He huffed a laugh. “Of course you will.”
“I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“Foreplay,” you said.
His mouth curved.
Then he kissed you, and this time, there was nothing frantic in it. It was slow and deep and almost painfully sweet, a kiss that felt less like surrender than arrival. You wrapped yourself around him and let him take his time, because Bucky was warm and solid beside you, because his mouth was soft when he wanted it to be, because the man who had spent months pretending not to want you had finally stopped pretending.
Much later, you woke to pale morning light and the smell of coffee.
For one disoriented second, you thought you were in your own room. Then you shifted and felt the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of a body beside yours, and the weight of Bucky’s arm around your waist.
You opened your eyes.
He was awake, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he had been caught doing something private.
“Hi,” you said, voice rough with sleep.
His expression eased. “Hi.”
“You watched me sleep? Very gothic of you.”
“I woke up two minutes ago.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe ten.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
His mouth twitched. “Apparently.”
The answer was too easy. Too honest. It warmed you all the way through.
You stretched carefully, then winced.
Bucky’s hand moved at once. “Sore?”
“A little.”
His face changed. “Too much?”
“No.” You turned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Exactly enough.”
He looked unconvinced, because he was Bucky.
You sighed. “I will accept pampering, though.”
“That so?”
“Yes. I’m very delicate.”
He looked down at the marks his mouth had left on your neck, then back at your face.
You smiled. “Emotionally.”
That got you a quiet laugh. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft enough that you melted into it despite the morning breath concerns you decided not to acknowledge because romance required sacrifice.
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of you froze.
Then Sam’s voice came through from the hall. “I’m not coming in because I value my life, but Steve wants to know if you two are alive, Natasha says hydrate again, and Tony says if the bed is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”
You buried your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky closed his eyes. “Go away, Sam.”
“I also brought coffee.”
You lifted your head. “Wait.”
Bucky looked betrayed.
You patted his chest. “Baby, I love whatever brooding domestic morning-after thing you’re doing right now, but I need coffee if I’m going to survive the team knowing you rearranged my insides.”
From the hall, Sam made a delighted choking sound. “Oh my God.”
Bucky threw a pillow at the door.
It hit with a soft thump. Sam laughed all the way down the hall.
You collapsed back against the mattress, laughing too, and after a second, Bucky gave in. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your laughter softened into a smile against his skin.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“You knew that on Tuesday.”
“I knew it before then.”
You tipped your face up. “And yet.”
His eyes moved over you, warm and a little helpless, the way they had looked last night right before everything changed.
“And yet,” he agreed.
You smiled, pleased enough that he narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was letting the moment breathe.”
“The moment can suffocate.”
Your smile widened. “You’re so romantic.”
Bucky rolled you beneath him before you could laugh again, his body settling carefully over yours, one hand braced beside your head. His hair fell around his face, soft with sleep, and he looked less like a ghost, less like a weapon, less like the man who had spent months standing at the edge of his own wanting.
He looked like yours.
Or almost yours. Enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make you brave.
“So,” you said, touching his jaw. “Did I win you over?”
Bucky looked at you for a long moment, then bent until his mouth hovered over yours.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea.”
Then he kissed you, and because you were a menace, because he was smiling against your mouth, because you had never known how to leave a victory unannounced, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered, “Progress.”
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Winter Soldier divider ❤️💛
Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 13.7k
Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.
“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.
Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.
“They are primitive.”
“Cars are cool.”
“Cars are slow.”
“They have music.”
That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.
Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”
Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.
From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”
You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.
Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.
You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).
Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true.
Why would you even think that? You looked so different.
By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.
Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.
You and Peter were… batteries.
And then Yondu died.
What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?
That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.
For a while, neither of you joked about anything.
Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,
But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.
The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter.
And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.
Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.
The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals.
You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.
For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.
Then came Thanos, and Titan.
Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.
The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.
You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.
But it was not enough.
The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning.
Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.
You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would.
Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together.
But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless.
Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.
Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.
At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it.
You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.
Peter saw it happen.
One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you.
“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”
You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there.
That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.
You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.
Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too.
Then you were both dust.
—
And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.
One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you.
There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.
So you fought him again, and this time, you won.
Earth, as it turned out, was not boring.
Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.
Earth also had Bucky Barnes.
Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.
Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories.
“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.
“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.
Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.
“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”
You looked up.
And fuck.
Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.
He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh.
Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”
The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”
You blinked. “Bucky?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”
From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”
You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.
“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.
You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”
Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”
“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.
Bucky actually smiled then.
And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.
—
You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.
It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.
Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.
Your fingers moved absently over your arm.
The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home.
Behind you, the roof access door creaked.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”
You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”
Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.
He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.
“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.
You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”
You blinked. “About what?”
“That was pretty much my response.”
You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.
“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”
“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”
“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”
You stared at him. “Do you?”
“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.
He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”
You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”
“Not sure that means much.”
“No?”
“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.
So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing.
You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.
Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.
You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”
“What is it?”
You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”
Bucky turned his head toward you.
You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”
His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”
You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”
“Usually no.”
“Usually?”
“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”
While I was gone.
Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had
So you pushed your door open first.
You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.
You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.
You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.
Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.
Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.
You looked down at your hands.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.
People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.
You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”
Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”
You looked at him.
His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”
And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.
Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.
He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold.
You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing.
You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”
Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.
“Are they dead?” you asked.
That made him look at you.
You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”
Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”
“Most is not all.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
“Do you want help?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.
Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.
Bucky seemed aware of it too.
“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”
You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”
“One-night stands.”
You stared.
He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”
“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”
“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”
“No.”
“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”
His smile lingered, and so did yours.
The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.
Maybe it did.
Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.
“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”
That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”
You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.
You leaned closer anyway.
“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”
“No?”
“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”
Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”
“Yes.”
You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.
“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.
Instead, it was recognition.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”
When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.
His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt. His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.
It was infuriatingly sweet.
So you fixed it.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.
Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.
You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.
This did not feel like that.
Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.
He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.
Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”
You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.
“You don’t have rust.”
For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”
You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”
His eyes dropped to your hand.
It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.
By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you.
It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.
You were.
So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon.
You just made each other feel good.
—
In the morning, someone knocked on your door.
It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.
You opened your eyes slowly.
For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.
Oh.
Right.
The knocking came again.
Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before.
“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”
“He okay?”
“He’s asking about breakfast.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.
You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”
Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.
It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.
“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.
You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.
Oh, shit.
Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.
You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.
Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”
Your entire body went hot.
“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.
Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”
From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”
You dropped your face into your hands.
Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.
“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.
“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.
Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”
“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.
Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.
Peter.
“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .
Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”
You froze. Bucky froze.
You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”
Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”
Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”
Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”
“Oh my god,” you said.
“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.
Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”
You turned to him in alarm. “No.”
Bucky looked between you and the doorway.
“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”
“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.
Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.
Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.
“I’ll see you around?” you said.
“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.
“Big fan,” Peter said.
“Pete!” you groaned.
Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”
Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.
Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.
Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.
By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.
It had one number saved: Bucky.
—
You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.
It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.
Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.
Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.
So one week became five months.
And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.
Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.
The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.
It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual.
It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted.
Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.
Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.
There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.
But there he was.
Things happened.
There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive.
There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”
You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.
It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.
That was what you kept saying, anyway.
Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.
Casual meant you could leave when you had to.
Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.
“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.
You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.
Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.
“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”
Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”
“Pete loves that song.”
“Of course he does.”
You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”
He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”
“No. Music.”
He looked so offended you had to kiss him.
That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.
The Benatar was fixed eventually.
Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly.
Bucky didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.
—
The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.
It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.
His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”
You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.
When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.
His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.
You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.
You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.
Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.
“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”
It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.
You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”
You had kicked Drax under the table.
Bucky had not laughed much after that.
Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.
After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.
“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out
“Bucky...”
“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”
You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”
His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.
“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”
“You don’t blend in anywhere.”
“That’s fair.”
You tried to smile.
Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.
“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”
You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.
You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.
How could you ask him to leave that?
And how could he ask you to stay?
Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians.
Earth had Bucky.
Space had everyone else.
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.
His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”
He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.
He kissed them off your cheeks.
You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.
Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.
For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.
His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.
You blinked up at him.
Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.
Your lips parted.
He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”
You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”
He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.
Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.
But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.
He laughed too, quieter.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”
You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.
It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.
You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Bucky opened his eyes.
You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”
He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.
He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.
His forehead dropped to yours.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at. It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.
This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.
Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.
“Don’t,” you gasped.
He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hold back.”
His eyes darkened.
Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”
Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.
You let yourself have it.
For once, you didn’t try to make it funny.
You just let him have you.
And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
Good.
You wanted it to fucking ache.
For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.
Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”
His hand stilled in your hair.
You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”
Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.
You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.
You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”
You placed it in Bucky’s hand.
He looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“A communicator.”
His brows lifted. “This works in space?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”
Bucky stared at you.
You sniffed. “But it works.”
His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”
“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”
Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.
“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”
“From time to time,” he repeated.
You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”
Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.
He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.
You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.
“What is this?”
“My dog tags.”
You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”
He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”
“Then why are they called that?”
“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”
You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up.
His smiled.
Oh.
“They’re important,” you realised.
Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”
And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”
You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”
“You gave me a space phone that might explode."
You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.
You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.
Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.
You went very still.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you said.
He looked at you.
You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.
“Good,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him again.
By morning, your body ached everywhere.
When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.
Stay.
Come with me.
Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.
You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.
—
You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.
Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between.
Still, you messaged him when you could.
Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.
Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.
Still alive?
That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.
You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?
Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.
Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.
Then he looked out of his window.
Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.
He wondered where you were.
He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.
—
The first time you came back, it was only for two days.
You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once.
He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.
You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.
“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”
He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”
“I know.”
“It’s not enough time.”
“I know,” he said again.
His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.
You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.
“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.
He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”
“Terrans love boxes.”
He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood.
That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.
Bucky stayed awake.
He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.
“You still wear them,” he murmured.
You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”
“To me.”
“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.
Bucky’s breath hitched.
You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”
He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you misplace me?”
“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”
A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.
After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”
You turned your head slightly. “What does?”
“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”
You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you?”
You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”
You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”
“Every few months, apparently.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.
—
The second time you came back, it was for five days.
Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.
Also because Bucky was there.
Not that you said that.
You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”
You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.
This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.
Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.
Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.
“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.
He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”
He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.
Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”
He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.
You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”
“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.
You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty?”
He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”
Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.
You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”
“I know.”
“You can date.”
“I know.”
“Then how was it?”
“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”
Oh.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him.
Instead, you reached for his hand.
He let you take it.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked at him. “But?”
Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”
—
The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week
That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.
Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”
You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”
“Yes.”
“What do they know?”
He looked uncomfortable.
You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Oh, now it’s the full name?”
“What do they know?”
“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”
So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.
The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air.
You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.
Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.
“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”
Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.
You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.
“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”
Sam choked.
One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”
“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.
Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”
You wanted to take it back.
You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him.
But you didn’t say any of that.
Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.
You mouthed, stop.
He smiled faintly.
Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.
Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.
“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.
“That makes it worse.”
“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”
Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.
“Fine,” he said at last.
Your face lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah. But I want something.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”
Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”
Oh.
He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.
Soon.
As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.
“Bucky…”
“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”
You swallowed.
“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”
You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…
You reached across the table and took his hand.
“I’ll try,” you said.
—
The fourth time, you came back two months later.
He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here.
You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.
You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”
He let you in.
The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.
You told him about Mantis on the second night.
You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.
So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.
“Mantis is my sister,” you said.
Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”
You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”
“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.
“Yes.”
He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”
You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”
Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”
You believed him.
And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.
But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.
Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.
And what did Earth have?
One soldier in Brooklyn.
And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window.
He wondered where you would be in a month.
He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.
He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.
Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.
—
Months later…
Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either.
Rocket actually almost died.
You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon.
For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow.
Then he came back.
Against all odds, Rocket lived.
The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces.
Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights.
And now, your family was changing.
Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck.
Which was fair
But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.
Then Peter said he was leaving, too.
He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.
Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.
He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.
And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too.
“I could come with you,” you said.
Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”
You smacked him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”
Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.
His eyes changed.
“Ohhh,” he said.
You looked away at once. “Don’t.”
Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”
“Peter.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”
Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”
Your face went hot.
Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”
“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”
The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it.
Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.
You turned. “What?”
He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.
Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”
You looked at Groot in betrayal.
Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.
Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”
“I don’t.”
“You are touching them now.”
You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.
“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”
“He’s not old.”
Nebula finally looked up.
Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means old.”
“He looks fine.”
Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything”
Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”
“They are called dog tags.”
“You are not a dog.”
“That is what I said!”
Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”
Well, when she said it like that…
Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”
Finally, everybody shut the hell up.
Because yes. He did.
Right.
Rocket looked away first.
He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.
Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.
Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”
Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”
“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”
Rocket didn’t look at you.
He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.
“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”
You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.
The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay.
“I am groot,” Groot said, finally.
I love you guys.
—
Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.
He should have been, probably.
That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM.
He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.
So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.
He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up.
He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.
Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.
You were standing in his hallway.
You.
You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.
Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet.
Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.
You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.
“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.
Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.
“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”
For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or space. Just you.
Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.
You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.
Bucky closed his eyes.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.
“How long?” he asked.
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”
Oh.
Oh, stars.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.
“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”
Bucky kissed you.
He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.
Yes.
Yes, stay.
Yes, here.
Yes, with me.
You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.
When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”
Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”
You sighed then.
Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.
—
And then life kept going.
You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.
Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.
He won anyway.
By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.
The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines:
Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.
James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.
Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.
That one was your favourite.
You framed it.
Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.
You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.
He stared at the headline.
“You framed it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”
“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”
Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.
The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.
You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.
Bucky said the place made sense for security.
When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”
“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use.
“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.
“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”
Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.
And slowly, it became yours.
You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair.
When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.
He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”
Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.
“Your sister likes windows,” he said.
He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.
Mantis smiled.
Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.
Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”
You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.
And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.
Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.
“I like Earth,” she said.
You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.
“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”
—end.
Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?
⤷ king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, a man who yearns is a man who earns, jealousy, possessive behavior, daddy issues, physical violence and parental abuse, arguments, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, oral f!receiving, fingering, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
⭐︎ word count: 16.3k
⭐︎ a/n: 𝓹𝓽. 1 due to popular demand + the new bridgerton season inspiring me. fic playlist
synopsis:
After fleeing the palace, you are now the most wanted woman in the kingdom—caught between Prince Jamie, who won't let go, and his father, King Barnes, who refuses to lose.
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After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.
But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.
When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.
“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.
“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”
Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.
She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.
You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.
“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”
Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.
But she didn’t.
Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.
“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.
And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.
“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.
They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.
You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.
You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.
Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.
“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”
“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”
“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”
Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”
You felt your body go rigid.
“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.
“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.
“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”
You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.
They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.
But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.
“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.
Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.
“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.
“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”
“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”
“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”
Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”
Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.
“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”
They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.
You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.
To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.
Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”
You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.
Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.
From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.
He had called you his girl.
He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.
But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.
“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.
“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”
Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.
You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.
You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.
His girl.
And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.
You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.
Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.
He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.
In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.
Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.
How dare you leave him?
He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.
He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.
Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.
A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.
Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.
“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”
Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”
“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”
Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.
Jamie.
His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.
“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.
“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”
The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.
He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.
But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.
He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.
“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.
“You called for me?”
Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.
Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.
Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.
Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.
“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”
Jamie stayed quiet.
Bucky took a step closer.
“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”
Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.
“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”
Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.
“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.
A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.
“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”
“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”
Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.
“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”
Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.
“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.
“Son—”
“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.
His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.
“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”
Princess Barnes?
Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.
No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.
Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.
“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”
It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.
He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.
“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.
“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”
“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.
“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.
Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.
“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.
But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.
“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”
And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.
Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.
“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”
Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.
“Son. Enough—”
“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”
Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.
“Jamie. Stop it—”
“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”
Propose?
Give you the world?
He wanted to give you the world?
Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.
Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.
The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.
His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.
Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.
“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”
“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.
“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.
“Jamie, that isn’t—”
“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”
Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.
He had hit his own son.
In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.
“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”
“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.
His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.
“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”
“Son, I—”
Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.
“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.
He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.
You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.
Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.
At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.
They weren’t just watching; they were searching.
You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.
They were looking for someone with very specific features.
They were looking for you.
You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.
You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.
A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.
“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”
The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.
“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”
“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”
The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”
The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.
“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”
The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.
“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”
The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.
“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”
Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.
He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.
“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.
He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”
The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.
“Thank you, miss—” he began.
As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.
The Barnes eyes.
Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.
The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.
It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.
If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.
You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.
To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.
Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”
He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.
“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”
“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”
Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.
“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.
You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.
If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.
“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.
You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.
Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.
You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.
You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.
Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.
You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.
“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.
He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.
He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.
“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.
“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.
A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.
“Hush now,” you murmured.
Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.
Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.
You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.
“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.
You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.
Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.
“Here,” you whispered.
You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.
Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”
There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.
Safe simply because of your presence.
“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.
He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.
“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”
You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.
“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”
You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.
With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.
It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.
“Your Highness—”
“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”
Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.
“What happened, Jamie?”
Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.
“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”
You held your breath, not daring to speak.
“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”
“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.
“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”
Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.
“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”
He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'
“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”
He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.
“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”
“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”
Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.
“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”
You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”
“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”
You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.
To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.
With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.
“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”
You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.
“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.
But Jamie didn’t budge.
“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”
For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.
With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.
“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.
“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”
You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”
“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.
“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”
You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”
He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”
“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”
Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.
“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”
“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”
Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.
He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.
“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”
You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, but I am.”
You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.
You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.
If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.
You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.
“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”
Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.
Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”
You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.
“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”
Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.
As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.
“Is that Prince Jamie?”
“Look at the bruises on his face!”
“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”
“Is that why there are so many guards?”
One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.
“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”
Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”
The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”
Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”
But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.
You were nowhere to be seen.
You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.
Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.
“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am—”
You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.
“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.
It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.
With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.
Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.
He was looking for his son.
Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.
It was selfish.
It was sad.
It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.
As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”
You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?
As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.
Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.
The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.
Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.
King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.
But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.
It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.
Your glove.
“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.
You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.
You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?
He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?
Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?
Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”
As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.
“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.
At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.
“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.
“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”
Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”
“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.
They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.
Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.
“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”
Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.
She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”
Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”
Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”
Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.
His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.
“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”
Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”
Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.
“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”
As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.
“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.
“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.
Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.
In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.
Please, don’t be mad at me.
She’s going to kill me.
Save me, Bucky.
His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.
Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”
But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”
You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.
“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.
“I…”
“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”
But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.
You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.
You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.
In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.
“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.
His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.
It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.
“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.
You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.
Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.
He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.
“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”
As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.
You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.
Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.
He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.
“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”
Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.
To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.
She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.
“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”
“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”
He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.
“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.
“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”
Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”
“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”
He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”
All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.
Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.
Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.
“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”
You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.
Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.
“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”
Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.
“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”
Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.
“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”
The room suddenly went very quiet.
You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.
Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.
“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”
As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.
Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.
Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.
Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”
“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.
“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.
“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”
“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”
“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”
“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”
“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.
After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.
“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.
With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.
As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.
Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.
You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.
“Your Majesty—”
“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”
He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.
“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.
He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.
“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.
“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”
Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”
You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”
Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.
“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”
Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.
“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”
While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.
“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”
His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.
“I finally get to have you.”
Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.
He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.
A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.
“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.
“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”
“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”
As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.
With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.
Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.
It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.
“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”
He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.
“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”
Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.
“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”
He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.
“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”
A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.
“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”
Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.
“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”
You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.
Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.
A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.
“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.
Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.
His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.
He wanted everything.
When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.
Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.
“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”
He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.
He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”
“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”
Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.
The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.
“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”
He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.
“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”
Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.
“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”
But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.
Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.
“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”
He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”
His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.
“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”
Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.
You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.
“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”
You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.
“Good.”
He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.
“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.
You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.
He wanted to savor all of this.
He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.
But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.
As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.
“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”
You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”
“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.
He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.
His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.
“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.
“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.
The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.
You wanted more.
He needed more.
“Bucky! Ah—!”
The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.
“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”
He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.
“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”
Wife.
You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.
The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.
Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”
He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.
“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.
“M’gonna—mph—cum…”
Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.
You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.
He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.
“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.
“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”
Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.
He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.
“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”
He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.
“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”
The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.
You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.
“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”
Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.
“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.
His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.
“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”
He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.
For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.
He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.
Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”
When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.
Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.
“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.
Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.
“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.
“You guys look rough.”
thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair. i hope you guys like it!
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⤷ king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
⭐︎ word count: 19.6k
⭐︎ a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing. 𝓹𝓽.2
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
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You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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Imagine Clark Kent planning to propose to reader, but he gets so flustered and nervous that when he kneels, all he can muster is a desperate, breathy, “Please.” Saw this idea from a woman sharing her proposal story on twitter!! 🫦🫦🤤🤤
The star that leads to you
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
a/n: The plan was for this to be 5k words long TOPS but i'm a bottom so...
Classification: (Suggestive) Fluff | Moderate workplace PDA, suggestive comments and explicit/implied sex scenes w/superpowered intimacy (destruction of the bed), normal relationship anxiety and overthinking, sci-fi talk and kryptonite exposure, use of superpowers in daily life.
Word count: 10,3k
Divider by me ;)
The days leading up to any leave or holiday were always the most chaotic. In journalism, there was no such thing as getting ahead. No matter how many drafts you filed, how many interviews you wrapped up or how many loose ends you tied off, the work simply piled up somewhere else, waiting for your attention.
You made your way through the bullpen with Jimmy trailing closely behind. For the past few days, a persistent unease had settled beneath your skin. Everyone seemed to need something from you before you left, another question, task or last-minute request, and on top of that, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Eyes appeared to follow you wherever you went.
Right now, though, the only thing demanding your attention was Jimmy's steadily rising panic.
"I…I can't do that." He shook his head again, likely for the hundredth time that morning.
"Jimmy, it's just my email." You stopped at the coffee station, reaching for your mug and filling it. "All I'm asking is that you log in once a day, check if anything's worth investigating and follow up if necessary." You stirred your coffee before lifting your eyes to him. "You won't have much to do…Lois will be helping too."
"What do I do if he contacts you?" Jimmy asked quietly, watching your hands move with nervous intensity.
"What if who contacts me?" you asked, only sparing him a brief glance.
"You know." He shrugged. "Superman."
A laugh escaped you as you picked up your mug and started back toward your desk, taking a sip as you walked. "You think Big Blue has an email address?"
"I…" Jimmy frowned as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I believe he's a modern man."
You snorted into your coffee.
"Who knows," he continued. "Maybe he'll want to meet up. To…talk."
You stopped beside your desk and turned to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. "About what?"
"I don't know." Jimmy lifted both hands. "Whatever it is you two usually talk about."
"Sure, Jimmy. Maybe he'll need help setting up an email account." You nodded thoughtfully. "Let's just hope nothing too big happens while I'm gone so I can enjoy some uninterrupted rest."
As you spoke, your gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on Clark.
Your eyes narrowed immediately at his staring but the moment your eyes met, he jerked into motion. His attention snapped downward as he began fumbling with the papers on his desk, shuffling folders that clearly didn't need sorting and reaching for things that weren't there.
You had only held his gaze for all of two seconds before he folded completely under it, which was suspicious. Your attention lingered on him even as Jimmy continued talking.
"Alright, but just in case, tell him I'm perfectly fine with meeting in dark alleys during pouring rain and all that." Jimmy nodded once, looking entirely too eager for the possibility.
"He's more of a rooftop kind of guy, but I'll pass the message along." The reply came automatically, your focus already elsewhere. “Thanks Jimmy.”
Your gaze dropped to your own desk as Jimmy finally wandered off. Taking your seat, you looked over the organized chaos spread across the surface and got to work clearing away the last of it, though most of the clutter simply disappeared into drawers and folders. You wanted to return to a clean workspace, not a disaster waiting for you after a week away.
Your final drafts had already been submitted and every article due before your leave had been filed and approved. There were still two hours until lunch and for the first time in days, there was nothing immediately demanding your attention.
You intended for the following week to be dedicated entirely to rest. Well, rest and unpacking the mountain of moving boxes currently occupying Clark's apartment, which was now yours too.
The thought alone made you look up.
Clark now sat perfectly still at his desk, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bullpen. His head was tilted slightly, his attention caught by something none of the rest of you could hear. If there was one thing you'd learned about him, it was that there usually was something, a distant cry for help, an emergency unfolding miles away or a hundred voices filtering through the world at once.
You watched him for a moment until he rose from his chair, the movement quick and purposeful. He reached for his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he stepped around his desk, his eyes finding yours immediately.
The look was familiar, it was the same one he always gave you right before disappearing. You pushed yourself to your feet and followed after him, weaving through the bullpen until the two of you reached one of the quieter hallways.
"How bad is it?" you asked worriedly.
The question and tone had nothing to do with your upcoming week off. You were never worried about canceled plans, you were worried about Metropolis. If Superman was needed in the middle of a workday, something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.
Clark suddenly turned and you barely had time to react.
The momentum of your hurried pace carried you directly into his chest and as always, the impact barely moved him. Before you could stumble back, his arms were already wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours.
It caught you completely off guard. You knew kissing with your eyes open wasn't particularly romantic but you couldn't help the way they widened in surprise. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him as you failed to kiss him back.
Only when he pulled away did you finally speak. "That bad?" you asked, eyes searching his face frantically.
Clark blinked as his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"You have to go to your other thing, right?" You gestured vaguely. "I know you heard something."
The confusion on his face matched your own. Still, his arms remained around you.
"I did." He forced himself to pause and collect his thoughts because keeping things from you had never gotten easier. "It isn't bad, sweetheart. I just need to go check it out."
At the same moment, footsteps echoed from farther down the hallway, so he reluctantly released you. Neither of you was particularly interested in becoming a more serious conversation for Human Resources yet.
You cleared your throat as Clark adjusted the strap of his bag and the silence stretched until the employee rounded the corner and disappeared again.
"Will you be long?"
"I'm not sure." He shook his head softly.
You nodded. "Be safe…I'll cover for you."
Your hand came up to pat his chest before you stepped back. Already turning toward the bullpen, you glanced down at your watch, mentally calculating how many hours "checking something out" usually translated into but a few steps later, another thought occurred to you.
"Oh… anything special I should make for di–" You turned to face him just as a rush of wind swept through the hallway. Your words died instantly and the corridor stood empty, Clark now gone. You sighed. "Takeout it is."
Muttering to yourself, you turned and headed back toward the bullpen.
Lately, Clark had been acting strange, not in the usual "I'm the last son of a dead planet" kind of way. This was different, he was distracted, restless and keeping himself busier than usual. At first, you'd assumed it had something to do with the upcoming week off. Maybe he felt guilty about stepping away from work for that long and the idea of slowing down made him uneasy, but you'd made it clear more than once that the vacation wasn't meant to be a break from who he really was.
You would never ask that of him. Clark Kent could take a week off but Superman never truly could, which only made his recent behavior feel all the more unusual.
You supposed your concern must have been written all over your face.
"Where is he?" Lois stopped in front of Clark's desk, a thick folder tucked beneath her arm.
The question snapped your attention away from his absence. Straightening your shoulders, you forced your expression into something more neutral before walking over.
"His parents needed him at the farm." You motioned vaguely toward the elevators.
Lois looked unconvinced. "He was supposed to send Perry a final draft for tomorrow's print edition."
"Is that it?" You pointed toward the folder she held. She barely lifted it before you plucked it from her grasp and pivoted back toward your desk. "I'll do it."
You dropped into your chair and opened the file immediately.
"It isn't exactly impartial." Lois crossed her arms.
"It never will be, Lois." You flipped through the first few pages of his notes. "We're about to move in together and I doubt he'd react particularly well to me firing him when I become Editor-in-Chief."
Your grin finally earned a small laugh from her.
"Besides," you continued, glancing back down at the paperwork, "I need something to do, otherwise today is going to feel even longer than it already does."
The humor faded from her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice lowered enough that the question felt genuine rather than curious.
You opened your mouth, then stopped. For a moment, you simply stared down at the pages in front of you. "I don't know. I'm usually really good at reading him." Your fingers paused against the pages. "But I just can't do it."
"You can't?" The surprise in her voice was immediate as she settled herself on the corner of your desk. "You think it's about the two of you moving in together?" she asked. "If it is, don't. You've been together for so long…most people would've expected you to move in together the second you both got to Metropolis."
A soft laugh escaped you. "No. No, that's not it…I mean, I hope not." You leaned back in your chair. "It's all going well." The words came easily because they were true. "As much as I love him, moving in with my first ever boyfriend straight out of college would've been a terrible idea."
Your smile softened. "We learned how to live separately first…how to have our own lives. I think that was the right decision and I know he does too."
Lois nodded. "So what's the problem?"
You hesitated, then cleared your throat and rolled your chair a little closer, lowering your voice despite the noise of the bullpen around you. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're afraid to call it what it is?"
Her brows knitted together. "Is that supposed to be a riddle?"
You laughed despite yourself. "No." Your gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the bullpen. "There's something I want this whole situation to be..." The words felt strangely fragile once spoken aloud, like giving them a voice somehow made them more real. "What if I start asking the questions I want to ask and find out it isn't?" Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the folder. "Then I'd be mad at him for not wanting to move at the pace I want to move at."
Lois watched you carefully and for once, she didn't rush to answer. "This isn't a race."
A small smile tugged at your mouth before quickly fading. "If it were, he'd win…I just wish I knew what we're running toward now." Your voice dropped quieter. "And if he still wants to get there with me…precisely."
You let out a long breath, hoping it would carry away some of the anxiety that had been nesting in your chest for weeks. The truth was, you had never once believed Clark would leave you, that fear had never existed.
You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, you knew the certainty behind every promise he made, every plan he included you in and every future conversation that naturally assumed you'd be standing beside him.
The fear wasn't losing him, it was timing and getting it wrong.
Had moving in together been too soon? Was he having second thoughts now that it was actually happening? Maybe he simply wasn't ready to leave behind living alone, he needed more time before taking another step forward and the answer was that simple…Or maybe you were working yourself into knots over something that had never crossed his mind at all.
"You're one hell of a reporter, Y/n." A smile tugged at the corner of Lois's mouth. "I've never known you to hesitate when it comes to asking questions."
She pushed herself off the desk and headed back toward her own.
The conversation ended there but her words lingered as your eyes wandered across the bullpen again and they landed, inevitably, on Clark's empty desk.
His abandoned coffee cup still sat beside his keyboard and a stack of notes remained exactly where he'd left them. Everything still looked normal, so why didn't it feel that way?
You couldn't keep living with the uncertainty and maybe it was time to stop dancing around the questions that had been circling your mind for months, but as much as you wanted answers, you'd never been someone who forced them out of Clark, never someone who cornered him into confessions he wasn't ready to make.
Your gaze lingered on the empty desk for another moment before moving to the clock. Only five more hours and you'd finally be out of this place.
Clark flew to the Fortress of Solitude at a speed he'd never thought he could reach, responding to a signal from the Superman robots. He absolutely hated hiding things from you, no matter how good the reason but this was taking longer than planned. It didn't just involve the usual planning and sourcing, this was as close to science as he'd ever get.
The cold arctic air caressed his skin as he sped up, the crystalline structure growing in the distance as it revealed itself to him.
His feet eventually sank into the snow as the doors parted before him. The Fortress received him the way it always did, silently, the crystals catching his footsteps and scattering them into nothing. Four was already standing at the central console, two of the other robots positioned at the secondary array flanking what Clark recognized as the solar concentrator, reconfigured into something smaller and more precise than he'd last seen it.
"Sir, you're here." Gary, the fourth Superman robot, turned before Clark had fully cleared the entrance.
"I got your signal," Clark told him as he moved to the center of the main room.
"I calculated twenty minutes before your arrival." Four's optical sensors held on him a moment.
Clark didn't answer. He crossed closer to the console, eyes already moving over the readings. "Tell me."
Gary turned back to the array. "The theory is sound. Whether the application holds is a separate question." He indicated the containment chamber at the center of the concentrator, it was small, built for a single stone. "The isotope that produces the radiation is not inert by nature, it requires destabilization. Conventional neutralization attempts have failed historically because they addressed the emission rather than the source."
Clark’s brows furrowed. "You went after the isotope directly."
"We modeled different broad approaches over the last year. Sixteen produced either incomplete neutralization or structural destruction of the sample." Gary paused. "The seventeenth is this. Concentrated solar saturation at a specific frequency, not broad spectrum, which scatters. The isotope absorbs until it cannot sustain the radioactive chain. It burns out rather than being suppressed."
He looked at the chamber. "And the stone?"
"Structurally intact in our simulations. The color will change, the green is a function of the active radiation. Once the isotope is spent, the stone retains its crystalline structure but loses the glow. It will read as pale…residual hue only."
Clark was quiet for a moment. "You said it would only work on a very small piece."
"Correct. The solar saturation has to penetrate the sample completely and evenly. A larger stone creates differential exposure, the exterior burns out and the interior remains active. At the scale you require–" Gary moved to the secondary console and brought up the dimensional rendering, a stone large enough to yield a single, flawless diamond. “–full penetration is achievable. We have run the model four hundred and twelve times over the last hour."
"And it holds?"
"In simulation. Yes." Another beat. "We will not know with certainty until we attempt it on an actual sample."
Clark exhaled slowly, he'd known that was coming.
"You cannot be present for the extraction phase," Gary continued, without inflection, as if this were simply logistical. "Or the initial handling. Your proximity to an active sample at that size would still produce symptomatic response. We will handle and chamber the stone. You will monitor from the secondary console at a distance of approximately fifteen feet. Once it is inside the concentrator and sealed, the chamber will contain the emission. You can approach then."
"And the concentrator–" Clark glanced at the machine. "Same as the healing protocol?"
"Modified from it. The frequency is different as healing requires broad cellular stimulation. This requires narrow isotopic targeting but the core mechanism is the same." Gary looked at him directly. "It should not harm you. The chamber is sealed, the emission goes inward, not out...but again, it’s a hypothetical."
Clark nodded once. He stood there a moment, looking at the small containment chamber and the re-rigged concentrator, it’d been a year of work sitting quiet and precise on a console in the Arctic.
"You've been thorough," he said finally.
"You were specific about what it needed to mean, sir." Gary nodded, as Clark turned to look at him. "When you told me what the ring was for," He continued. "I did not think imprecision was appropriate."
"And the piece I chose?" Clark asked, looking around for it.
One of the other Superman robots pushed a closed lead box onto the console. "Still untouched, sir." Twelve nodded. "As are the other uncut stones, as you requested."
"The band?" Clark asked as One approached, opening a chamber on his own structure and revealing it.
Clark reached for it and held it up to the light between his fingers. He still remembered waiting for you to fall asleep so he could measure your ring finger, holding his breath the entire time, terrified you might wake and catch him in the act. The memory made warmth settle in his chest.
"It's perfect," he said quietly.
"It must be, sir. You've been working on it for almost a year," Gary spoke.
"And it's finally done."
Gary lifted a cautionary finger. "Remember there are still hypotheticals, sir. We must test the machine."
Clark shook his head. "It's going to work and when it does, I want her here for it." He turned to look around the Fortress, taking in the crystalline walls, the hum of advanced technology and the sanctity of the space. "You know the plan." His gaze swept across the main chamber. "I want this place spotless and the sunglasses ready." He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. "The day has come…I can’t wait any longer." He turned back to the robots. "Thank you, all of you."
"No need to thank us, sir, as we will not appreciate it. We have no consciousness, we are merely automatons here to serve," Gary reminded him.
Clark simply pressed his mouth into a thin line, long accustomed to their peculiar bluntness while some of the Superman robots scurried away, already beginning to clean. Gary, however, lingered.
"Shall we prepare for the baby?"
Clark's head snapped toward him, eyes slightly widened. "What baby?"
"My knowledge indicates it is a natural succession of events, sir."
He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. "Let's prepare for a ceremony first…That's if she says yes."
"She will," Twelve said brightly in passing, already carrying a stack of crystalline components toward the secondary console.
"Shall we rehearse the speech?" Gary pressed. "We have yet to hear it."
"No can do, Gary." Clark's voice was gentle but final. "And you won't...It’ll be for her ears only."
He stuck around long after, helping clean and organize with no real need other than the comfort of keeping his hands busy. He had thought about the day plenty, in the small hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come, during long flights over empty ocean and in the moments just after saving the world when everything went quiet again. He had imagined it a hundred different ways, in a hundred different places and it had to be perfect.
You got home late, stopped at the door as you still couldn't quite figure out how the new lock worked. After a moment of fumbling that felt much longer than it should have, you finally managed to push inside, carrying takeout bags and immediately running into scattered moving boxes in the dark.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you reached for a light switch and turned it on. "Clark?" You called into the silence of the apartment, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter.
You then walked toward the bedroom, weaving around moving boxes you'd take care of soon, phone already in your hand as you dialed his number.
You pressed call, setting the phone on the bed as you began to undress.
Back at the Fortress…
"Superman, we have intercepted a call from your human lover."
Clark chuckled, shaking his head as he moved gear out of the main room. "There's no other kind, Gary. It's just 'lover.' Please, patch it through."
There was a soft crackle and then, "Clark?” Your voice slipped through the sound systems, warm and familiar and Clark felt the anxiety in his chest ease at the sound of it.
"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?"
"Uh, yeah. Where are you? I'm at your–" A pause, then a quiet correction. "Our place...Any idea when you'll be back? It's starting to get late."
Clark realized then that he'd lost track of time completely. He began heading toward the exit, your voice trailing after him as you launched into what was clearly the beginning of a longer rant. The sound of you faded from the Fortress's speakers and transferred directly into his ears as he lifted off, flying fast in the direction of your voice.
He heard you kicking off your shoes and the soft thump of your pants hitting the floor.
"I'm not saying I'm worried and I don't expect you to always be back at a certain time…That's just not reasonable. I mean, I knew what I was getting into before we ever started dating–" Then came the sound of the closet door sliding open as you were surely, definitely, picking a shirt of his to sleep in. "Not that it's complicated or anything. I feel like that word has never really applied to us. I mean, I hope not. You've never been complicated to me, even after you told me who you really were."
He heard the rustle of fabric as you peeled off your shirt and the soft sound of your bra hitting the floor. Clark flew even faster.
"I remember telling you Kal was a pretty good name," you said and he could hear the smile in your voice. You cleared your throat, "I also remember that one time I moaned it while we were–"
A faint breeze drifted through the room, making you turn to the window to check if it was open. You suddenly screamed, shirt clutched to cover your naked chest as your heart hammered so loud he could count every individual beat.
Clark unexpectedly stood there unmoving and smiling unapologetically, hair slightly messy from the flight. "Having sex?" He continued for you, grin widening. "I also remember."
You exhaled a sharp breath, rapidly pulling his shirt over your head, feeling his eyes on you, "I get carried away."
He shrugged, still grinning. "It's happened more than once."
Your eyes narrowed at him, already desperate to change the subject. "Mind making a little more noise next time? I intend to live long."
He stepped toward you, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you to his chest. "You make enough noise for the both of us, don't you think?"
"Ha. Funny." You said dryly because it was true. Once close to him, you felt his chest while observing his face as you always did, checking for injuries. He looked untouched, which was always ideal, but… "You're really cold."
He smiled and something changed in his expression. "Do you know where you packed the winter clothes?"
You blinked, eyes going to the moving boxes and suitcases scattered across the bedroom, your mind already cataloging the rest of the clutter throughout the apartment. "I'm not sure. Why?"
Clark let go of you, eyes scanning through the boxes as he activated his x-ray vision.
"It's about to be summer, Smallville…And I don't think you've ever needed them."
He walked out of the bedroom, looking into boxes as you trailed behind him, accidentally stepping on the long cape pooled at his feet.
"Oops, sorry," you muttered as you coughed yourself with a gentle hold on his shoulders.
"You're going to need them."
"Need what? Apologies?" you asked, lifting a brow.
"Winter clothes," he specified with a breathy chuckle, stopping by a box that read ‘Kitchen’ in your handwriting.
"In June?" You watched as he opened the box anyway. "That says ‘Kitchen’, Clark."
He fumbled for a second as he lifted it from a pile and put it on the ground, then he carefully opened it and pulled out your winter coat by the hood.
"That's why it was so light," you said under your breath.
"We're taking a trip tomorrow."
Your eyes widened slightly as you searched his face and found no humor there. "Did you use that little trick to find my passport and book the trip?"
"Never needed a passport to fly Clark Kent Airlines." He grinned.
"Never needed a coat to sit on a plane." You shrugged with a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"
Clark's smile faltered. His eyes searched the room, looking for anything to change the subject and landed on the takeout bags still sitting on the kitchen counter. "We should eat dinner before it gets too cold," he said, already reaching into the box and pulling out a scarf, hat and gloves. "You'll need your snow boots too." He set everything on the couch, almost distractedly and walked right past you into the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.
Your eyes followed him, narrowing at the deflection. "Good thing we have a microwave." You noted as you followed after him. "You've been acting weird lately."
"Weird?" He echoed with a light, forced chuckle. "There's nothing weird about me…Besides the obvious." He paused, pulling his shirt over his head. "Which you like telling me you love." There was another pause, longer this time. "You still do, right?"
"You mean the part of you that likes to take me along while soaring through the sky?" You questioned hypothetically, already nodding to yourself. "Yeah."
"That's good…That’s really good." He reassured himself more than you as he changed into a plain shirt and plaid pajama pants. "That you still do."
"I don't like how you keep saying 'still,'" you pointed out quietly, looking at him as if you could read his mind…and you probably could, if you weren’t suddenly scared of what you might find.
He chuckled breathily, stepping toward you and placing both hands on your arms, caressing them gently. "You're making me really nervous right now."
You narrowed your eyes at him again. "I weirdly think you're doing that to yourself." You paused, letting the words settle. "I love you, Clark…No amount of weirdness is going to change that."
His hands went to your face, cupping your cheeks slowly, thumbs brushing over your skin with so much love in his eyes that it made your chest ache. Tomorrow had to be perfect..because you were.
"I'll fly slowly," he murmured, in an attempt to reassure you.
"No, you won't…and that’s fine," You laughed softly, poking his stomach playfully. "Just make sure you hold me tight."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered long enough to make your eyes flutter shut. "I love you so much," he confessed against your skin. "I don't know how to hold you any other way."
Moments like that had a way of dissolving whatever fear or doubt had quietly accumulated and that night was no different. By the time you had dinner and you'd both found your way to sleep, there was nothing left to worry about.
The next morning was perfect. Genuinely and unqualifiedly perfect, the kind that felt almost unfair in how completely it arrived. No alarm pulled you out of it, no distant sound of something collapsing somewhere that would take him away before you'd finished waking up, just sunlight coming in at an angle through the curtains and Clark, who woke up like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of pretending otherwise.
He pressed kisses into your skin slowly and without urgency and the morning dissolved the way good mornings do, in warmth, weight and the breathlessness of someone who loves you, knows how to show it…and how to make you feel it. You lost track of time entirely and you didn't try to find it.
At some point he slipped away. You hadn't noticed the exact moment, sometime in the narrow window between you getting up and the shower warming, enough time for him to go somewhere and come back, which for Clark could mean almost anywhere. When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your chest, a bouquet was sitting on the kitchen counter and beside it, breakfast, already plated and still warm.
You ate together at the counter, knees touching, talking through where the art should go and whether the bookshelf fit better against the east wall or broken up between two rooms.
It wasn't much later that he started mentioning getting out for the day.
You didn't question it. You started getting everything he'd laid on the couch the night before, working through the layers methodically while he stood somewhere behind you watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read.
"I think you should add another scarf," he suggested. "Just in case."
You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the coat, hat, gloves, boots and the scarf that already looped twice around your neck… and it was June. "Clark." You turned to look at him with a gentle, reassuring smile. "This is enough…You'd think we were going to the Arctic."
You meant it as a joke. You were already smiling when you said it, turning back to the mirror to adjust the hat which meant you didn't see his face go completely still behind you.
Flying with Clark was its own category of experience, one that didn't get easier to explain the more times you did it, only more familiar. The first five minutes were always the same, your stomach hadn't made peace with the altitude yet, your eyes stayed forward or shut and some part of your brain spent the whole time insisting that this was not how bodies were supposed to work but underneath all of it, was certainty. He had never once made you feel like you might fall, not for a second. His arms around you were absolute, his chest solid and warm against your cheek and the cold that hit everything else somehow didn't touch the space he made around you.
"We're almost there!" he called over the wind.
You didn't answer, only nodded against him and held on.
Then, gradually, the quality of the air changed as the speed bled out of it. You felt him adjusting his descent in small corrections and a minute later your feet met the ground with a soft crunch that traveled up through your boots and into your knees. It was snow, fluffy and undisturbed in every direction.
You kept your eyes shut even as he released you and you stood on your own.
"Sweetheart." He called softly, you could hear the smile in it. "You didn't need to close your eyes."
"Oh. I thought I'd–" you started explaining as they fluttered open.
The light hit first, that particular brightness that had no equivalent, white reflecting white under a sky that was almost cloudless. You blinked against it, adjusting and inevitably, as you looked around, your gaze landed on the structure in the distance and everything else stopped.
Your lips parted.
It rose from the landscape like it had grown there, which in every way that mattered it had. It was an eruption of crystal spires reaching at different angles, pale blue-white and enormous even from that distance, catching the flat Arctic light and fracturing it into something that barely looked real.
You took a few steps toward it without deciding to.
"Is that your–" you started, pointing at it in awe as the words died somewhere between your throat and your lips. You stood frozen in the snow, staring at it.
Clark stepped beside you, footsteps quiet in the snow as the wind tugged gently at his cape. Your shoulders almost brushed when he spoke, "I'll show you around."
You faced him then. He was smiling down at you with his hand extended between you, patiently waiting for you to take it, which of course, you did.
The two of you walked the remaining distance without rushing. There was no path, no track worn into the snow from use, no indication that anyone came and went from this place by foot. Just the flat white expanse and the crystal rising out of it and now, appearing behind you in a clean double line, your footprints beside his. You looked back once at the trail you were leaving and felt something open up in your chest that you weren't entirely prepared for.
He had never brought anyone here, you understood that without needing it said. This was the place that belonged to the man beneath everything else, the person who was both Clark Kent and Superman and neither of them entirely. He was bringing you into that, he was walking you to the door of the most private place he had and holding your hand while he did it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
You looked up at the Fortress as it grew larger with every step, feeling the weight of being trusted with something irreplaceable.
His thumb moved slowly, across the back of your hand as the entrance came into view and the doors began to open before him.
The inside of the Fortress opened up in a way that made you stop walking for a second without meaning to. Everything climbed, walls, ceilings and structures you didn't have names for, all of it crystalline and catching the same pale light from a dozen different angles at once. It was somehow colder and warmer at the same time, the air sharp but the light itself almost golden where it pooled. You could feel Clark watching you take it in, his hand still wrapped around your gloved one, waiting for you to need him to say something.
"Welcome back, sir."
You turned at the voice as footsteps approached from your right. For a moment, you simply stared.
Clark had talked about the Superman robots before, he'd mentioned their names, their functions and the way they helped maintain the Fortress but none of those descriptions had prepared you for seeing them in person.
"Ms. Y/l/n. I have long possessed information regarding you. It is noteworthy to finally confirm your existence through direct observation.”
You looked up at Clark first, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it, then back at the robot in front of you, eyes dropping briefly to the number four stamped into his chest plate.
You smiled softly. "Nice to finally meet you too, Gary."
Gary turned smoothly toward two more robots crossing the floor behind him. "I have observed that Superman references us during conversations with his human lover…Identifying the species is unnecessary, as there is no other kind of lover for him." A brief pause, as if confirming the data was correctly filed. "This is Twelve. She is new."
You looked at Twelve and smiled.
Twelve looked back, head tilting slightly in your direction. "Oh, she looked at me!"
Seven approached next, arms already extended, holding a folded red blanket and a metallic blue thermos. Gary continued without missing a beat. "We have prepared warm blankets and tea. The tea has been heated for three minutes to the ideal temperature of eighty degrees Celsius, with two sugars, per Superman's specification."
"I'll take the tea." You took the thermos from Seven, wrapping both hands around it gratefully. "Don’t think the blanket will be necessary. Clark already had me wrapped up like a burrito before he swept me off my feet…Literally." You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your body.
"'Swept off my feet,'" Gary repeated, processing it audibly. "This is a common idiom among your kind. I hope you also intend it in the romantic sense, in the event further confirmation is required."
You narrowed your eyes slightly, glancing up at Clark. "Confirmation for what?"
Clark cleared his throat, a little too quickly. "Let me, uh, give you a tour." His hand found the small of your back, gently steering you down the hall before you could press further.
"We shall prepare for the activities, then," Gary said, already turning toward the main room. "The clock is, figuratively, ticking."
"Thanks for the tea!" you called back over your shoulder, lifting the thermos in salute.
"They're not very good at saying 'you're welcome,'" Clark told you quietly as you walked.
"Noted."
He smiled as he watched you sip more tea. "So…what do you want to see first? The glass bedroom or the bathroom? The toilet seat is heated."
You stopped walking, eyes widening slightly at the possibility of a glass bed. "Are you serious?"
His grin only widened, he shook his head. "There's no glass bedroom."
You let out a breath, shaking your head as you started walking again. "They’re doomed…The Superman robots are certainly learning from your sense of humor, Clark. Your jokes are setting their development back by decades...They need an upgrade."
"We should probably get you better winter gear, then. If you're going to be spending more time here." He glanced over at you, already thinking out loud. "I'll look into some kind of heating system." He kept walking, leading you down the corridor. "There aren't many rooms, but there's one I really want you to see."
You looked over at him, slowing your steps. "Clark…wait."
The teasing had dropped out of your voice entirely and he heard it instantly. He stopped and turned to face you and for a moment neither of you said anything.
You chose your words carefully, offering a reassuring smile. "You've already trusted me with so much…and I'm honored to be here, truly, I am, but..." You shook your head slowly. "You don't have to do this, any of this."
He listened in out of worry, the way he sometimes did without really meaning to, to your heartbeat. It was steady and still unafraid, just nervous in the ordinary way. "What do you mean?"
"This is your legacy, Clark. It's a piece of where you come from. It could just be yours…I'd understand that.” You paused, “Once I've seen it, I can't unsee it. I’ll become a part of it too, whether you meant for it to or not."
He stepped closer, taking your unoccupied hand in his. "I've always wanted you to know all of me...every piece, if you're willing to hold it." His voice dropped, steady and certain. "This isn't a sacrifice, sweetheart. Showing you this doesn't cost me anything…You've always belonged at the center of who I am. This–" he glanced around, at the crystal stretching up into the light, "–this is just proof of it."
You nodded slowly. Your breath caught and you sniffled, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. "Do you happen to know the temperature at which tears freeze?" you asked, voice thick.
He laughed softly, pulling you gently forward by the hand as he led you toward the next room. "Yeah, I think a heating system really would be a good idea."
"Wouldn't a heating system melt the whole place, though?"
"It's Kryptonian crystal," he explained. "Not ice. It can withstand a lot more than that. It's just naturally cold in here."
"Well, insulation would ruin the aesthetic anyway, so think it through." you decided and felt him softly squeeze your hand.
He spent the better part of an hour walking you through the Fortress. Through the rooms that mattered and rooms that didn't but that he showed you anyway because you asked, small alcoves of crystal that hummed faintly when you got close enough. You stayed in a state of quiet awe through most of it but the room that stopped you completely was the one lined with his suits. Row after row, the same emblem rendered over and over in different materials and ages, the symbol of an entire dead world that he had carried across galaxies and made his own among people who barely understood what it meant.
You felt his eyes on you the entire time, watching you take it in and no matter how simple or obvious your questions were, he answered every one of them and you could hear the smile in his voice with each one.
Eventually, the two of you made your way back to the main room, where all of the Superman robots stood arranged in a loose half circle and at the center, set on a low pedestal, sat a small sealed box. You knew exactly what was inside before you directly saw it, that particular sickly green you'd only ever glimpsed in passing, in places you tried not to look too long.
Your hand tightened around Clark's, your first instinct pulling him back half a step.
"It's okay, sweetheart." His voice was steady, hand staying exactly where it was, not pulling away from yours. "Gary?"
Gary approached, holding out a pair of sunglasses toward you. "Please keep these on until we give the all clear," he said. "Your eyes are not equipped to withstand what you are about to see."
You took them carefully, turning them over once. They looked like ordinary sunglasses, maybe a little heavier and the lenses a shade darker than you expected.
You slid them on. "Is this some kind of science class?"
"I certainly won't be the one teaching it," Clark said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked past you toward the console. "Gary, are we ready?"
"Whenever you are, sir." Gary moved toward the main console, where two of the other robots were already standing by, lights along their forearms beginning to pulse in slow sequence.
"Clark, what's going on?" you whispered, eyes flicking between the box and his face.
"I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" He squeezed your hand as his gaze met yours.
"You, on the other hand–"
"I like experimenting." He shrugged, like it cost him nothing.
Your eyes widened slightly, "With Kryptonite? Since when?"
"Uh…a year, give or take." He smiled down at you and then his eyes lifted to Gary, he nodded once. "Gary. We're ready."
Gary moved to the console without hesitation and the rest of the robots fell into position around the central platform like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, because they had.
Twelve lifted the small box from the pedestal, carrying it with both hands toward the center of the room, where a shallow chamber sat recessed into the crystal floor, lined with something dark and metallic that looked nothing like the rest of the Fortress.
"That’s a containment chamber," Clark said quietly to you as his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Built specifically for this."
"Sir," Gary said, eyes still on the console, "might I suggest you and Ms.Y/l/n retreat to the secondary platform. Fifteen feet, as discussed."
Clark's hand tightened slightly around yours. "Come on."
He guided you back, until you were standing on a raised section of crystal floor that put you above and away from the chamber. From there you could see the whole room laid out steps beneath you, the concentrator rising above the platform like an enormous lens angled toward the sky, panels of crystal catching light that wasn't there yet.
Seven lifted the lid of the box and even through the dark lenses the green light intensified, throwing long shadows across the floor, catching every facet of the Fortress and scattering it back in shades of sick emerald. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark fabric, sat the stone. Smaller than you'd expected and uncut, glowing from somewhere deep inside itself like it had a pulse of its own.
Twelve lifted it with a pair of long, articulated tools and lowered it carefully into the chamber. A transparent shield slid closed over the top, sealing it in. The glow didn't stop but it dimmed, pressing against the inside of the shield like something trying to get out.
"Sample secured," Gary announced. "Beginning calibration."
The concentrator began to hum. It started low, almost beneath hearing, a vibration that traveled up through the crystal floor and into the soles of your boots. Far above, panels began to rotate, realigning toward the chamber below and what little Arctic sunlight there was began to gather and bend, funneling down through the lens.
"Finally," Clark breathed, watching it. "We've been working on this for so long…there’ve been thousands of simulations." His jaw worked once. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew it would work."
"Tell me what?” You asked quietly, eyes never leaving the scene as worry crept in. “And do you actually know?"
"I trust the math." He nodded firmly.
The column of light reached the chamber and the room changed color. For a moment the green and the gold fought each other, the stone lit from above in concentrated solar light while it pulsed back against it, radiating that same sickly glow like it was resisting. The light intensified in stages, the hum climbing in pitch and beside you Clark's hand went rigid in yours.
You immediately looked away from the machine, eyes moving across his face, searching instinctively for every symptom you'd learned to recognize over the years. "Clark? What’s happening?"
"It's fine." His voice was rough. The green glow spilling from the chamber reflected across his face as he kept his eyes fixed on the stone. His fingers tightened once more around yours. "This is the part where it resists…Gary said it would resist."
"Isotopic activity decreasing," Gary reported. "Forty percent…Thirty-five."
You watched his shoulders ease slightly, the tension starting to bleed out of him the way it had a moment ago and then it spiked.
The green flared violently, brighter than it had been at any point and the hum from the concentrator stuttered, a half second of dissonance that set your teeth on edge. Clark's hand crushed around yours, hard enough that you gasped and beside him his knees buckled enough that you felt him catch himself right on time.
"Sir." Gary's voice changed, the flatness cracking for the first time. "Output is exceeding modeled parameters. Fifteen feet is no longer sufficient at this intensity…I recommend immediate retreat."
"No." Clark's voice came out through his teeth, low and rough.
Twelve approached. "Sir, your vitals–"
"I said no." He straightened, forcing it, his free hand braced against the crystal wall beside you, now that sweat had broken out along his hairline despite the cold. "This is the spike before it breaks…It has to be. We modeled this."
"We modeled a spike.” Twelve corrected and for the first time there was something almost uncertain underneath the calculation. “Not this one."
"Clark, baby." Your voice cracked. Both your hands were on his arm now, gripping tightly enough to feel the tension underneath his skin, the controlled violence of him holding still on purpose. "Clark, please, if it's hurting you–"
"It's not going to last." He said it through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the chamber, on the violent pulse of green fighting against the gold. "It's a means to an end. It has to burn through, that's the whole point, it can't resist forever–" He cut himself off, breath hissing out through his nose and you felt his legs lock, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to do, which was fold.
"Gary," he called, "how much longer?"
"Unknown. The output is not behaving according to any modeled curve."
"Then we wait." His hand gripped yours again like an anchor. "We wait."
The green surged again and this time you heard him make a low and involuntary sound. His head dipped slightly as if something heavy had pressed down on him. His eyes shut for a second and every muscle in his jaw worked under the strain, the effort visible in the smallest movements of his face.
"Clark, look at me." You said as you stepped in front of him, both hands coming up to his face, so he’d look at you. His eyes opened and once they found yours, they held on. "Whatever this is about…it’s not worth the pain."
"It is…" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "You’ll see."
The green light convulsed one more time, violent and bright, the air around the chamber shimmering hard enough to blur the shape of it until it broke, the same way ice breaks, all at once, the resistance simply gone. The green collapsed inward on itself and the gold flooded in to fill the space it left behind and the hum of the concentrator dropped, smoothed out and settled.
"Isotopic activity," Gary announced and there was no mistaking the relief in it now, flat as he tried to keep it, "Twenty percent…Twelve percent...Six percent."
Clark's head lifted as he watched over your shoulder, eyes moving away from yours while yours simply couldn’t. He exhaled, long and shaking and you felt the tremor in his body ease as you too turned to watch.
"Two percent," Gary continued. "Zero point eight…Zero point three…Zero point zero…one." He paused. "Within acceptable margin…The sample is inert."
The column of light thinned, it drew back up into the ceiling and the panels above began to rotate closed and the machines powered down in sequence as the Fortress went quiet.
The shield over the chamber slid back and where the green stone had been, something else sat now, pale and almost colorless, holding the ambient light of the room differently than it had before, no longer pulsing or alive with that sickly glow.
Your lips parted at the sight as Clark straightened slowly, drawing himself back together piece by piece before stepping down from the platform and offering you his hand. You took it, following him as your eyes met his.
“It’s okay,” he said before you could ask. “I’m okay. It’s over.”
You crossed the floor behind him while every robot in the room stood motionless, watching him the same way you were. He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked down at the stone for a long moment before reaching in and picking it up with his bare hand.
Nothing happened.
He stood there holding it, turning it slightly, watching the light shift across its surface and you realized you’d stopped breathing somewhere in the last minute and hadn’t started again. He looked up, found your gaze and set a gentle hand against your cheek.
“It’s safe now. You can remove your glasses,” he said, still looking at you.
Your hands were already moving. The Fortress returned in full, unfiltered color as you stepped closer to him, staring at Clark holding something small and pale in his open palm, like the last few minutes hadn’t happened at all, like he’d been waiting this entire time just to show you this.
You swallowed. “I think…we need a breather,” you said, mostly to yourself.
You were already turning toward the nearest corridor when Clark suggested he take you somewhere outside. It took him only a moment to follow your movement and you didn't see what all the shifting and movement among the robots behind you had been about but only felt the change in atmosphere as Clark caught up.
His arm slid around your waist and a second later, the ground dropped away.
Air rushed past as he lifted you into the sky, carrying you through the open structure of the Fortress until the cold Arctic light returned in full. He set down on a platform high among the tallest crystalline spires, where the wind moved freely and the horizon stretched wide and white.
Snow shimmered below and the sky was pale, endless.
“I don’t…” You let out a breathless laugh, the wind catching at your words. Your eyes swept the view once before you turned back to him. “I’m not sure what I just saw in there.”
Your voice tightened slightly. "And trust me, I tried to keep my eyes open through all of it, but you scared me." You gave his chest a firm hit with your fist. "What were you thinking, Clark Kent?"
The impact barely moved him, it only made him chuckle lightly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on you, unreadable in that scary way that always came just before something important.
Slowly, he reached into his belt and your attention locked instantly.
He pulled out a carved band, holding it between two fingers like it mattered too much to be careless with. You could hear, or maybe just feel, your heartbeat speed up, loud enough that it felt like it filled the space between you.
He reached in again and produced a small, rough stone, one that bent the light in a way you'd never seen any diamond do, every facet catching a slightly different shade as it turned.
You watched as he closed his hand around it and when he opened his palm again, fragile shards fell away, revealing a small, clear stone underneath, which he carefully set into the first empty socket on the band.
You blinked, eyes following his hand as he reached in again and drew out another rough stone, this one glowing faintly the same way the untouched walls of the Fortress had. He crushed it the same way, the stone giving under his grip, not shattering so much as yielding, and a larger stone emerged from inside it, settling into its place on the band.
Then he reached into his belt one last time and pulled out the disabled kryptonite. Of the three, it was by far the clearest, though somehow it still caught the light in a way none of the others quite managed.
He crushed it in his hand and set the final ‘diamond’.
You stared at the ring as his eyes began to glow red, the heat focusing into two narrow beams that swept carefully along the edges of each setting, sealing the stones into place. Once he was satisfied they were secure, he lifted the ring to his lips and let out a slow breath of super breath, cooling the metal until it no longer shimmered with heat.
Your heart was pounding now, lips parting slightly as you watched him lower himself onto one knee, his eyes never leaving yours. When his knee touched the platform, he paused, drew in a breath that seemed to cost him more than it should have and swallowed. He held the ring up toward you and whatever he'd rehearsed every day for the past year caught somewhere in his throat.
"...Please."
Your brows lifted slightly, lips curving into a smile you couldn't have stopped if you tried, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest you thought you might actually faint.
It was all a blur of mumbled words, tears, tight embraces, breathless laughter and the strange sensation of height shifting under your feet as the hours folded into one another. You slid your glove off so he could finally slip the ring onto your finger and in the space of a heartbeat the both of you were already cutting through the sky, Clark holding you close as the arctic shrank into light beneath you.
What followed was a mess of emotion and surging energy you had never seen from him in that state. You made it home in record time and the first stop had been the bedroom, the both of you, but especially Clark, letting go of everything he had been holding back. Everything that had stayed trapped behind restraint finally spilled out, fast and unguarded, until the bedframe gave way under the force of it and you both broke into breathless laughter in the aftermath.
After that, everything blurred again.
You sat on the couch as a streak of motion moved through the apartment, Clark unpacking every box in milliseconds, placing everything exactly where you had mentally mapped it out. The remaining cardboard vanished just as quickly, carried away like it had never been there. He returned almost immediately after, kneeling at the edge of the couch in front of you with the same restless energy still burning through him, only now softened by relief and joy. You met it halfway on the carpet, where time stopped mattering in any real sense.
It was late when the rush finally eased into something his body could keep up with at a normal human pace. Only then did you think about food.
You ended up on the kitchen counter, one hand lifted as the ring caught the warm light and threw it back in shifting color. Clark stood at the stove shirtless, moving between pots and fridge with distracted focus, adding things, adjusting heat and insisting you needed to eat before you fell asleep. You had been fighting sleep for a while already, after so many rounds, caught between exhaustion and the aftershock of everything.
The cold air from the opened fridge brushed your bare legs and it brought back the memory of earlier that day without warning.
“Tell me again,” you breathed, eyes fixed on the ring.
Clark stopped, whatever he was doing was abandoned in an instant. He stepped closer, placing both hands on either side of you against the counter, caging you in gently without pressure. His gaze didn’t go to the ring at first. It stayed on you, studying your face and reaction, like that mattered more than anything else he had built.
“Jewel Kryptonite,” he started, voice calmer now.
His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, indicating the first stone.
“I found it in the Fortress but it comes from the Jewel Mountains of Krypton. Its primary function was amplifying psychic abilities…telepathy and mental projection for Kryptonians. In my case…” He hesitated, just briefly, choosing the right way to place it. “It represents my mind…my subconscious, dreams, grief and memories. The parts of me nobody reaches…the parts I want you to have access to.”
He shifted his attention to the largest stone, the one in the middle.
“The Fortress crystal…origin and inheritance. It’s everything I was given, my legacy, my people’s knowledge…Krypton on Earth and Kal-El’s home.” His eyes softened slightly as they stayed on you. “Which you've gone out of your way to love and accept too in ways I never expected or thought possible.”
A quiet breath left him before he continued.
“And the last one but not least…never that.” His thumb brushed lightly against your hand where the ring sat. “Disabled green kryptonite. That was the hardest part and the reason this took so long…It’s what I trust you most with, my vulnerability…but not the only one.”
His gaze lifted fully to yours at that.
You moved closer instinctively, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in as if distance had become unnecessary. You raised your hand again, watching the ring catch the light between you both.
“Who you come from… who you are… and what you trust me with,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything else. Then something else caught your attention.
“What about the band?” you asked softly. You had noticed it earlier, the faint engravings when the light hit just right, the House of El symbol hidden in the design, it was subtle but definitely intentional.
It was clear nothing about it had been accidental.
He exhaled through a small smile. “Everything I am,” he said, quieter now, “set into the thing that led me to you.”
Your brows softened.
“I made it out of my ship.”
The confession pulled the breath straight out of you. “It took you a year,” you said, voice catching slightly, “and so much effort and thought and I–”
"I love you." His voice caught, eyes filling again as they held yours. "I loved you the day I met you…I love you today,” He paused, “Y/n, I'll love you long after we leave this Earth."
You sniffled as a tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it had formed but still, you smiled, voice cracking with emotion. "And I'll love you as long as it exists."
Clark lifted a hand, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that contrasted everything else about him and gently tilted your face toward his as he pressed his lips to yours, leaving no distance between what he had built and what he had finally given away.
He might have been unable to say anything when he was down on one knee, but that didn’t mean he had no words for you. He simply doubted they existed in any language and if they did, they had a terrible tendency to fall galaxies short.
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Summary: Bucky gives you free range of his farm and all the plants and wildlife it includes. You give Bucky fertilizer and any scientific insights you find. Tit for tat. Seems simple enough, but as the days pass, you can’t seem to escape each-other’s orbit. It’s like nature is literally pushing you together, but that would be crazy… wouldn’t it?
PSA: just a girl… standing in front of her Stardew collab, asking it to love her. Check out the full collab here! my friends are so talented and their minds blow me away, both Lewis and Haley are posted!
Word Count: 6.1k
Warnings: cursing, insecurity, religious imagery and metaphor (no Catholic guilt inducing smut though), anti-social reader, yearning, it’s mutual but shshhhhh they don’t know, hot and heavy make out, not beta-read, not edited, fuck it we ball.
There a few reasons why you love plants.
For one, they're simple.
They write their DNA in a language that you can understand. Each leaf, petal and root a different part of one larger story. They fit under your microscope and let you study them until your vision goes blurry.
Plants are complicated. Sometimes they thrive. Sometimes… they don't. A plant that was green and lush yesterday can be brown and wilted tomorrow all because the sky looked at it wrong.
Plants are like people. The rain makes their skin soft. They turn their faces to the sun to feels its heat on their skin. They are resilient, yet prefer a gentle touch. They know the difference between surviving and thriving.
Plants are quiet.
In that way they way they're actually better than people.
When you lay down in a meadow the grass curls around you, bristles tickling your skin as if to hug you hello. Wildflowers fight through soil and emerge from the long abandoned farm on the far side of the valley. They grow tall and proud, tilting in your direction as if offering themselves for your admiration.
Plants are considerate, gentle, ever present.
Before a storm, plants will speak. Their leaves will rustle with wind and that breeze will carry their whisper to you. We will survive. They say, with the certainty only known by beings older than time itself. We were here before you, we will be here after.
Plants exist outside of time.
They will continue their slow climb toward the sun, long after your bones become soil and your blood fertilizer. Until all that's left of you exists within stems and leaves. When all of humanity is gone, green will fight through smog and ash and burst free, starting the cycle anew.
After all, there must always be a tree from which Eve can pluck her apple.
You think about Eve a lot these days.
How did she make that choice? Just how tempting was that fruit she so callously plucked?
Was it perfect? Shiny and ripe for the taking. Dangling from its stem with a tease of come take me.
Was it more subtle? Did Eve's sin have time to fester and build until it was a coil pulled so tight inside her that it wasn't just one simple act at all. It was an explosion.
Did Eve stare at her sin across an overgrown field, uselessly clutching her pencil and pathetically empty sketch book? Watch as he toiled with dirt and shined under the suns abuse? Would she laugh at you? Remind you that your fruit isn't forbidden, just unknown.
For you, it feels like one and the same.
Still, you can't seem to look away.
You're not sure how long you've been watching him. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. You're not especially good with time though, could be an hour for all you know.
It would just be really pathetic if he's been struggling with the same root ball for an hour.
His face contorts to something unsatisfied, brows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line as he stares down at the already wilting green. It's almost comical as he looks back towards the crate of plant waiting for him, and the three he's already got in the ground.
His smushes it between his fingers, harsh and grabby as he pinches it to smithereens. He doesn't stop until there's nearly nothing left, a few sad roots dangling limp in his palm as he places it in a much too deep hole.
Bucky Barnes is like a hosta. He grows sturdy, undeterred by shady spots, of lack of water. Honestly you think if Bucky could build a tent around his entire crop he would. As another bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, caught on a thick forearm and wiped away before it can reach his eyes.
From far away he's gorgeous, lush and thick. Eye catching without even trying to be, naturally spell binding. He crept into your garden slowly. An offer to let you study the plants on his farm, which then turned to you giving him fertilizer that you made with your research.
Nearly six months since his sudden and unceremonious arrival, it's as if he's taken up all the room in your flower bed.
Larger than life, than your experiment's and hobbies. Than your rather unfavorable feelings about other people and longstanding habit of avoiding them.
Like a stubborn root you can't seem to get rid of him either, try as you might.
Your voice echoes before you realize you've even decided to speak.
"You're mutilating them."
Bucky jumps his broad shoulders go taut, entire body freezing.
You don't notice, eyes locked on the strangled rootball in his big hands.
"I'm sorry?" He asks, swiveling his head until finally he finds you.
You walk through weeds the toward him, having to lift your legs a little more to clear the dense grass and knotted foliage. You take your time, carefully stepping over mushrooms and dodging dandelions.
You feel his eyes on you throughout, piercing and curious, and probably part offended. You've never been especially good with people either though.
When you're finally close enough, only a few feet away, you speak again.
"I said you're mutilating them." You repeat, this time gesturing to the poor parsnips at his feet.
Bucky pauses, following your gaze with similar disappointment. "Oh."
His hands, which you can now see aren't even covered in gloves, come to sit as his hips. Dirt smudges onto his white tank top, even catching the tops of his jeans. Looking lower you're even more displeased at the state of his shoes, what probably used to be light color sneakers.
Not bothering to ask, you pick up one of the plants from the crate and take it in your hands. It's misshaped from the stores planter, nearly a perfect rectangle. "Poor thing." You whisper.
Gently, you begin to massage the rootball. Slow, steady squeezes until it begins to soften in your palm. You wait until it's limp, then get on your knees and dig a hole in the same row Bucky had started.
You only dig a few inches down, enough to hold to the root. "Loosen the dirt, don't dig." You tell him, using the hand shovel to create a sort of crater in the hole. "The roots need something to grab onto."
You place the parsnip in the dirt, gently filling the sides until you're satisfied with its security.
You wipe your hands on your overalls as you stand, brushing off the excess soil and finally returning your attention to Bucky.
"You try."
Bucky nods, using his forearm to wipe some sweat from his forehead.
He grabs another plant, and stares at it for a moment, as if begging it to cooperate.
You can't help your sigh when once again digs his fingers directly into the rootball and starts to pull it apart.
Sensing your frustration, Bucky freezes.
"What?" He asks, sounding more worried than upset.
With a huff you move to stand in front of him.
You surround his hands with your own, cupping the plant in his palms.
"You want to massage it." You tell him, applying just enough pressure to feel the plant give under your combined touch. "You need it to be relaxed."
Bucky hums, "Like foreplay." He says.
You can't help the way you go taut, hands pulling away as if burned.
He says it so casually, as if sex is something you talk about. As if it something you do, something you do with him. As if letting another person be that close to you isn't a nightmare in and of itself.
Although you suppose if that nightmare had brown hair and blue eyes and the prettiest pink lips you might not be so opposed.
"Sure-" You stammer, already taking a handful of steps back towards the direction you came. "Yeah exactly like foreplay." You voice betrays you pitching an octave higher on the last word.
Bucky's staring at you like you're a question, that same furrow from before back between his brows. His hands have stopped moving, as if you're more important than anything else he had been busy with.
Mercifully, he doesn't push. "Thanks," he says instead. "Find anything good today?" He nods back towards the section of the field you had been taking residence in.
You nod, face still burning with embarrassment. "Yes actually-" you start before you can stop yourself, the words flowing like an avalanche. "I found a plant, well it's actually a kind of weed but there's this plant phalaris arundinacea or um, some people call it canary grass. Anyway it usually only grows by rivers but you have this whole cluster of it which is really weird because it's like a hundred feet from your little pond and the rest of the soil around it is pretty dry and-" you catch yourself.
Your mouth feels like cotton because of fast you had started talking, your tongue swelling with embarrassment as you realize the extent of your ramble.
"Sorry." You mutter, "That's actually super boring."
Bucky shakes his head, finally beginning to return to his parsnips. Slowly he gets on his knees, bending one leg at a time and giving you a truly gratuitous look at his thighs.
"I think it's interesting." He says, "besides if everything else is out of place than maybe I'm exactly where I belong." There's a lilt at the end, like he had intended for it to be a joke but the punchline got lost in truth.
It makes your heart pull tight, a feeling you normally reserve for trampled flowers and injured birds.
"Maybe," You say, "Or maybe the plants just know better than us."
You shrug, watching as Bucky carefully copies what your had done in the dirt. You cringe as it gathers under his nails, catching in the crevices of his knuckles. You have an extra pair of gloves, maybe you ought to drop them off one morning. You could slip them in his mailbox, he'd never even have to know it was you. If he's serious about this farming thing he'll need good gloves or he'll destroy his hands and gosh they are good hands-
You force yourself to look away, eyes averting to literally please anywhere else. "Its not the only one." You change the topic, "I mean only spot."
Bucky hums, "with weird plants?"
"Yea." You nod a little too quickly as you say it. "Up on the mountain, there's Sunflowers growing from cracks between the some of the rocks and I figured it was an anomaly but now that there's two of them I think they could be connected."
Bucky finishes pushing the dirt back in around the last root ball and reaches for another. "How can you tell if they are?"
You chest does a little jump, eagerness sparking. He asked! He asked a question about your plants!
"Well since they're different plants I can rule out it being a strain or breed thing." You rationalize, "So I'd have to start with the soil, but I need to samples and I'm not allowed to hike alone anymore-"
"Wait what?"
"-and no one ever wants to go with me!" You steamroll right over Bucky's question, completely obvious to the alarm in his eyes. "They all complain about how much I go off trail but it's not my fault! All the best stuff is, I mean I once found an entire patch of wild potatoes!"
"Wild potatoes?"
"No one complained that time! Everyone had fries for a month thanks to me, but no-" you drag out the 'o' sound, rolling your eyes as you do so. "- You get lost one time and suddenly it's a problem. So I have to wait until someone else plans a hike and I can convince them to let me come."
Bucky finally stands, huffing with effort as he does so.
"I could go with you." He offers, shrugging his shoulders. "I uh- hike."
His voice pitches an octave higher on the word 'hike,' surely just in enthusiasm.
"Really?"
"Yeah." Bucky insists, "sounds like it's important."
You're not sure what to do with yourself, heart slamming hard against your ribs as if trying to crack them open and escape. You're used to being shut down, waved off, your thoughts and hypotheses disregarded.
Yet here is your hosta, shoulders broad and jaw set. Something in his eyes that makes you almost believe he genuinely doesn't mind doing this for you.
You nod, the movement tight. "Okay."
Bucky hums, returning his knees to the dirt. "Okay."
A plan is made between mumbles, meet here at six tomorrow morning, hopefully be through the worst of the hike before the heat of the day. You offer to make sandwiches and Bucky begrudgingly promises to wear something other than jeans.
Once all is set you finally retreat. Settling back into the grass a few yards away and returning to your (still empty) sketchbook and woefully unimpressive notes. Ignoring the pang of disappointment when Bucky goes back to silence too.
The wind blows around you, swishing through the weeds and singing something like laughter. You wish it would tell you what's so funny. You wonder if the tree laughed at Eve.
You're no stranger to the strangeness of nature.
Sure, you've dedicated most of your life and free space in your brain to figuring out some of its strangeness, but even you know there are things beyond even your comprehension.
Like the way it seems to pick and choose when it's alive.
Not alive in the green leaves and turning toward the sun sense. No, alive as in conscious.
There are times when it's as if the plants hear you, like petals have turned to tiny listening devices. Times when it's like they manipulate themselves to create a new reality. Soil becoming an instrument in their greater plan as they rearrange it to suit their needs.
Like the first time you met Bucky.
Truthfully, you'd been trespassing on his land for years with no idea that it even belonged to someone. You knew it like the back of your hand, the sad parcel that everyone avoided. Quiet and calm and perfect for anyone trying to stay away from civilization.
It fascinated you too, the way it had reclaimed the fields and land. After years of being worked over, you admired the chaos that bloomed when left to its own devices. Left over crops that persevered, wildflowers that seemingly appeared from no where, vines that wove themselves around old fence posts as if trying to pull them from the ground.
The day he arrived the same plants you'd become so acquainted with, threw you into him.
You'd be just about ready to leave, bag tucked into your shoulder and samples in hand. You hadn't even seen him yet, the bulking figure standing at the foot of the porch. Never one to notice people, you didn't even see him. In fact you had nearly walked completely past him, nose buried in your samples when suddenly your foot caught on a root that certainly hadn't been there when you arrived that morning.
It sent you, your bag, and your armful of foliage flying.
It was two leather clad arms that caught you, a subtle 'oof' muttered as he took the force of your fall.
Few weeks later it was a present from the weeds. A tiny little white thing that tracked muddy little paws all over your notebook one after noon.
A kitten, a teeny little one that purred louder than a plane engine and meowed in your arms until you were standing on Bucky's steps.
"Is this yours?" You'd asked, scratching under its chin.
"No." He'd grunted, glaring at the ball of fur in your arms as it were a loaded gun.
"Oh." You'd whispered, confusion only growing. Of course you didn't know everything that lived in the woods, but in all your years in the valley, you'd never once seen a stray cat. Certainly not the two it would have taken to bring the one you holding to fruition. "It just showed up out of no where, walked right up to me like it was asking for directions."
Bucky shrugged, unconvinced. "You gonna keep it?" He asked.
You mouth was already half way open -about to explain that as much as you'd love too- you couldn't, when the cat jumped out of your arms. Landing on the wood by Bucky's feet, it immediately drew a figure eight walking between his legs. It's little tail curling up as much of his calves as possible.
"Think it wants you to."
Sure enough, Alpine was wrapped around Bucky's finger in week. Sending him running to your door with a nervous question at least every other day (Can cats eat strawberries? I found her passed out by the vines with pink all over. Yes Bucky, probably just snaked herself into a food coma). The now spoiled and fat cat sneaks off the farm and ends up at your door nearly as often. Forcing you to walk with her all the back to Bucky's.
Worst of all was about a month ago. Their most egregious attempt yet.
You'd been knee deep in a cluster of a flowers, some wild lily's in a color you'd never seen before. Your hands buried in the soil as you collected some so you could test the PH later.
Then Bucky had sauntered up behind you, the sudden pitch of his voice throwing you off balance and directly into a pile of flowers. Only you weren't punished with thorns, no pollen. It erupted around you in an angry yellow cloud, plumes of dust spiraling into the air.
The entire mess leaving you covered in bright yellow.
"Shit." Bucky had cursed, already walking forward to help you when you stopped him with a single raised hand.
Ever so careful not to breathe any in, got up, and darted toward the pond. You ripped your clothes off as you ran, abandoning your shirt on a rock and then your jeans at the end of the dock. You hardly heard Bucky yelling after you as you jumped into the freezing water.
When you surfaced, pollen covered the entire pond, swirling in murky yellow bubbles around you. At the end of the dock stood a breathless Bucky, pink cheeked and wide eyed as he stared at the water.
Wordlessly, he stretched out his hand again, and this time you took it, letting his strength lift you from the frigid water. He only lets go once you're safely on the wooden planks, dripping onto the boards as you exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Thanks." You whispered, equally as breathless.
Bucky however, just nodded, his throat bobbing as he took the state of you in.
Bra, panties, and embarrassing white ankle socks. All of which were now soaked through and borderline see-through.
He choked out something about a towel, shaking his head as he started off towards his house, cursing under his breath. Leaving you to wait by the pond, alone with the pip-plop of the water dripping off you and buzzing of frantic bees collecting the pollen you'd stirred up. Even softer, you could have sworn you heard giggling.
Now, as you lead Bucky on the familiar trail, you can't help but watch every leaf a little bit closer.
It's been silent for the better part of the hike, quiet companionship as you slowly work your way up. Bucky's a few feet behind you, lingering close enough for you to hear his footsteps, but far away enough for you to not worry about if he can hear your labored breathing.
Still, heaving chest aside, excitement stirs inside you. A fluttering of joy in your stomach as you take in the mountain around you. The rustles of leaves as birds sing above you, the way your boots crunch on the gravel , a symphony of mother nature's finest.
"Is it supposed to rain today?" It's the first thing Bucky's said in an hour, or grumbled is perhaps more accurate.
You'd checked the weather station three separate times, clear skies.
"No." You gesture to the crystal blue above you. "Looks fine to me."
"Just said it feels like it is all." He repeats, you can hear his arm whirring in protest as he moves it, machine fighting him.
You're struck with a sudden worrying thought. "Oh- is it not water proof?" You concern is instant, enough to make you stop in your tracks and turn around to look at him.
Bucky stops too, and for the first time since you started you actually pause to take him in.
He's glossy, not quite sweaty but enough to make him shine under the bright sun. The jacket he'd started the hike in had been discarded unbeknownst to you, leaving him in a tight black tank top.
The arm hangs low at his side, fist clenching and clenching.
"No, it is." Bucky assures, "Pretty sure this thing could survive just about everything. I don't know I just got a feeling."
"A feeling?" You repeat, skepticism clear.
"Yeah." Bucky nods, looking up at the sky with a glare.
He doesn't say more, you don't find the courage to ask. Instead you keep hiking, turning back to the trail and continuing the trek.
"We're almost there." You shout towards Bucky. "At least I think we are."
The gravel starts to get loose beneath your feet, forcing you to push your heels down harder with every step.
"I mean this all feels familiar." You add, nervously suddenly desperate to fill the silence. "I probably should have written down where exactly they were but I didn't have a pen and everyone was yelling for me to keep moving-"
A rock catches you the toe of your boot, cutting you offer with a swift trip flat on to your face.
The rest of your sentence is lost in a gasp and pained 'oomf' as you fall. Your hands try to catch your weight but between the pack on your back and your typical shit luck they do little to soften the blow.
It stings everywhere, your knees, your calves, your arms and hands. Like your entire body was dragged along the trail until every inch of exposed skin was kissed by a stone.
Bucky's rushing up to you right away, shoving his bag off his shoulder and sliding onto the ground beside your head.
You can hear a him chuckle, low and good humored. You know he doesn't mean to laugh at you, well he does but not that like that. Still, it stings, more than any scrape.
"I know you like dirt, but you don't have to kiss it sweetheart." He jokes.
Your eyes start to sting too, tears burning at the corners. You stay staring at the ground, hands screaming as you brace yourself on them.
Don't look up, don't look up. Don't let him see. You're fine it was stupid you're fine. You're normal-
"Oh shit wait-" Bucky's voice softens, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and turn it toward him. "Hey, hey, hey, you're okay." He coos, thumb rolling over your cheek.
Any humor is gone from his face, fully replaced with worry. It's almost worse.
Fuck.
The tears spill, first one then two. Building until you're close to sobs.
Then the blubbering comes, "I'm sorry-" you gasp, sitting up and doing your best to push him away. "This is stupid I'm sorry."
The words are wet and small, pathetic like this stupid plant and your stupid flowers and you, and God, why can't you just take a joke? Why is your skin so paper fucking thin?
"Hey quit that." Bucky whispers, forcing himself close once again. "Nothing here is stupid, but my bad joke. Okay?"
His hands are back on your face, warm and big enough to dwarf your entire cheek. "I'm sorry." You whisper again, hiccuping as you lean into his touch.
"Who made you think you need to apologize all the time?" Bucky asks, "Did nothin' wrong sweetheart."
Slowly, things level out, your breathing evens and the tears finally start to slow. Bucky doesn't move an inch, his eyes locked on yours as he wipes the tears from your cheeks until they finally stop.
"You okay?" Bucky asks.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He pulls his hands back from your face, taking your wrists instead and using them to turn your hands up so he can see.
"Got yourself good." He says, gently scraping the stuck rocks off of your palm. They're a mess, bloodied and covered in dirt. "Need to clean these."
The whimper that escapes is unconscious, a half baked protest that only makes embarrassment curl harder in your chest.
"I know." Bucky says sympathetically. "I have stuff in my bag." Hes already reaching behind him, grabbing the strap of his pack when a clap of thunder echoes.
It's barely a warning, hardly enough time for your look up in surprise when suddenly the sky opens.
At first it's hardly a drizzle, one or two drops landing on your nose.
Then it's a downpour. Sudden and violent as it washes over you. You're soaked in an instant, clothes wet through to the bone.
Bucky's back to cursing, any softness replaced with stony determination. One second he's pulling his bag over his shoulder and the next he's sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back.
You can't even hear your surprised yelp over the rain, the rapid putter-patter of the drops cancelling out anything that might've escaped when Bucky suddenly stands.
Understandably, you jolt against him, arms wrapping around his neck as you fight to hold on.
You're too disoriented to notice much of anything, between the rain, the cuts, and the feeling of Bucky's arms around you, nothing makes sense.
There's movement, the rise and fall of a jog. You can almost make out some of the words Bucky's trying to yell to you. Something about being right, and did he just say cave?
Calling it a cave was being generous.
Alcove is more appropriate, just enough room for you and Bucky to escape the rain.
Not enough room for you to sit without touching, your legs all but in his lap as your curl against the wall.
You're both breathing heavy, a come down from the adrenaline as your bodies try to catch up to every sensation.
Bucky's staring outside, looking at the rain with furrowed brows, as if it's offended him someone by daring to fall.
"How did you know?" You ask, turning yourself further in towards him.
Bucky shrugs, "My shoulder," his hand comes up to touch it, kneading over the exposed scar as he speaks. "It aches when it's gonna rain."
"Oh."
"Yeah it's like my nerves can tell? I don't know it's weird, but it's never wrong."
You hum, his gaze is still towards the outside so you let yours fall on him. He looks unreal this close, high definition Bucky.
You wonder if you stared long enough could you could his stubble? It's short, neatly trimmed. As if he just did it this morning, fresh edges under his jaw.
Unthinking you reach out and touch it. With your chest already pressed into his shoulder, what do you have to lose?
Bucky startles at first, jumping under your touch before immediately relaxing. Well, at least as much as you can imagine a man like him does relax.
Slowly you trace your thumb over it, dragging it across the seam of where hair meets skin. Even after the rain you can smell his after shave, deep and musky. He must have just don't it this morning. How early did he have to wake up to shave? Why was it so important for a hike?
"We didn't have to do this today." You offer, even though it's useless now.
"What-" Bucky's already protesting, turning his head to look at you fully. Your hand stops, landing just next to his Adam's apple and holding there.
"If I'd know you were hurting, I mean we could have waited."
Bucky shakes his head. "No I- I wanted to. I was," his throat bobs, you have to fight the urge to shiver at the way it feels under your fingers. "I was looking forward to it."
You can't help but giggle. "You were excited to hike?"
It's dim in your little shelter, but even with the lack of light you can watch Bucky's cheeks turn just a little pink.
"With you."
Your pulse stutters, and for just a moment the fact closeness hits you. Bucky Barnes pressed against you. Bucky Barnes' pulse beneath your fingers. Bucky Barnes gritting his teeth through shoulder pain to spend time with you.
Those last two words echo, bouncing around your brain as if delighted with themselves.
With you. With you. With you.
It's your turn to jump when Bucky touches you, jolting you out of your spiral when hooks a finger under your chin and lifts it up.
"Got yourself good."
His thumb rubs over what must be a cut, another spot where a stone was unlucky enough to catch you.
You try to swallow around your nerves, around the way every feeling you've buried seems to rise up the back of your throat.
"I did?" You manage to whisper.
Bucky nods, eyes fixed on the spot.
"They're gonna wrap me in bubble wrap at this rate." You try to joke, choking on the tension instead.
"No." Bucky shakes his head, eyes darting up to look at yours for just a moment before dropping. This time not as far down as your chin. "I'll just catch you next time."
"Yeah?"
He nods and you can feel the weight of his gaze on your lips.
"What if I fall in town?"
"I'll be there." His hand shifts, palm moving until it's holding your cheek again.
"On the beach."
"Yup." His thumb curves lower this time, the pad of it at the edge of your lips.
"In the mines?"
"Why are you in the mines?" His gaze falters, back to your eyes for a second.
"There are mushrooms down there that don't grow anywhere else. They're purple and I think they might have some health benefits like improved energy levels and some vitamin gaps-"
"Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?" Bucky interrupts.
You nod, embarrassed smile moving his thumb as your lips curve. "All the time actually, a lot of people think I better shut up before it gets me in trouble."
"Don't you dare." Bucky's voice has gone the lowest you think you've ever heard it, raspy and almost unfamiliar.
"Get in trouble?"
"Shut up." Bucky clarifies, he's so close now you can feel his nose against your own. His eyes are half lidded, barely open enough for you to make out his blown pupils. "Love hearin' you talk."
It's something no one's ever said to you before, something you had honestly figured wasn't possible. Someone who savors your voice not the absence of it.
Like Eve, the one thing you never knew you wanted has been served to you on a silver platter, how could you not bite the apple?
Bucky's lips are chapped, rough against yours the way your expected them to be. Torn skin catches against yours, making your tongue roll over them to soothe, as if applying a balm.
Bucky's hands are everywhere now, as if your kiss gave him permission he had been waiting for. First it's your face, both cheeks held in his large palms. Quickly it escalates, one dropping to your throat to mirror your own touch. Meanwhile the other falls to your waist, grabbing at the soft flesh there in a half-grope half-pull.
One second you're resting on cave floor the next you're being positioned over Bucky's thighs, hips angles until finally you're encouraged to sit. A pat on your hip telling you to lower your weight.
You drop right over Bucky's thighs, the very tops where his stomach pudges out just a little over his belt and his tank top has been pulled down.
Bucky doesn't let down until he's satisfied he has your full weight, letting out the most delicious groan against your lips as you settle.
"Stupid." He whispers, spitting the word against your lips as if tastes bad. "Sweetheart the only stupid one is me for not doing this sooner."
This time it's your turn to push, your lips harder into his, your chest as tight as possible against him. Your hands finally roam, curving over the detailed path of his body. The rough scar on his shoulder, gentle and slow. Then the slope between his pecs, dragging down hard enough for the tip of your nail to draw a red line. Finally over his ribs, where your fingers slot between each divot.
It's as if the flood gates have been opened, every word you've agonized over, each action you second guessed disappears and is replaced with white hot want. Molten lava in your belly that you never even knew you possessed.
Bucky gasps into your mouth, opening further into your assault.
"Wanna make a map of every spot that makes you sound like that and memorize it." You whisper into his lips.
Bucky nods fervently against you, using his hands to drag you over his crotch, pressing the hard line of bulge to your tingling cunt.
"Whatever you want." He offers, "Study me, dissect me, yell at me about how I'm planting the flowers wrong I don't care." He drags you over him again, swallowing the whimper that bubbles from your lips at the sound. "I'll donate my body to science."
Your brain is slowly falling apart, melting and dripping out of your ears for sure. The rain explodes outside, its downfall turning deafening as the kiss deepens, as if its trying to match your intensity.
Bucky kisses you like it's an attack and a thank you all in the same breath. something between worship and hunger.
Your body feels the most alive it's ever been, for the first time years its as if you're actually in the moment instead of watching it from the outside.
Thunder roars again outside. This time less like a roar and more like the clicking of pieces sliding into place.
It's not until your lungs start to burn that you pull away, lips bruised and kiss bitten. Your chin sore from where the cut caught on stubble. Your body floaty where it rests in Bucky's lap.
The only thing that matches what you feel is the smile playing on Bucky's lips, a subtle curve just sharp enough to make your pulse stutter.
Finally, the rain stops. Tempering off completely within a minute of the last thunderclap.
When you come out of the cave, this time hand in hand, a warm breeze washes over you. Like praise from the life surrounding you.
You can only imagine their glee when Bucky drags you inside his house later, tripping over the stairs in excitement.
There are a few simple reasons you like Bucky.
He likes you for one, that's a pretty good one. If his mumbles when he's balls deep inside you and half drunk on pleasure are to believed, he actually loves you.
He's quiet, but never the kind that makes you feel judged. He's quiet like the plants, always listening, and always ready to offer you the best solution he can find.
He's weird, you might even think he's worse than you are. He's read lord of the rings three times and still refuses to watch the movie. He lights up when you suggest growing plums. Walks into town holding your hand and when people ask if you're dating he just shakes his head. "No," he says, completely straight faced, "I'm being studied."
thank you so much for reading!!!!! I love youuuuuuu!!!
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 — 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 not—"
"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."
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.”
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 i—" the muscle in his jaw moves. "i made sure they never came out.”
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't—" 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 hone–" 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 sharing—" 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 to—"
"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.” 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't—" 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 be—"
"i know."
"for a long time," you say. "a really long time. and there are going to be—" you stop. you start again. "it's going to change things. for the job. for—" 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.
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.
“hello barnes.”
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 statement–" you breathe out a heavy sigh before he cuts u off.
"later." he says.
"bucky, the statement needs to—"
"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 like—" 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 noticed—" 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 was—" 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 were—" 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're—" 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 to—"
"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 interest—"
"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."
"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!”.
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?”
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 be—" 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 she—" 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 a—" 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 become—"
"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.”
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.
no, its about my history, you’re 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.
you’re 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."
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 him—" 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, just—" 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, i’m definitely right, doll.”
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 it’s supposed to bc it’s a summer fling and summer isn’t that long. I also envision Bucky after FATWS specifically for the basis of his au character. He’s 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 weren’t 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 – 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 “must” 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 hadn’t 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 people’s 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 – 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 Sam’s truck with Wanda riding shot gun and playing DJ while you headed for a beach down the coast. One of Natasha’s 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 Sam’s truck were pulling into the driveway of the beach house and various sounds of disbelief filled the truck’s cab.
“How rich were these people?” Sam asked as he peered up at the house.
“For a three-story house at the beach? I’d say very,” Wanda added as she gazed out the windshield in awe.
“And we have this house – no, mansion for three weeks?” you added.
Said mansion was enormous in your eyes after living in a tiny apartment for the past four years. The windows on the first floor were floor to ceiling, revealing a minimalist décor preference and giant pieces of furnishing in front of a purely white, state-of-the-art kitchen. The second floor, where you assumed the bedrooms were, had picturesque arched windows and a large bay window looking over the property. The third floor seemed to be a small observation room since it was mostly windows with a giant telescope in the middle of the small room. The exterior of the house was the classic beach shake style with small pieces of wood collected to make the siding with crisp white trim and a pale blue door.
“Remind me to give Natasha a bottle of wine or something,” Sam said as he pulled up to the car port where another car and a motorcycle were parked.
“Remind me to name my first born after her,” 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.
“How was the drive? I see you made it all in one piece,” she quipped as she nudged Sam with her elbow.
“Hey, I drive very well for your information,” he defended as he pulled all three suitcases to the edge.
“More like you drive like a roadrunner,” Wanda joked. “He was going at least ten over the speed limit the entire time.”
“Sue me for wanting to get my vacation started as soon as possible. Plus, we’re all safe, that’s what really matters,” Sam said as he puffed out his chest slightly.
You laughed and shook your head.
“Well, c’mon,” Nat said as she gestured towards the house. “Steve went out and got lunch for us and I’m starving.”
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.
“Hey, no worries, I’ll bring it in,” 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.
“Oh, thank you,” 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. “I’m Bucky,” he replied. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Nat.”
“All good things, I hope,” you nervously smiled.
“All good things,” 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 Wanda’s oversized tote bag and Sam’s 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.
“Wow, this house looks like it should be in an architecture or design magazine,” 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,” 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 – quickly.
“That tracks,” you laughed. “Most of the things in this house probably cost more than my paycheck.”
“I thought bartenders made good money,” Bucky said with a furrow in his brow.
“How did you know I was a bartender?”
“Oh, uh… Nat kind of talks about you a lot,” 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.
“She does?” 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.
“She normally doesn’t have much to say about people, but you seemed to have made an impression on her,” Bucky told you.
“Well, I’m just honored just getting to meet you all,” you said. “She really loves you guys and I can see why. You’re all very nice and welcoming.”
“I don’t hang around people who aren’t worth my time,” Natasha’s 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. “Now, c’mon. You still need to meet Steve.”
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.
“You must be the famous roommate!”
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.
“You must be Steve,” 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. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“I could say the same,” he said. “Natasha talks about you enough that I feel like we already know each other.”
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.
“Well, I hear nothing but great things about your art. Nat even said she thought about buying a piece or two.”
At that, Steve’s head turned to Natasha and a teasing smile took over his face. “Oh, really? I thought they were ‘just alright’.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed off the counter before putting her chin on your shoulder. “Remind me to not compliment people around you. You’re liable to spill my secrets.” 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.
“So, which one of you has the motorcycle?” you asked, trying to make small talk.
“That’s all Buck,” Steve said, clapping his friend on the back of his shoulder. “He actually built the engine himself.”
You looked up in awe at the man who had helped you earlier. “I’m sorry, you built the engine yourself? I might not know much about cars and bikes, but I know that must have been a challenge,” 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.
“It’s really not that hard,” he deflected. “The hardest part was finding all the parts I needed, but building the actual engine took about two days.”
You nodded, impressed that he was very gracious about his engineering feat.
“Well, congratulations,” you said. “It looks really good.”
He met your gaze and gave you a shy smile. “Thanks.”
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 wasn’t 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 Bucky’s 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 weren’t 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 Tolkien’s books and mentioned he’d 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.
“So,” Bucky started as he watched you bend down to comb through a section of small shells, “what makes a shell good enough to keep?”
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.
“I guess it’s up to the person collecting,” you said.
“What’s your criteria then?”
“For me, I like shells that look like they’ve traveled through the ocean a long time. They aren’t perfect, but they still have a beautiful color or pattern on them,” 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. “See 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.”
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.
“Jagged edges don’t bother you?” he asked. His tone of voice suggested that he wasn’t just asking about the shell’s jagged edges.
You gave him a gentle smile and shook your head. “No, they don’t bother me. Should they?”
“Some edges are sharper than others,” 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 shell’s. There were so many words swarming your brain, but none of them seemed adequate to quell his nerves. Nonetheless, you still had to try.
“Well, lucky for the shell, time and sand smooth the sharp edges. They never go away, but they become more manageable,” 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 didn’t know if it was something he needed to hear or something he didn’t 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.
“This one is for you,” you said, moving one finger in a soothing motion over the skin just beneath the thin material of linen. “The pattern on it reminds me of the bands of gold on your arm.”
You couldn’t 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.
“Thank you,” he murmured under his breath. If the sea breeze hadn’t paused during that moment, you wouldn’t have heard his thanks and you wouldn’t have felt a tightness behind your ribs in response.
“Of course,” you said, slowly pulling your hand away from his chest so you could resume your search for shells. “Pretty people deserve pretty things.”
A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “Oh, so now I’m pretty?”
“Um, have you ever looked in a mirror, sir?” you laughed. “Your face could make anyone, man or woman, fall headfirst before realizing. It’s quite unfair.”
“Anyone, huh?”
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 wouldn’t notice your flustered expression.
“Uh, yeah. I mean when Sam gets buzzed, he talks about the pretty boy and the golden retriever, and after meeting Steve, I know he’s the golden retriever,” you explained, hoping he would just leave it at that.
“I don’t care about what Sam thinks,” 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.
“Don’t tell Sam that,” you tried to joke, as a deflection. “I bet he would throw a fit.”
“He’ll get over it.”
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 wouldn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“Just for the record,” he started as he looked over all the various shells in his hand. “I think you’re pretty, too.”
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 couldn’t 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. “C’mon, let’s go see if there are any other worthy shells. I have my pretty shell, now we have to find one that’s as pretty as you are.”
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.
“I’m headed out to the tidal pools,” 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.
“Enjoy,” 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 door’s 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 couldn’t tell if it was from the sun or from overexertion, or if it was from both.
“Hey,” 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.
“Um, I’m going to the tidal pools, but everyone else is in the living room,” 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 didn’t want to push any buttons as he was clearly not feeling like himself, from what you could tell. “You’re welcome to join, if you want. No pressure, though.”
Bucky brought his flesh hand up to scratch at the back of his neck while he contemplated the offer. You couldn’t 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.
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.
“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I just need to shower and change, then I’ll be ready.”
“Yeah, of course. Take your time,” you said quickly, surprised that he was accepting your invitation after all. “I’ll just be outside by the cars.”
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.
“Buck had the hardest time out of all of us when we were touring. His story isn’t mine to tell you, but he came back with a lot of baggage. After seeing him this week though, it’s like seeing my friend from college all over again,” he had explained. “You 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.”
“Oh,” you said, looking down to hide the embarrassment on your cheeks.
“It’s nothing to be shy about,” he quickly remedied. “I guess I just wanted to tell you that he seems really happy around you.”
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.
“If you don’t mind,” Bucky’s gravely voice started, breaking you out of your thoughts, “I thought we could take my bike.”
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.
“Okay,” you conceded. “I will warn you, I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before, though.”
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.
“You’re going to want to hold on, sweetheart,” 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 couldn’t 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 that’s 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 couldn’t 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 Bucky’s 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 bike’s 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 machine’s 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 didn’t want to intrude on his thoughts, so you remained quiet as well. The silence wasn’t 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 wouldn’t 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.
“I didn’t know you were into photography,” Bucky observed from behind you.
You nodded your head and took another photo before turning to face him. “My parents gave it to me when I left for the city,” you explained. “I 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.”
“Too busy galivanting around the city to use your camera?” he jested.
“I wish. More like I was drowning in work and didn’t realize I was selling my soul to the corporate world,” you said with a laugh at the end. “I would use all my energy at work, trying to prove to my boss and everyone else how good I was with completing tasks. Why? I’m 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,” you confessed, trying your best to gloss over the harder bits of your life in the first few years after college.
“I understand,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes life takes more from you than you thought you would give.”
You nodded your head in agreement. “Switching 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.”
“What have you found that’s more important?” he asked.
“I found out how much I enjoy hanging out with people and that I didn’t need to work all day, every day just to make a living,” you answered. “Being a bartender isn’t exactly the glamourous life, but it pays the bills and lets me have free time outside of work. And that’s 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.”
There was a pause in the conversation as he seemed to think over your words.
“Plus, if I was still at my shitty corporate job, I wouldn’t have been able to come to the beach and finally meet you and Steve,” you added with a small smile.
“Well, then I guess I’m grateful for your career change, too,” he muttered. You weren’t 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 camera’s 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 Bucky’s 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.
“Too good to not document,” he said with a shrug as he put the camera back down beside you.
“Well, now it’s your turn, mister,” 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.
“I don’t think you need to take pictures of me,” he said, as if trying to play off his importance. “Save your film for the beach.”
“But you’re a part of this trip and I want to remember you,” 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.
“What? Are you going to be done with me after this trip?” he goaded.
A giggle slipped out of your lips and you tilted your head to the side before you answered.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you, Bucky.”
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.
“Good, because I’m nowhere near done with you,” 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.
“Smile, pretty boy,” you joked. “I want some pictures of us.”
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.
“You two are just adorable,” the woman gushed. “I’ve never seen a better looking couple.”
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.
“We’re not…” you trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. You weren’t a couple, but the way you felt spending time with him was what you assumed partners would feel about each other.
“Sorry, about her,” the man jumped in. “She just loves love and sees it everywhere she goes.”
“It’s no problem,” you quickly said. “Thank you for the photos! Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
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 couldn’t quite pinpoint but tried to cover it up when you met each other’s gaze. He nodded his head towards the road and you followed along after him.
As you walked behind him, you couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 helmet’s strap. As you handed the helmet back to Bucky, you glanced over him briefly and mustered up a smile.
“Thanks for the ride and coming with me,” you said.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said after coughing to clear his throat. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but no words came out of Bucky’s 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 weren’t as close as they had been in the previous days. It’s like he knew you needed space and was granting it to you. You didn’t 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.
“What happened?” she asked. “You weren’t as smitten when you got back from the tidal pools.”
“It’s nothing,” you deflected. “Just tired from the sun.”
She narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow. You prayed she would let it go for now, because you didn’t 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 weren’t tired, but you didn’t want to make too much noise and disturb anyone’s 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 didn’t say anything as you turned your head back to the stars. If you continued to look into Bucky’s eyes, you were sure you would crumble or burst apart.
“My real name is James,” 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 stars’. “Bucky comes from my middle name, Buchanan. My mom had an affinity with names from the early nineteen hundreds.”
“You kind of look like a James,” you chimed in.
He huffed out a laugh and shook his head before looking up to meet your gaze.
“My sister used to call me Jimmy,” he added, earning a small smile from you. “I remember Steve tried to call me Jimmy once.”
“What happened?”
“I chewed him out and he never said it again,” he admitted with an embarrassed grin presenting itself on his face. “I let him get away with a lot of other things, though. He was practically my brother.” He paused and turned his gaze out to the stars you were admiring earlier. You didn’t know where this conversation was going, but you were content to let him think through his words before sharing them with you. “We 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 week’s recesses in the classroom instead of on the playground. But Steve stayed back with me. The first few days, he didn’t 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, we’ve been best friends.”
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.
“We went through school together, got our driver’s 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 can’t 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 wasn’t going to let him go by himself, so I joined with him. My parents were proud. My sister was mad that I wasn’t going to be able to drive her and her friends around anymore, but also proud.”
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.
“Steve 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 couldn’t 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.”
“That must have been jarring for you,” you noted.
He nodded his head. “Yeah, 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 couldn’t tell where I was.”
Bucky took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists before continuing.
“I was strapped to a table, hooked up to an IV and something else that was a bright blue. I didn’t 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 can’t 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.”
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 didn’t 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.
“Eventually, Steve’s 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,” he said in a somber tone. “But 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 couldn’t stay fully conscious. I couldn’t 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.”
“Bucky, you don’t have to—” you tried to reassure him.
“I know, but I want to,” he said, grabbing your hand that was resting on his chair’s armrest. His gaze turned down to your hands clasped together before he continued. “I remember bits and pieces of what happened, but it’s 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 couldn’t 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.”
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 wasn’t possible.
“My 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.” 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. “It was a long road to recovery, and honestly, I’m still living with the ghosts of my past every time I close my eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again.”
You moved your body closer to his chair and nodded your head. “I don’t think anyone expects you to be, Bucky.”
“I just – it’s hard for me to imagine anything normal in my life,” he nearly sobbed. “Today 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 wasn’t 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.” His eyes became glassy with unshed tears. “After everything, it’s 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 that’s not fair. But then, meeting you…”
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.
“The 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 wasn’t to run away, but to stay and get to know you,” he explained. “It was like opening the window after a long, harsh winter and feeling the first warm breeze of spring.”
You didn’t know what to say. There were so many thoughts and affirmations you wanted to shower upon him, but you knew this wasn’t the moment to overwhelm him. This was a moment to comfort him and just be here.
“Thank you for telling me, Bucky,” you whispered, hesitant to break the silence that followed his past. “I’m 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.”
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.
“It’s hard for me to believe I’m worthy of normalcy, but I think I want to try when it’s you saying it,” he said, gazing up at you with his turbulent blue eyes. “I’ve never felt this way with someone before and I know it’s selfish, but I want it.”
Your hand that wasn’t encased in Bucky’s reached up and threaded itself through the soft locks of his hair. “It’s not selfish,” you stated, leaving little room for disagreement. “It’s human.”
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. “I want this, too,” you admitted, earning a small but genuine smile from him. “And just so we’re clear, I’m not stuck carrying your baggage. I want to help you carry it.”
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 he’d been through had ripped your heart open, but hearing him admit that he still wanted whatever was happening between you – even if it scared him – 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 crow’s 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 couldn’t 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 shouldn’t especially after the day he had gone through. Revisiting the past was never fun, but in Bucky’s case, it was probably one of the seven layers of hell. You didn’t 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 couldn’t 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, Bucky’s metal arm wound tightly around your waist and his flesh hand gripped your thigh tightly. “Don’t go,” he said in the softest whisper.
“I’m not going anywhere except for inside,” you said with a smile. “It’s a bit too cold out here for my liking.”
“Mm,” he hummed while clutching you even tighter.
“C’mon,” you gently urged. “Let’s just move this moment into a warmer place, like the living room.”
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 Bucky’s head resting on your sternum and your fingers working their way through his hair. It didn’t 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 Natasha’s 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.
“Sleep well?” 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.
“I guess we should get ready for the day,” 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.
“We’ve decided that we are all spending the day at the beach again,” Wanda said with a kind smile on her face.
“Yep, and you’re going to hang with us and not Barnes today,” Natasha added.
Next to you, Bucky’s shoulders slouched hearing the girls demand your presence. You had to admit you were also sad that you wouldn’t 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.
“Yeah, and Barnes, you’re going to spend the day with us,” 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. “Damn, I thought you loved me,” Sam continued to tease. “I’m wounded.”
“Fine,” you said to Natasha and Wanda. “But I just want to lay on the beach today.”
“Deal!” Wanda squealed. “I’ve been needing to work on my tan.”
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.
“So, what are you going to do today?” you asked Bucky after drinking the last bit of your coffee.
“I’m not sure,” he said, pushing his plate and cup away before turning to face you. His eyes were twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Maybe I’ll work on my tan.”
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.
“Mm, you are looking rather pale,” you played along. “Plus, we’d still be able to spend the day together.”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” 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 arm’s 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.
“Good morning,” he muttered as he brought his nose to the crown of your head. Your body melted into his and returned his sentiment.
“Good morning, pretty boy.”
He grunted and pulled back to look down at you once more.
“Sorry we were woken up by those idiots,” 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.
“It’s okay,” you said. “I’m just hoping I don’t look like a mess in the picture they took.”
“I’ve never seen you look like a mess,” he reassured.
“That’s what you’re supposed to say,” you brushed off.
“Whether I’m supposed to say it or not, the statement still stands,” 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.
“Thank you,” 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 didn’t 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 another’s. 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 Sam’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t know what to do with it in this moment, so you settled on an instinct you’ve 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 weren’t 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 couldn’t 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.
“I can help,” Bucky’s 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 doesn’t 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. “Thank you,” you said.
“It was my pleasure,” he said while his eyes trailed over your skin before meeting your eyes.
“Alright lovebirds,” Sam yelled to get your attention. The two of you looked over and saw everyone holding their belongings, ready to head to the beach. “If you’re done, the rest of us would like to hit the beach.”
“Nothing’s stopping you,” 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 wasn’t 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 Bucky’s 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 Wanda’s 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.
“So,” Wanda started, “that happened quickly.”
“Yeah,” you agreed. “I wasn’t expecting it, but there’s something about him that makes me feel…”
“Seen? Smitten? Lovey-dovey?” 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 wouldn’t have in a situation like this.
“Honestly, yes,” you answered. “I haven’t felt like this since I was eleven and had a crush on Zac Efron.”
Wanda broke into a fit of giggles and Natasha remained silent, but you had no doubt she had a victorious smirk on her face.
“You laugh, but the second I laid eyes on him in High School Musical, I was done for,” you replied with a small laugh of your own.
“Well, I think it’s cute,” Wanda said. “And I’ve never seen Bucky open up like this to anyone, let alone this quickly.”
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 wasn’t 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 “baggage” as he put it.
There wasn’t 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 wouldn’t remain in this rose-tinted affection stage, but after seeing just a few parts of him, you knew you weren’t 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.
“He told me about what happened to him while he was serving,” 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. “I can’t begin to understand what he went through, but I know that it’s not something that will make me turn away from this. He’s been so strong by himself for so long and last night I could see just how tired he was.”
Wanda’s eyes began to water and Natasha’s lips slowly curved into a smile.
“It almost felt like he was trying to scare me off, but he seemed like he needed me to understand more than anything,” you continued. “I told him I wasn’t 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.”
“That’s so beautiful,” Wanda said, her Sokovian accent seeping into her words as she was overcome with emotion for her friend. “It’s like something out of a romance novel.”
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.
“I think it’s better than a romance novel,” 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 didn’t 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.
“You’re going to flash the whole beach if you move, sweetheart,” a familiar voice cooed as you felt deft fingers grab the strings of your top and tie them together. “And I’d prefer if you kept the sight just for me.”
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.
“Are you assuming you are going to see me topless sometime soon?” you playfully questioned.
“If I play my cards right, I’m betting on it,” 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.
“Why are you wet?” you asked, knowing it had something to do with the ocean in front of you.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
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.
“Sam threw the football into the water and Steve pushed me in to go get it,” he said.
You laughed before thinking of his arm. “Wait, can your prosthetic get wet?”
He gave you a shy smile before nodding his head. “Yeah, it’s waterproof which is really nice.” His eyebrows wiggled on his forehead and you rolled your eyes at the implication. “You going to join me in the water?”
You shook your head. “I don’t think so. That’s the fish and shark’s home, I don’t need to invite myself in.”
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.
“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard someone say about the ocean,” he commented. “But don’t worry, I’ll be there to defend you even if it’s in their house.”
“Think about it! I hate seeing bugs in my apartment. Their house is outside, where they belong, so the same goes for ocean life. I don’t need to go inside their house to appreciate it,” 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. “But the water is so nice, I want you to come in with me.”
“You just want an excuse to feel me cling to you in the water,” you said as you stared at him with a knowing look.
“Guilty,” 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. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. The fish told me you were invited.”
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.
“You know,” Bucky started, drawing your attention back to him. “We were rudely interrupted this morning.”
You tried to keep your face neutral, fighting the smile that wanted to spread across your face. “Oh, really? I can’t seem to remember what it was we were doing…” 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.
“I’d be more than happy to remind you,” 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 didn’t 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. Bucky’s 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 couldn’t be wiped away as you remained in his arms and brushed the tips of your noses together.
“Woah,” he said after a minute, opening his eyes to look at you.
You giggled and nodded your head in agreement. “That was...”
“Amazing,” 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.
“Don’t look now, but we have an audience,” 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.
“What is it?” 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 Bucky’s inside with “4ever” written under them. You knew this had to be the work of Natasha or Sam, but you couldn’t help but feel your heart soar at the elementary display of feelings.
“How childish,” 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 Wanda’s 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.
next | masterlist
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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.
“Woah, hey, hey take it easy,” the man says to you, catching you before you fall completely.
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 didn’t take you back to your planet.
You didn’t make it very far when the man appeared by your side again.
“Hi, I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. I didn’t mean to. Ar-are you hurt? Do you need help?”
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 pieces—tone & emotion—but 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. “I’m… Superman. No, no- just Clark. You can call me Clark.”
Clark. You repeat the name over in your head until you think you can mimic him perfectly. “Cl-ark. Clark.”
“Yes, exactly,” Clark nods triumphantly. “Do you need help? Where are you coming from?”
You scrunched your brows in confusion, and shook your head. Clark must’ve sensed that you didn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
“Gosh, um. This is Earth. Planet Earth. Is this where you are supposed to be?”
Clark scolds himself again. Obviously you wouldn’t 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, “Krypton.”
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.
“Krypton? You are Kryptonian?” Clark speaks back to you in Kryptonian.
Your eyes light up, and you nod rapidly. He understands you!
“Yes! 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.” You recite in perfect Kryptonian.
Now it was Clark’s turn to be confused. He didn’t know that much Kryptonian truth be told.
Only enough to pick up bits and pieces, and from his understanding, you thought that that’s where your pod was headed. To Krypton. Which no longer exists.
Which meant you didn’t know that Krypton had been destroyed.
Clark’s breath caught painfully in his chest.
For a moment, he didn’t 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.
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.
Or at least he didn't think so.
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 might’ve 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.
As he rushed back to where you stood, baffled at his sudden departure and lack of response, Clark came to a decision.
He wouldn’t tell you about Krypton. At least not yet.
“Sorry,” Clark said, a little breathless, forcing a small smile onto his face. “I just—I needed to check something.”
You studied him carefully. His expression was calm, but his eyes weren’t. There was something there. Something familiar. Loss, maybe. You didn’t have the words for it yet, but you recognized the feeling.
“You understand me,” you said again in Kryptonian, needing reassurance. “You are Kryptonian.”
Clark nodded. “Yes. I am.”
That fact alone steadied you. You weren’t alone on this planet. Not completely. Maybe he could help you find your family and get back to your planet.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said, switching back to English, then catching himself. He slowed, gestured gently with his hands, and tried again. “You… are safe. Here.”
You didn’t 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 you’d never seen before, and its warmth made you feel oddly good.
“I 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.”
You tilted your head.
“Shoot right,” Clark mumbles, then switches to his poor Kryptonian, “I'll take you with me, to my home. I'll help you get home, to Krypton.”
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?
He barely knew Kryptonian himself and didn’t 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.
━━━━━━━
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 didn’t want you to get any answers just yet.
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.
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.
“You can sit wherever you want,” he said gently, gesturing to the living room. “You live here now.”
You tilted your head, and mimicked his English words. “Live… here?”
“Yes,” he said in Kryptonian, smiling. “With me.”
Your chest warmed at that.
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.
“Table,” he'd say, tapping the dark wood.
“Spoon.”
“Window.”
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. “This is a tablet,” he explained. “It can show you… pictures. Stories. It can help you learn.”
He pulled up a children's program—simple animations with bright colors and slow, clear speech. You were mesmerized by the technology. You pointed at the screen. “Bird?”
“Yes, bird,” Clark said, delighted. “And tree. And sky.”
You watched for hours, absorbing the language in a way that felt more natural. You began to string English sentences together.
“Clark is making food?” you'd ask, peering into the kitchen.
“Yes, I am making food,” he'd answer, grinning at your language improvement. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I am hungry.”
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.
“It's okay,” he said, kneeling. “You have to be… gentle. Like this.” He demonstrated, picking up a surviving glass with exaggerated care. “Just a little pressure.”
You practiced on everything—doorknobs, 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. Earth’s 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.
It was an adjustment though. Getting so many senses back at once.
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.
“They’re… squeezing me,” you said unsure, but it seemed like the right word.
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, or tight. Humans like them that way. You’ll get used to it.”
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.
“This is tea,” Clark said, sliding the cup toward you.
You sniffed it suspiciously. “Leaves.”
“It is leaves.”
“…Why?” you asked.
He smiled. “You ask that a lot.”
You thought about it. “Why is a good question.”
Clark laughed, full and warm, and something inside you fluttered.
At night however, you couldn’t sleep. The sky reminded you the most of Caelis at that time. You didn’t 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.
When will my pod be fixed? When can I go home?
You trusted Clark.
He was helping you. But a deep, restless ache for Krypton, for the family you only knew from stories stirred constantly.
You noticed he never mentioned it.
When you tentatively brought up ‘Krypton’ or ‘pod,’ 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. “Clark… you are Kryptonian. Yes?”
He stilled, the dish towel in his hands. “Yes.”
“Why… you are here? On Earth?”
He was quiet for a long moment, looking out the window at the city lights. “My pod came here, too. A long time ago. I was a baby.”
“You did not go back?” 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. “No,” he said softly. “I did not go back.”
You noticed the change in his emotion. “You are sad?”
“No, I am not sad. I’m okay.” Clark said simply enough for you to understand.
You still had more questions though. “Why do humans lie?”
Clark froze, suddenly worried he was caught somehow. “Lie how?”
“They say they are ‘fine,’ but they are not fine. They say they are ‘not sad’ but they are.”
He sighed. You were a fast learner, he’ll give you that. “Yeah… we do that a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re scared,” 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 wasn’t.
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.
“Try not to do that,” he said gently after you accidentally started to pick up a parked taxi.
“It was in my way,” you said, confused.
“I know. But humans can’t do that. They aren’t strong like we are, remember?”
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 aren’t a ‘superhero’ like him. People would be ‘suspicious’ he said.
The weeks continued to pass.
You learned how to smile at strangers. How to order food. How to say “thank you” and “sorry” at appropriate times. You learned that Earth had many holidays, most of which made no sense.
“Why is there a day for thanks?” you asked.
“It’s about gratitude,” Clark said.
You paused, thinking hard. “I am grateful for you.”
He froze.
“Oh,” he said softly, heart pounding. “I’m… grateful for you too.”
You didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“Ruh-ral?”
“Rural.” Clark corrected back, “It means the countryside.”
You nodded and pressed next on your tablet. “Naw-zee-us.”
“Nauseous. Like when you are sick.”
“English is hard,” you huffed.
“You are getting much better. Keep practicing.”
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.
“Clark,” you said quietly. “When… will we fix my pod?”
His page stilled. “Soon,” he said automatically.
You frowned. “You said soon before.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw it—that fear again.
“You promised,” you added, “You said you help me go to Krypton.”
Clark closed the book slowly. “You’re right,” he said. “I did.”
“So when is soon? 1 day? 1 year? 5 years?”
“Soon is very soon.” And then he got up and walked away, leaving you frustrated and anxious.
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, ‘The Fortress of Solitude.’
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 fluently—better than Clark ever could. You felt a rush of relief and began to speak to them.
“They help me fix my pod?” you asked hopefully, turning back to Clark.
Clark hesitated. Then nodded. “Yes, they will help you.”
The robots examined the pod schematics, projected glowing symbols into the air, and spoke gently.
“The pod can be repaired,” one said to you in Kryptonian. “However, reconstruction will take time.”
“How long?” you asked.
“One Earth year.”
You blinked. That was… short. Only 365 days.
“A year?” you repeated, surprised but pleased. “That is not long.”
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.
“I can wait,” you said, turning to Clark with a small smile. “I will stay with you.”
Clark’s chest tightened.
What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was 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. “I want to show you something. It’s from my parents. They sent it along with me when I was a baby.”
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 didn’t see much more.
“Where’s the rest of it?” you asked in Kryptonian.
Clark scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
“It got ruined when I landed.” Not a total lie.
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.
Not that you knew that.
“Oh that was beautiful, though Clark. They are beautiful people. Maybe when my pod is fixed you can come with me and visit them sometime. I’m sure they’d love that.”
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.
“Yeah, yeah,” Clark swallowed deeply, “You ready to go?”
“Yes.” You said your goodbyes to Clark’s 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. “When can we go back? I like your robots, they speak Kryptonian well.”
Clark pretended not to understand you since you spoke in Kryptonian. But you couldn’t help it, you were too excited and did not want to struggle through forming English words at the moment. You pouted.
“Clark,” you dragged.
He didn’t 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.
“Fine,” you rolled your eyes and switched back to English. “When will we go back to your Fortress? Good?”
“Yes, very good, and we’ll go back soon.” Clark noticed your raised brow and then added, “Next week?”
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 you’ve 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.
One year.
That’s all he had. So he would have to make the most of it.
━━━━━━━
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.
It made you bold.
You started at the library as a volunteer.
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. He’d rather you stay in the apartment, where your abilities and your speech wouldn’t 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 didn’t 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 shouldn’t 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.
“So, how was the library today?” Clark asked.
“It was okay. Very little— I mean, very few people came. I had lots of time to read,” you said proudly. “Do you want to know the new words I learned?”
Clark smiled around a mouthful of eggs. “Always.”
You straightened in your chair like this was a presentation. “Okay. First: nostalgia. It means missing something that is gone, but in a… warm way. Not painful. ”
Clark’s smile faltered, just a touch. “That’s a good one.”
“Second,” you continued. “Subtext. It means what people mean, but do not say.”
Clark nearly choked on his coffee. “Yeah. That one’s… important.”
“And third,” you finished, pleased, “Intimacy.”
Clark went very still.
You frowned slightly. “The book said it is closeness. Emotional closeness. Sometimes physical closeness. It said it can be built over time.”
You tilted your head. “Clark, I think we have that.”
The air shifted. Clark set his mug down slowly.
You added on, “We are closer because you saved me. And we are both from Krypton, of course.”
“Right, yes. Those are really good words.”
“And you? How was the Daily Planet.”
Clark smiled at how you always referred to his work as the Daily Planet. “It was okay. Both Jimmy and Lois were gone, chasing a lead. Perry yelled at me. But Cat brought doughnuts for everyone.”
“Those are the circles right? With the hole in the center?” you asked for clarification.
“Yes.”
You nodded. “I like those.”
Clark chuckled, “Yeah they are pretty good.” The sound was warm and easy, and something inside your chest fluttered. You noticed that feeling more these days.
Little things would set it off—the 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.
Clark watched you from the table, his heart doing something stupid and fast. A year, he reminded himself. Don’t 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.
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 Jimmy’s 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. “Yes, … she's adjusting well. She's… amazing, actually.”
“Amazing,” Lois repeated, drawing out the word. “As in 'amazing cook' or 'amazing to come home to'?”
“Lois,” he sighed, but he was smiling. A real, unreserved smile that told her everything she needed to know.
“Alright, alright, just don’t screw it up.” Lois put her hands up.
Clark's mouth went dry. He didn’t 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.
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 he’d been burned. Your shoulder bumping into his when you sat together on the couch, neither of you moving to correct it. The way he’d 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.
“Com-fort,” you said slowly.
“Comfort,” he corrected, voice low.
You tried again. “Comfort.”
“Perfect.”
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 didn’t 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.
“Is this… okay?” you asked, echoing a question you’d learned was important here.
Clark swallowed. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
So you kept doing it.
You’d 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 didn’t move for over an hour. He just sat there, heart pounding, afraid that if he breathed too hard you’d 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.
━━━━━━━
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.
“That word again,” you said thoughtfully. “I think… I feel that.”
“For what?” he asked, coming to stand beside you.
You turned to him. “For things that are happening now. Is that weird?”
Clark’s chest tightened. “No, it’s not weird at all. A lot of people feel that.”
“Humans are strange,” you decided.
He smiled. “Yeah. We are.”
“But I'm starting to really like them,” 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 hadn’t expected that. Clark reached out without thinking, resting a hand on your arm.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you turned fully toward him.
“You do that,” you said quietly.
“Do what?”
“You touch me,” you said, not accusing. “When I am scared. Or tired. Or quiet.”
Clark froze, then slowly lowered his hand, like he thought he’d crossed a line. “I’m sorry, I—”
“I like it,” you said quickly.
He looked at you, eyes searching. “You’re sure?”
“It feels like… comfort.” 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. Clark’s 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.
“This,” you said softly, “is intimacy, yes?”
Clark laughed under his breath, a little shaky. “Yeah. This is definitely intimacy.”
You tilted your head, studying his face. His eyes. His mouth. His lips.
“Humans kiss,” you said slowly, carefully. “When they feel this.”
Clark’s heart slammed into his ribs. “They do,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But only if they both want to.”
You didn’t answer with words.
You leaned in—slow, 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.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Clark smiled, breathless. “Yeah.”
You touched your fingers to your lips, then to his, curious. “That is… very intimate.”
He laughed quietly. “It is.”
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 wasn’t already love—and how badly it was going to hurt when the truth finally came out.
━━━━━━━
“Date.” Clark tells you, as he secures his work tie “That’s your word for the day.”
“Clark, I learned what a date is. It's the day, the month, and the—”
“No, no, that is only one of the meanings. There is another.”
“What is the other?”
“That is for you to figure out today while I’m 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.”
“Okay but what is—”
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 can’t 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 can’t get enough.
“I’ll see you tonight,” 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.
“A date,” 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 this—this is what Clark meant.
A date.
You spend the rest of the day preparing for the date. You watch videos on everything ‘first date’ related.
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, you’re 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.
“Is this acceptable for a… date?”
He swallows. Hard. “Yeah,” he manages. “It’s… more than acceptable. You look beautiful.”
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, you’re both breathing a little harder.
“That was a good start to the date,” you say, a little breathless.
Clark laughs, a warm, rich sound that vibrates through you. “A very good start. Ready to go?”
Clark takes you to a small, quiet Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street. It’s nothing like the loud, bright places you’ve seen on his screen. It’s 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.
“How do you know this place?” you whisper as you slide in.
“I saved the owner’s son from a car accident a few years back,” Clark murmurs back, his voice low. “He insists I come by. The food is incredible.”
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 that’s 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.
Clark’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. “Good?”
“Incredible,” you say, and you mean it in every sense—the food, the candlelight, the way he’s 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.
“This is my first ever date,” you tell him shyly, grabbing a dessert spoon.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, “People don’t 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?”
Clark goes stiff at that.
He manages to muster a weak smile, then changes the subject, “I have one more surprise.”
He pays the bill despite the owner’s protests, and then you’re walking back through the cool Metropolis night, his hand finding yours, fingers lacing together.
Clark leads you to a rooftop garden you’ve never seen, high above the city. It’s 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.
“Clark,” you breathe, turning to him, struggling to find the right words. “This is… beautiful.”
“I come here sometimes. To think.” He guides you to the blanket, sitting beside you. “I wanted to share it with you.”
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.
“Clark,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, but holding lots of truth. “I think I am falling in love with you.”
Clark doesn’t answer right away.
For a terrifying second, you think you’ve said something wrong. A word you misused. A feeling you weren’t supposed to name yet.
Then he exhales, slow and shaky, like he’s 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.
“You don’t—you shouldn’t say words like that unless you mean them,” he murmurs.
You nod. “I mean it.”
His forehead presses to yours, giving him the strength to say his next words.
“I’ve been in love with you,” he admits quietly, voice rough, “for a very long time now.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you look so sad?”
Because I’m lying to you, he thinks. Because I’m going to lose you and its all going to be my fault.
But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he kisses you.
It tastes like tiramisu, and love confessions and feels like a desperate, aching hope. It’s deep and slow, a silent apology and a prayer all at once. When he finally pulls back, he doesn't let go.
“Because,” he whispers into the tiny space between you, “loving someone this much is terrifying. Especially because you never, ever want to hurt them.”
You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “You don’t hurt me, Clark. You could never hurt me, you saved me, remember?”
Clark closes his eyes, wincing as a shadow of pain flickers across his face before he masks it with another tender kiss. “Come on,” he says, his voice husky. “Let's go home.”
━━━━━━━
Back at the apartment, the night settles softly around you. Clark hangs up your coat, and before either of you can say anything else, you’re back in each other’s arms on the couch—kissing, touching, breathing each other in like you’re afraid the moment will vanish if you stop.
Eventually, your eyes drift closed as you are cuddled up against his chest, but you’re not asleep. Not tired. Your mind is busy, circling back to the things you read earlier. The words. The meanings.
There’s still one you don’t fully understand.
“Clark?” you murmur.
“Hm?” he whispers, arms tightening around you. “You okay?”
“Yes,” you say. “But there is a word I’m still confused on. From when I was looking up what dates are.”
“Okay. What word?”
You hesitate, then say it carefully. “Sex.”
Clark stiffens immediately. You feel it, every muscle going tense beneath you.
He doesn’t pull away, though. Instead, he takes a slow breath, steadying himself. “Gosh, that’s… umm.”
“Online it said that many people do it after dates,” This was your first date and you didn’t want to leave out any important parts, “Did we do sex?”
“No, sweetheart. We di-didn’t. That’s… that’s something different.”
“But the internet said it’s part of a relationship,” you persist, your voice muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt. “And we are in a relationship now, aren’t we?”
“We are,” he says, the words thick with conviction. “Of course we are. But sex, it’s um…”
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. “Oh. Lira.”
“Lira?” Clark repeats.
“Back on Caelis, it is what describes the act that joins two people who have chosen each other,” you finish softly, and add. “Intimacy. That is what sex is right? Lira.”
“Yeah. That… that sounds about right.”
The two of you are quiet for a long moment after that. You break the silence first.
“Clark?”
“Yes.” He gulps because he already knows what you will say next.
“I um, I want lira.” You clear your throat, “I want to have sex with you.”
He is silent for so long that you wonder if you’ve made another terrible mistake, misapplied another word.
“Sweetheart…” 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.
“You’re saying that because you think it’s what comes next. Because you read it.”
“No,” you insist, reaching for his other hand, holding it tightly. “I’m 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.”
Clark’s breath shudders out of him.
He would be absolutely lying if he said, he didn’t want this with you right now. In fact just the conversation is already working him up, making him feel hotter under your touch.
But this would be crossing a line you couldn't come back from.
If he lets this happen—if he crosses this line—he 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 it’s racing. “I need you to understand something first,” he says quietly. “More than anything.”
You nod, eyes never leaving his.
“I want you,” he admits. “I’ve wanted you. But wanting isn’t enough. I need to know that you understand what you’re choosing. That you’re choosing it because you want it, not because you think you owe me. Not because the internet said it’s what people do.”
“I know,” you say immediately. “On Caelis, Lira is never owed. It is only given.” You squeeze his hand. “I am giving it. I choose you.”
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.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” 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 this—comfort first, always. He kisses you passionately.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes under your eye. “Still want this?”
You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then,” he murmurs, pressing one last gentle kiss to your lips, “Come here.”
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.
“Feel good?” Clark asks at your reaction, bucking up to meet your hips.
You nod quickly. You’ve 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 don’t feel Clark’s 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 doesn’t withdraw. Instead he squeezes tighter, while holding deep eye contact.
“Have you ever been touched here before, sweetheart?”
You stare back into his blue eyes as you give him a weak shake of your head. “No.”
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.
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.
“Can I?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”
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 didn’t 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.
“Clark,” you whined, your hips lifting off the bed of their own accord.
“Shh,” he soothed, placing a firm hand on your hip to still you and push you back down.
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.
“Clark, please,” 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.
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.
“More,” you pleaded, your voice broken. “Please, Clark, I need more.”
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 weren’t 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 couldn’t get enough.
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.
“Gosh, yes Clark,” you whimper, “Much better. Move, please.”
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.
“Clark,” you whispered, reaching for him. “That was good. I’m enjoying this. Having sex with you.”
“Oh hon, we haven’t even really started,” 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.
“Still with me?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He brushed the damp hair from your forehead, his touch infinitely tender.
“Yes,” you breathed. “I just… you’re so…”
“I know,” 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.
“You think you’re ready for it?” He asks you.
“Yes, gosh, yes!”
Clark shakes his head, and scoots back releasing the friction he had on your body. “No, I don't think you are sweetheart.”
“Clark,” you cry out, upset.
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.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Please.” Your bottom lip wobbled, and for a moment, Clark almost gave in. “Stop teasing me.”
But he didn’t.
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.
“There,” he breathed, his own chest heaving as he watched you come utterly undone around his hand. “That’s what you need first. You have to be ready, sweetheart. Really ready. For me.”
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.
“See?” he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive awe. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your desperate moans. “You take me so well. But you’re still so tight.” 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. “Good job, hon. Just like that.”
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 couldn’t 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 gentle—" he started, but you stopped him. No. You wanted this.
“Clark,” you say, “I am Kryptonian, just like you. I can handle it.” You pulled his head down, your lips brushing his ear. “I need it.”
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 up— well they were about to be unleashed into your poor pussy.
He pushed in, burying himself inside you in one long, deep stroke.
“Mmph,” you whined, feeling him all the way to the hilt, his balls rubbing on your clit perfectly.
“Oh... gosh,” he choked out, his hips stuttering. “You... you’re perfect. So tight, so soft. Sweetheart, you’re made for me.”
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.
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.
“More,” you demanded, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking him to you. “Clark, more.”
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 didn’t 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.
“Yes,” he hissed, the sound vicious with relief. “Take it. Take all of me.”
He set a punishing rhythm, his hips pistoning, driving into you with a force that would have shattered a human pelvis.
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 everywhere—gripping 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.
“Gosh sweetheart,” he mumbled, licking a stripe up your throat. “You smell so good. Driving me insane. Makes me want to… want to…”
Clark didn’t 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.
“There she is,” he growled, finding your spot. He hit it again. And again. And again. “Let me feel you. Show me how good I make you feel.”
The command, the filthy praise, the rough pounding—it 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.
Besides, you had the stamina to keep up. Just as quickly as that orgasm came, it went. And you needed another.
“We’re not even close to being finished hon,” 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.
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 bed’s protests grew louder.
You couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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.
“Hold on,” 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.
“Clark!” you shrieked, clinging to him, not expecting that.
“I’ve got you,” 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 Clark’s rough pace didn’t 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.
“Oh Clark,” your eyes roll.
“Yeah,” He moaned, “Gonna fill you up so good, sweetheart. You’re gonna be all mine. You want that?”
You nod rapidly. You would want nothing more honestly.
“Need words, princess.”
“Yes, Clark, please.”
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.
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 couldn’t 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.
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. You’re both slick and spent, but he doesn’t 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. “Stay here.”
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. “M'sorry sweetheart, just taking a quick look.”
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. “Oh yeah, perfect. She's nice and open f'me.”
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.
“Did I hurt you?” His voice is raw with instant regret.
“No, you could never hurt me,” you whisper, your own voice hoarse. You reach up, your fingers finding the raised, slightly heated skin. It feels… different. You didn’t know how to explain.
Clark’s 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.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs into your hair.
“That was a lot,” you say truthfully, now that it was all over.
“Too much,” Clark asks fearfully.
“No, no. I enjoyed it. I’d like to do it again sometime.” you admit shyly.
Clark chuckles at that. “Yeah we can do that again sweetheart. Let’s move to the spare room, okay? This bed is broken, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Now it was your time to chuckle, also looking at the broken wall and torn pillows. You two destroyed his bedroom. “Okay.”
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.
“Clark?”
“Hmm?”
You tilt your head back to see his face in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. “On Caelis, it is customary to say this phrase to someone you love. Sael’ka varin.”
“Sael’ka varin.” Clark repeats, “What does it mean?”
“Well, it translates closest to ‘my soul recognizes yours.’”
Clark goes very still and swallows thickly. He understands the weight of what you’ve 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.
“My soul,” he whispers in Kryptonian, “has been completely yours, long before I ever understood what it meant to give it. You have my whole heart, sweetheart.”
Tears well up in your eyes. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to you. You don’t 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.
That night, you drift into the first true, peaceful sleep you’ve known since arriving on this strange planet.
━━━━━━━
When you wake the next morning, Clark’s 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.
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.
But beneath that, something else feels different. Off. It’s a strong pull, a deep yearning that centers directly on the man in the next room. You’ve always felt drawn to Clark, but this is much more intense. It’s 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.
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. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than ever,” you murmur, reluctant to let go. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, It's only been like twenty minutes,” he teases gently, flipping a pancake.
“It felt longer.” 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. “Everything okay?”
You nod, rising on your toes to kiss him. “Everything is perfect. I just… like being close to you.”
A beautiful, warm smile spreads across his face. “I like it too,” he whispers against your lips before deepening the kiss. “Now go shower. Breakfast will be ready when you’re done.”
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. It’s a deep, vivid reddish-purple.
A flicker of unease passes through you. You’ve gotten small bruises before, from bumping into things in your new, unfamiliar world. They’ve always faded at most within an hour, your Kryptonian healing under Earth’s yellow sun making you remarkably resilient.
This mark, born from Clark’s 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 can’t 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 can’t ignore the mark any longer. It feels warm and persistent. You touch it lightly.
“Clark?”
“Hm?” He looks up from his coffee, his gaze immediately dropping to where your fingers rest.
“This mark… from last night. It hasn’t faded at all. Isn’t that strange? My bruises never last this long.”
All the softness leaves his face, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus. He sets his mug down carefully. “Let me see.”
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. “Oh, did that hurt?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice breathy and face hot, before you added, “It just… felt like last night. A lot.”
His concern doesn’t go away. He studies the mark, his jaw tight.
“It should have faded,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Even a… a passionate mark. Under the yellow sun, our cells regenerate too quickly for something like this to stay.”
“Maybe because it was you?” you offer, trying to lighten the sudden heavy mood. “Maybe my body just wants to keep it.”
He doesn’t smile at your attempt, like you thought he would. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips to the mark, a kiss so soft it’s 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. “I don’t know,” he admits, his thumb stroking the skin just beside the mark. “But I’ll look into it. I promise.” He forces a smile. “Don’t worry, okay? Just… let me know if it starts to feel painful or strange in any other way.”
You nod, the anxiety quelled by his kiss and his promise. For the rest of breakfast, you’re 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.
It’s 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 won’t 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.
You count minutes. You watch the clock. You feel ridiculous, clingy, but you can’t help it. You tell yourself it’s 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, you’re on your feet before the door fully opens. You practically launch yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his neck.
“Woah, hey, honey!” 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. “Missed me that much, huh?”
“Yes,” you breathe into his neck, inhaling him. The restless static in your veins finally stills. “I missed you so much, Clark.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I missed you too. Felt like the longest day.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm. “What’d you do all day?”
You shrug, reluctant to admit you’d done little more than pine for him. “Nothing. The library was closed. Snooped around online. Learned three new words.”
“Oh yeah? Which ones?”
“Aftermath, deception, and kaleidoscope.” You list them off, but your heart isn’t in it.
You’re just happy he’s 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 doesn’t fade. It intensifies. Each morning you wake with a sharp yearning that only eases when you’re 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.
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.
That’s when the idea blooms, desperate and hopeful: He could come with you!
The thought takes root and grows rapidly. He’s from Krypton too. He has his parents there. He could come! You could explore your homeworld together. It’s perfect. It solves everything.
But first, you need to understand what’s happening to you. This obsession and mark that won’t heal… it’s not normal.
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 duties—a disaster in Asia, a sinking ship in the Atlantic. The absences, though never long, feel like small eternities, leaving you agitated and anxious.
He’s worried too; you see it in the lines around his eyes when he thinks you’re not looking, in the way he studies your mark with deepening concern but offers no real answers.
You need answers now though. You don’t think you’ll 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 Krypton’s 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 Fortress’s systems to recognize you as his DNA. Then you shoot up into the sky, flying the same path he took you many times before.
You call out as you enter the main chamber, your voice echoing. “Hello?”
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.
“—he still hasn’t informed her,” one says, its visual sensor focused on the screen.
“Superman’s directive to us was to repair the pod, not manage any emotional fallout,” the other replies.
Your blood runs cold. Were they talking about you? You strain to see what they’re watching. The hologram resolves into a video.
Two gorgeous figures appear, a couple holding a baby. They look younger, dressed in Kryptonian robes. They are standing in a sleek, metallic room.
You’re not sure how, an intuition perhaps, but you know instantly who they are.
Your parents.
And in their arms, you.
“Our dearest child,” your father speaks, his voice heavy. “The 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 year’s time.”
Your mother smiles solemnly, and starts, “My 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.”
Your heart sinks.
“If 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, Sael’ka varin. We love you.”
The screen freezes, then dissolves.
You don’t even realize you started crying. Where did that message come from? Why is it playing in Clark’s fortress? Your mind spins, unable to process anything.
‘If you are watching this means that is so.’
Did that mean Krypton was actually destroyed? No, that couldn’t 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 would’ve told you long ago. Wouldn’t he?
Your mark burns suddenly at the thought of Clark, causing you to reach up and rub it.
The robots speak up again, “The pod is fully repaired and recalibrated. All systems are optimal. She could depart within the hour.”
“And yet, Superman still delays. He requests ‘more time.’ Superman has not told the female that Krypton is destroyed. He has not told her there is no home to return to.”
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.
They’re all gone.
You feel sick, bile threatening to rise up your throat. Yet that wasn’t 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.
“Intruder— Guest identified as Clark’s female kryptonian,” one states, gliding forward. “We were not aware of your arrival.”
You step out from behind the pillar, your legs trembling. “What,” you say, your voice a hollow rasp. “What did you say? Just now?”
The robots exchange a look, a silent communication. “We are not authorized to disclose you with any information that is not regarding your pod,” it says carefully.
“Tell me everything.” Your eyes glowed red with heat vision, threatening to burn this entire place down. “Now.”
They seem to get the hint.
In cold, precise detail, they confirm it. They confirm everything. Krypton’s explosion. Your parent’s recording plug that Clark took from your pod. All the lies Clark told you since that day.
Clark.
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 “home.”
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.
He is the storm.
Numb, you hear yourself ask one question. “The mark on my collarbone. The one from him. Do you know why it hasn’t healed?”
The robots scan you. A beam of light passes over the mark. Their optic sensors dim slightly.
“The 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.”
A claim. A permanent brand on your skin.
The words echo in the hollowed-out cavern of your mind. He didn’t just lie. Clark claimed you. He anchored you to him and to this Earth with a bond you didn’t 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 you’d felt now makes horrific, perfect sense.
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.
You wait for him to come back. You will confront him and he will listen and then—then 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.
“Hey, sweetheart, I got—”
He stops when he sees your face. The smile dies. Concern etches across his features.
“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“You knew.”
Clark’s 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.
“Knew what?”
“Do not play dumb.”
“Sweetheart I—”
“You knew this whole time that Krypton does not exist,” You say, your voice shaking. “That it’s gone. That my parents are dead.”
He pales, the bag of groceries slipping from his grasp, fruit rolling across the floor. “Who told you that?” he steps forward.
“I heard your robots,” you spit out. “At 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 haven’t told me.” You take a step closer to him, the movement jerky.
“You lied. This whole time, you lied to me. Every time you say ‘you’ll help’ or ‘soon’ … it was all a lie!”
“I 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!”
Your hands shake violently. Tears spill, hot and uncontrollable.
“My pain?” you scream,. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle! You don’t get to hide my own history from me! My family! My planet! You let me dream of a home that’s been dust for decades! You let me talk about visiting my parents, even your parents, while you knew they were ashes!”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“You did hurt me. This whole time you’ve been hurting me.”
Tears are streaming down your face now. Short shallow gasps escape you as you hyperventilate.
“A—and then you touch me, and kiss me, and I—I give you lira. You are a monster, Clark. I hate you.”
He reaches for you. “Please, just let me explain—“
You slap his hand away, the contact feeling like a burn. “And this!” you shout, yanking the collar of your shirt down to expose the vivid mark.
“You 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 ‘planning’ to send me back to a dead planet?”
The look on his face is your answer.
He didn’t 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.
“I… I didn’t… I’ve never…” Clark stammers, utterly shattered.
“I don’t care!” you shout. “I 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!”
You push past him, heading for the door.
“Sweetheart, wait! Where are you going? Please, don’t go!” He’s begging now, tears in his own eyes.
“Away from you,” you say, the words final and cold. You wrench the door open.
“I love you!” he cries out, the words a desperate, last attempt to try and explain himself.
You pause on the threshold, your back to him.
“Then why? Why did you do this to me? Why didn’t you treat me like someone you loved,” you ask softly, drained from yelling. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“I—I don’t know. I tried. I really did, you have to believe me. It was just so hard once we—”
“Clark.”
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.
“As much as you may like to treat me like one, I am not a child who needs to be protected from the truth.”
And with that final statement. You walk out, slamming the door behind you. The click of the latch is the loudest sound you’ve ever heard.
You don’t 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 aren’t focusing that well, but because he isn’t being quiet. Clark tries and fails to hold off choked-up sobs that carry through the door.
You should leave.
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.
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.
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.
You curl into a ball on the scratchy motel blanket, sobbing until you’re empty. You think of your parents’ faces, their love, their sacrifice. You think of Clark’s face, his lies.
You can't help but cry.
You cry for Caelis, the only planet you’ve 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.
But worse than the pain is the need. The restless, anxious, clawing need that only he can soothe. It’s an awful withdrawal, agonizing and relentless.
You don’t sleep. You don’t 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.
As the third night approaches, you can’t bear it anymore. The motel room walls are closing in. The silence is screaming. The mark is burning.
There’s only one thing you can do.
You find yourself standing outside the familiar apartment door again. It’s late. You raise a trembling hand, then drop it again. You don’t knock. You just stand there, defeated, your forehead resting against the cool wood.
You don’t know how long you’re there before the door opens inward.
You step back to take in Clark’s appearance, which is albeit not much better than yours.
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 hasn’t slept either. He’s been waiting. Hoping.
Clark looks at you, his breath catching. He opens his mouth, unable to muster anything but a pathetic, “Hi.”
"Can I come in?"
━━━━━━━
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
