He was supposed to be recovering. But it was just the perfect kind of day. The city was quiet for a change, no horns blaring, nobody yelling. Just peace and quiet and the steady pattern of rainfall.
Your favorite kind of day.
You had been gone all day, shopping with your girlfriends. And you would be miserable when you come home. But Bucky knows just how to cheer you up.
He opens the window all the way, listening to the rain fall, not caring if the floor gets wet. It’s just water.
He sets the record player, keeping the volume soft and your favorite song plays. It’s like you’re already home, wrapping your arms around him and everything is perfect.
He sits on the ledge of the windowsill and pulls out a cigarette. He’s not supposed to smoke inside the apartment. You hate when he does that, but he bigger sin, he supposes, is that you hate that he smokes at all.
It’s an old habit, one he’s trying to kick just for you. But today, he allows himself to cheat. Just once.
He watches the people walk by, sheilded by black umbrellas, just round discs rushing by. He inhales the tobacco, enjoying the way it fills his lungs. The cigarette lasts as long as the first song, but it’s enough. An umbrella turns towards the front door of the apartment and he knows you’re home.
Finally.
He shoos all the left over smoke out the window and resets the record player. He can hear you on the stairs, your heels tapping on the hardwood.
His heart is light. He knows he’s seconds away from seeing you, still so eager after all this time. But to let you know just how much he craves your company, that would definitely scare you. It scares him.
So instead he turns back to the window, watching the rain. He hears the door open behind him and his heart hammers away in his chest.
“Hey, Bucky.” You say, your voice soft, tired.
“Hey, gorgeous.” He turns around to smile at you. He thinks he’s prepared.
He’s not.
Your hair has curled around your ears from the wet air, a few streaks of rain have left trails down your cheeks, your skin has a rosy glow to it.
You take his breath away.
“What?” You ask, pausing as you put your bags down.
“You’re beautiful.” He says.
“Oh, stop. I’m a mess. It’s pouring cats and dogs outside.” You wave him off and turn to the bedroom. “You have the window open! Bucky!” You turn to look at him and he knows he’s been caught. “You’ve been smoking inside, haven’t you?”
He grins sheepishly, moving towards you. “I like the sound of the rain. Dance with me, doll.” He captures your hand, so cold in his nice warm ones and he pulls you close against him.”
“Bucky-“
“Please? I’ve missed you.”
You sigh, but hold onto his hand for balance as you pull your heels off. “I do love this song.” You acquiesce, letting him pull you back into the safety of his arms.
Summary: What was supposed to be your bachelorette trip becomes a girls getaway after your fiancé’s betrayal leaves you single, heartbroken, and unsure how to move forward. But when the trip is non-refundable and your friends refuse to let him ruin one more thing, you find yourself along the coast, trying to laugh through the ache. Then you meet Bucky Barnes: quiet, careful, unfairly handsome, and somehow exactly where you need him to be.
Warnings/Tags: Cheating Ex-Fiancé, Cancelled Wedding, Heartbreak, Post-Breakup Grief, Self-Doubt After Betrayal, Alcohol/Hangover References, Anxiety Around New Romance, Protective Friends (Original Characters), Flirting, Romantic Tension, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful
Word count: 10.9k
Music:
I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift
Feather - Sabrina Carpenter
Ocean Eyes - Billie Eilish
Begin Again - Taylor Swift
Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Notes: hi hello!! This is going to be part one of a three part series!! I will link each part together once they’re all posted, I’ve been working on this for a while after being inspired by a TikTok a few months ago and well… I’ve really flushed it out for sure 😅 I hope you all love this as much as I do!
The hotel suite was beautiful in the kind of way that felt almost offensive.
All white linen and gauzy curtains that shifted with the ocean breeze, polished tile cool under bare feet, a wide balcony overlooking water so blue it barely looked real. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter that none of them had opened. Matching gift bags still sat in a neat row by the door where they’d dropped them on the first day, each one stuffed with things that had been chosen months ago, back when this trip had meant something else. Back when the cheap satin sashes and heart-shaped sunglasses and ridiculous little ring-shaped drink stirrers had been funny instead of cruel.
Someone (Mia, probably) had turned the sash around so the glittering BRIDE TO BE faced the wall.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.
There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.
Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.
You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.
You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”
That had been the end of it.
No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.
The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.
So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.
“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”
So here you were.
A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.
There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
“Liar.”
You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.
“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”
From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”
“It won’t.”
“It already kind of is.”
“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”
You barked out a real laugh at that.
“There she is,” Lena said softly.
You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”
“Of course you’re still upset.”
“It’s been weeks.”
“And?”
“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”
Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”
That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.
Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.
Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”
Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”
“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”
From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”
“And I’m starving,” Tori added.
“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”
Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”
You stared at it for a second, then took it.
The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.
Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.
Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.
By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.
By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.
“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”
“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.
Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”
You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”
“Renewed annually,” Mia said.
“With references,” Jess added.
“And an essay portion,” Tori said.
You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”
The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.
Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.
It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.
You set your glass down too carefully.
Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”
Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”
You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.
The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.
You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.
This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.
You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.
“Not your night either, huh?”
The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.
You turned.
He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.
Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.
Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.
But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.
Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.
His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”
“Escaping?”
A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”
He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”
You stared at him.
Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.
“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”
“Kind of?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”
There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.
You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.
He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”
You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”
His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.
It should not have affected you as much as it did.
“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”
You should have lied.
You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.
Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”
His expression changed instantly.
Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.
“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.
“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”
For one beat, he said nothing.
Then: “He’s an idiot.”
The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Don’t need to.”
That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.
You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”
“Smart women.”
“They are.”
He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”
You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”
There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.
That, more than anything, disarmed you.
“You always this honest?” you asked.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”
“That your plan?”
“Wasn’t, originally.”
“And now?”
His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”
Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.
You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”
“Not a very polished one.”
“No.”
“I can do worse, if it helps.”
You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.
Lord. It changed him completely.
The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.
Dangerous thought.
You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”
He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”
“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”
“Seems that way.”
“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”
He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.
Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.
The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.
And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”
“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”
“Fair point.”
The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.
You should probably go back inside.
That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.
Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”
Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”
“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”
His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”
“Very observant.”
“Could ask you to dance.”
You blinked.
Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.
Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.
“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”
There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.
It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.
You looked at him for a long second.
Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.
“Would you let me have this dance?”
Oh.
That was unfair too.
You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.
And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.
But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.
He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.
Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.
“Still okay?” he asked quietly.
You looked up.
He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.
The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.
The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.
You hadn’t expected that either.
“You’re good at this,” you murmured.
“Dancing?”
“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”
Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.
“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”
Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.
“Bucky.”
“Too much?”
You should’ve said yes.
Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.
His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.
At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.
You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.
“What?”
“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”
He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”
“They mean well.”
“I know.”
“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”
“That so?”
“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”
“Got good answers for most of that.”
“Most?”
He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.
The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.
You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.
Your breath slowed.
His did too.
He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.
Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”
Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I hated it.”
That landed.
He went very still, his eyes on yours.
From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.
But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.
It made your chest ache in a whole new way.
“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”
“Were you?”
“Tryin’ to be.”
“And now?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.
Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.
Hope, maybe.
Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.
You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”
His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”
The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.
Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.
It didn’t.
“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.
“I probably should.”
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.
The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.
You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”
One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”
The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.
You smiled. “Yes.”
By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.
Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”
Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”
Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”
“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”
You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.
Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you demanded, already defensive.
“You like him.”
“Shut up.”
“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.
“It was one dance.”
“One very charged dance,” Tori said.
Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”
The question quieted everything.
You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.
And then you looked back up at your friends.
For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.
“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”
—————————
The first thing you became aware of was the light.
Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.
Aggressive light.
Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.
You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.
Something crinkled beneath your cheek.
You opened one eye.
A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.
Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.
This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.
You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.
Then the memories began filtering in.
Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.
Bucky.
Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.
Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.
Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.
You squinted at the screen.
9:47 a.m.
Three notifications from your group chat.
One missed photo drop from Mia.
One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.
No text from Bucky.
Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.
It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.
Still.
Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.
Nothing.
You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.
From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at her.
Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.
“You look incredible,” you croaked.
“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”
Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.
“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.
“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.
Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”
The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.
“Alive?” she asked.
“No,” Jess said.
“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.
You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”
“There are no updates.”
That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.
Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.
Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”
You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”
Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”
“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”
You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”
“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”
“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.
“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.
“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.
You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”
“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”
You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”
“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.
You hated that you cared.
That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.
It was caring at all.
After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.
And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.
Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.
“Hey,” she said, quieter now.
You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.”
“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”
Jess was quiet for once.
Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.
Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”
That hit too close.
You looked away.
Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”
The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.
“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.
It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.
Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”
You gave her a look.
“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”
“I missed so much.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”
Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”
“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.
“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”
“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.
“Exactly.”
You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”
“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”
“Balance,” Jess said.
“Healthy,” Tori agreed.
A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.
“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.
“No,” Jess yelled.
The door opened anyway.
Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.
She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.
“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.
Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.
Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”
Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”
You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”
You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”
“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”
Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”
“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”
Your phone lit up.
All five heads turned toward it.
You froze.
The screen showed only a weather alert.
Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”
You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”
Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.
The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.
You tried not to check your phone.
You failed six times.
No text.
By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.
Almost.
The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.
You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.
Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”
“I need eggs,” Tori said.
“I need silence,” Jess muttered.
“You need toast,” Lena told her.
“I need justice.”
You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.
Once.
A real buzz this time.
Not a weather alert.
Not the group chat.
A single notification slid across the screen.
Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.
Your entire body went still.
Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.
Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.
“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”
You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.
Lena leaned in. “Read it.”
“No.”
Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”
“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”
“Try me.”
You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.
There was a collective pause.
Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”
Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”
Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”
“I’m analyzing the enemy.”
You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.
Bucky had texted.
Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.
Possibly both.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.
You stared at it.
“Too much?” you asked.
Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”
Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”
“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”
“Anytime.”
You hit send before you could lose your nerve.
The reply came faster than expected.
Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.
Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.
You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.
You: That’s a bold confession before noon.
Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.
You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.
Lena’s face softened when you showed them.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”
“Kind of?” Tori demanded.
“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.
“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”
You huffed a laugh and typed back.
You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.
Bucky: Little of both, probably.
You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.
Bucky: Worked last night.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.
“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.
“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.
Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”
Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”
The waiter smiled politely and fled.
You looked back at your phone.
You: Did it?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?
Your cheeks went warm.
Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”
Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”
Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”
“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.
You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.
You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.
Bucky: I was getting there.
You: Were you?
Bucky: Eventually.
You: Very smooth.
Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.
Oh. There went your pulse again.
You stared at the words for too long. Interested.
Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.
Lena studied your face. “Good text?”
You handed her the phone without speaking.
She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.
Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”
Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Jess.”
She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”
Tori beamed. “Progress!”
You were about to reply when another message came through.
Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.
The table went quiet.
For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.
Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.
Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.
You swallowed and looked down at your lap.
Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.
“You okay?” she murmured.
You nodded.
Then you typed carefully.
You: I liked talking to you too.
You hesitated, then added:
You: And dancing with you.
His reply came a moment later.
Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.
Then another:
Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.
You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.
Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.
Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.
You slowly lowered the phone.
Four faces stared back at you.
“What?” Mia asked.
“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”
There was an immediate eruption.
“Us?” Tori squealed.
“All of us?” Lena asked.
Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”
You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.
Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”
Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”
“Strategic,” Jess said.
“Respectful,” Lena countered.
“Could be both.”
Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”
You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”
All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.
“Excuse me?” Tori said.
“I mean, we just met them.”
“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”
You typed.
You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?
Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.
You showed them.
Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”
Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”
“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.
“Statistically.”
“Less reassuring.”
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”
Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”
The question quieted the table again.
You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.
Did you want to go?
Yes.
That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.
You wanted to hear his laugh again.
You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.
You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.
And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.
“I don’t know,” you said softly.
Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”
You exhaled, staring at the table.
Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”
Tori’s whole face melted.
Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”
Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”
Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”
Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”
Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”
You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.
“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.
They all drank to that.
You typed back before you could overthink it.
You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.
His reply came almost immediately.
Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.
Your chest squeezed again.
A second message followed.
Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.
You smiled down at your phone.
You: Should I be worried?
Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.
You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.
Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.
You: Mostly?
Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.
You read the last two words three times.
Pretty women.
Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”
“No.”
“Read it.”
“No.”
Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”
You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”
“Not on this trip,” Tori said.
You typed:
You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
Bucky: Woman. Singular.
Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.
The girls exploded.
“What?” Lena demanded.
“What did he say?”
“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”
“That’s illegal.”
You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said.
Tori actually squeaked.
Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”
Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”
“No, you don’t,” Tori said.
“I hate that one might be doing well.”
Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.
There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.
“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”
“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.
“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”
“I am sitting right here,” you said.
“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.
Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”
You grimaced. “Agreed.”
“Black?” Mia suggested.
“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”
“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”
“Too soon?” Tori asked.
You considered it.
Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”
Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.
It felt good.
That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.
After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.
Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.
Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.
You laughed out loud in the dressing area.
Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”
You nodded, reading the text aloud.
Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”
You typed:
You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.
Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.
You: She is. Fear her.
Bucky: Noted.
Then, after a beat:
Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.
You snorted.
You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.
Bucky: Bullied?
You: Affectionately.
Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.
Your smile went soft before you could stop it.
You: You think you could?
Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.
You: Against my friends?
Bucky: Absolutely not.
That one you showed the group.
Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”
“He knows his limits,” Lena said.
“Green flag?” Tori asked.
“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.
In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.
You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.
But the deep blue one made you pause.
It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.
It just felt like you.
When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.
Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”
Lena’s expression softened. “No.”
Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”
Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”
Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”
You looked back at the mirror.
For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.
Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.
Pretty.
Interested.
Maybe even beginning again.
You bought the dress.
The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.
You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.
He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.
At 2:13 p.m.:
Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.
You: Please tell me you said no.
Bucky: I said hell no.
You: Strong leadership.
Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.
You: Did you?
Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.
At 3:02 p.m.:
You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?
Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.
You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.
Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.
Then, a moment later:
Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.
You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.
You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.
The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.
You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.
A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.
But Bucky had said it like he remembered.
Like he had thought about you after you left.
You typed back slowly.
You: Thank you.
That felt too small, so you added:
You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.
His response took thirty seconds.
Bucky: That was smooth.
You: I’m capable of growth.
Bucky: Proud of you.
The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.
Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s disgusting.”
“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”
Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”
Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.
Careful, but happy for you.
By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.
Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.
Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”
Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”
“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.
“Exactly. Respect your elders.”
The room became chaos again.
Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters.
Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.
You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.
“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.
You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t feel calm.”
“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
You looked down at your hands.
That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.
Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.
Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.
Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.
Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It’ll look spontaneous.”
You laughed, then your phone buzzed.
Lena’s eyebrows rose.
You picked it up.
Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?
Your smile came before you could stop it.
You: You can tell me.
Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.
A second message came right after.
Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.
Your pulse warmed.
You: That was almost smooth again.
Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.
You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.
Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.
You laughed.
You: Please don’t.
Bucky: I won’t.
The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.
You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
You did.
In. Out.
The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.
She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.
Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.
But not empty.
Not defeated.
By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.
“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.
“Phone charger.”
“Mini sunscreen.”
“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.
“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”
“That is not science.”
“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.
Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”
Lena paused.
Everyone stared at her.
She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.
“Leadership,” Tori whispered.
You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.
It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.
You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.
Not because she was proving a point.
Not because she was running from pain.
Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.
That was all.
That could be enough for tonight.
Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”
“Nervous.”
“Good nervous or bad nervous?”
You thought about it.
“Both.”
“That’s allowed.”
Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”
“Noted.”
Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”
Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.
But it was yours.
The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.
All of it.
Yours.
Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.
Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.
You bit your lip against a smile.
You: We’re leaving now.
His reply came almost instantly.
Bucky: Good.
Then, after a few seconds:
Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.
You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.
“Well?” Jess asked.
You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”
Tori made an ungodly noise.
Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”
The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.
The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.
The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.
Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.
But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.
You crested the wooden path toward the beach.
A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.
And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.
pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg
word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)
authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)
song inspo: river - zinadelphia
I’m somewhere in between
The things that I’ve lost
And the things I’ll gain from losing
Either way I will leave something behind
But I’m dying to do something different this time
June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania
Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks.
The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.
Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours.
It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums.
Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning.
The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door.
He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.
You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then.
Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States.
You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.
Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart.
In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.
You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show.
Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?
“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it.
Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.
“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that.
You were expecting the American accent even less.
He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win.
You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho.
You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome.
“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him.
He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.
He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”
He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.
You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile.
He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.
He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.
You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.”
“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile.
“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.
You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.
He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know.
In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.
His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”
He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats.
He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.
You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man.
He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.
Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”
Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time.
“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him.
You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.
Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.
You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him.
You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.
That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?
It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night.
You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.
“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.
You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands.
You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.
He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.
“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.
You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.
“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious.
Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands.
“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?”
His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion.
“…Why?”
“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”
He sighed at you thanking him again.
“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.”
Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.
You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”
His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”
You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.
“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.
He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”
You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress.
“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”
He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.”
You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”
He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster.
Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man.
“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”
His response was a small nod.
You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.
“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.
“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly.
You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.
Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days.
He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.
“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.
You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him.
“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”
Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face.
“I’m glad.”
He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.
Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.
Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.
“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.
You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”
He grunted in response, displeased.
“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”
“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”
You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again.
“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.
He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”
That didn’t surprise you at all.
You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”
“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.”
You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward.
“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”
He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”
“Friday morning.”
“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”
Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment.
Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe.
“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’.
“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him.
That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory.
He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements.
He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment.
You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you.
You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.
“What?” Bucky asked curiously.
“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork.
“Do you not get those often?”
You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth.
“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.
He huffed out a small laugh.
“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response.
“You remind me of a cat.”
“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.
“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”
He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out.
“What kind of cat would I be?”
“A black cat, for sure.”
You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.
“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly.
“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!”
You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.
Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye.
You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face.
He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.
“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.
You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.
“They’re perfect.”
You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him.
You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”
You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red.
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”
“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.”
“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”
“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly.
You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky.
“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”
“Whatever you want.”
An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.
“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”
He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.
“I’m…gonna miss you.”
You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.
You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.
“I’m going to miss you, too.”
You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.
Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.
“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen.
“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.
You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously.
Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie.
“You really like plums.”
“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.
That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand.
“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes.
“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin.
His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”
You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.
“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”
His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion.
You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.
You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.
“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.
“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces.
You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart.
He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.
“…I can’t believe you’re real.”
You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning.
You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.
“Can I kiss you?”
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths.
“You okay?” You asked softly.
His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”
He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach.
You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw.
“Let me help you feel good.”
He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind.
“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.
He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own.
“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.
You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.
He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own.
“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already.
You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face.
“Eager, are we?”
You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses.
“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.
“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.
You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.
He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity.
He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.
“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.
With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.
He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.
“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.
“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.
Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.
He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For making me feel human.”
You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them.
You were right
- Bucky
A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.
Oh, shit.
Present day - Brooklyn, New York
The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back.
“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!”
“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”
She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep.
“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.
You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.
“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.
She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own.
“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”
She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.
“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”
“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.”
The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.
You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.
He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even.
You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips.
Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.
“Mama?”
You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.
You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.
“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.
You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”
She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.
“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”
You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”
Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie?
You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank.
It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.
Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.
“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.
You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.
“You said a swear word!”
You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.
“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.
“Not a chance, peanut.”
After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other.
Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.
But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth.
Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.
Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.
When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.
Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button.
And there he was.
Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.
A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.
You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.
“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…”
You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.”
“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”
“Mom, I’m busy—“
“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple.
There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming.
“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?”
“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.
Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father.
You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone.
“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do.
Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.
You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.
In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.
Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts.
You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years.
You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you.
“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.
You blinked.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter.
“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.
“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure.
Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.
“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year.
Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.
“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”
Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms.
She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell.
Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.
Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!”
You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.
Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.
“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him.
“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second.
You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?
Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.
“…Is she—“
His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.
“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.
Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside.
Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”
You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“
“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”
“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”
She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.
The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.
“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.
Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.
Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.
You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.
You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.
“We need to talk.”
“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”
“I have my ways.”
He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.
“Look, I agree we need to talk—“
“Why did you run off?”
And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.
You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest.
“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.
“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”
The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face.
“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“
And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.
“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs.
Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore.
He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor.
He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man.
“Hi, I’m Bucky.”
You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off.
“Hi, I’m Jamie!”
The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him.
“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”
She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.
“Are you coming to my soccer game?”
That shocked both of you.
“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.
“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”
The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core.
There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.
Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.
The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring.
Bucky cleared his throat softly.
“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.
“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.”
He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.
He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.
“She looks like my sister.”
That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.
“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”
You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.”
He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.”
You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.
“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.
“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.
“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”
Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.
“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”
He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”
You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle.
“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile.
He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.
“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”
“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.”
You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you.
“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.”
“Good.”
You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.
“Where were you—“
“What does she know—“
You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”
“What does she know…about me?”
Yeah, you were expecting that.
“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”
His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice.
“How do we tell her?”
There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue.
“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?”
The look he shot you was deadly.
You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”
“I want to be there.”
Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.
His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.
“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”
And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.
“What happened to you? After Bucharest?”
He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.
“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”
You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive.
“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.
He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk.
“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”
Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you?
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly.
“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”
He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.
“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”
“Noted.”
“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”
“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.
“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless.
“Whatever you say, doll.”
You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping.
“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.
“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.
“Fine.”
“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”
Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back.
“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it.
“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.
She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”
“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter.
“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.
“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”
Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys.
You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”
Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”
You grinned at him. “Exactly.”
Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint.
You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.
“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“
“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.
“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.
“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.
You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.
“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.
The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.
“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.
Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”
Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.
“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.
“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.
“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?
Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully.
He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”
Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.
He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest.
Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.
“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.
He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”
By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”
“If I don’t have to be away for work.”
She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited.
You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own.
“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins.
You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart.
“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.
Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.
And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.
You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.
Then you watched the realisation hit her.
“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”
And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly.
“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”
Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”
You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours.
The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines.
“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.
Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.
“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”
“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.
You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.
This was not going to be easy on your heart.
A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away.
First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.
You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.
She called your name, looking at you expectantly.
“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.
“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.
You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.
Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”
You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“
But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”
“I’ll text you his details!”
There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.
Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.
“Hey,” you started. “You okay?”
“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.
You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete.
You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.
“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”
“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot.
“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.
“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.
“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.
“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”
Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.
You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”
You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him.
“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low.
You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.
You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?
“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.
“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.
He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.
“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”
Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.
“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it.
“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.”
You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you.
You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.
You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.
There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.
“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.
“Photos of what?”
“When you were pregnant.”
You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.
“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”
He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone.
“I want to see.”
“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”
“I’m not asking for those.”
You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.”
The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.
“Good girl.”
Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction.
And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used.
The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.”
The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it.
“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover.
You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping.
“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.
“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.
He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”
You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.
“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.”
Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.
Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.
“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.
“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.
Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.
“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.
He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”
He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.
Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.
“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”
Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.
A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey.
“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”
He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.
“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?”
Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force.
“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.”
His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.
“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time.
He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.
“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.
Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took.
“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.
“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.
“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.
“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.
“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.
The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He hummed, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.”
His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.
Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper.
“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.”
You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.
He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”
That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about?
You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”
His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.
“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.”
You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar.
“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core.
His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.
“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear.
Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.
“Please,” you whispered desperately.
Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth.
His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.
“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.
You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs.
“Patience, doll.”
And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.
He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.
“So responsive.”
He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.
“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.
He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour.
“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.
He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck.
“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.
He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately.
His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.
“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.
“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease.
His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.
He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”
He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.
You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.
“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in.
His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver.
He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.
He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher.
“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.
He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.
He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.
He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.
“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.
“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.
He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.
“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.
You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.
His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood.
“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.
He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body.
“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?”
“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.
He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.
“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob.
He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.
“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.
He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.
He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.
“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response.
“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?”
You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.
He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume.
“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.
Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.
“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.
“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”
More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.
“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”
Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.
Content: small age gap (reader is a few years older); mention of "accident" in which the reader's husband dies (no gore/details); breastfeeding; sexual content including a lactation kink; aspects of grief; kinda friends to lovers
18+ Minors DNI
Synopsis: After a tragic accident, you are left widowed with a newborn son. Your late husband's brother and your childhood friend, Bucky, is there to help you pick up the pieces and lend a hand around the family ranch. Old flames reignite.
A/N: not proofread, just felt like writing today for some self-care!!
You aren't looking. Well, you are, but not looking looking. Not ogling - definitely not staring at the small hole where his pocket is coming loose from the rest of his Wranglers. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers itch to stitch up the denim. To mend the pocket. To fix something. Anything.
"Sis?" He asks again, clearing his throat.
Your eyes snap to his as your teeth release the plump flesh of your lip. "Sorry, what?"
"Where did my brother keep the new shoes?"
"Oh," you utter, walking across the south side of the barn. Your brother-in-law follows you, boot heels clunking softly on the hay-laden ground. "He kept everything organized," you say, swallowing down a lump in your throat. "But I'm not sure where…" you trail off, remembering that you didn't help him reshoe the horses the last few times because you were pregnant and he didn't want you to chance anything.
Bucky rifles through some milk crates and a few drawers of the repurposed desk your late husband kept in the horse barn for odds and ends. You hear the steel shoes clank against each other as he lifts them from a full drawer. The baby monitor you clipped to your back pocket starts to hiss with static before a soft cry fills the otherwise quiet of the barn.
"Go," Bucky says, nodding his head toward the house. "I'm no farrier, but I can handle this."
You jog across the yard and up the front porch steps. The screen door slams shut behind you, making you jump. You need to fix that damned hinge. Your son's cries intensify at the disturbance, and your chest aches at the sound.
"Hey, hey…" you whisper in soothing tones as you open the door to the nursery. "Mama's here, little guy." You scoop him into your arms, wiping his tears with the back of your hand as you settle into the rocker his dad built for you. "Are you hungry?"
Your son answers by grabbing at your shirt. Once he's latched and calmed down, you lean your head back on the chair and sigh. The nursery window is cracked to let in a breeze, and all you can hear are your son's soft sounds as he feeds and the steady clank of a horse being shoed. It's oddly peaceful, and your shoulders release some tension you didn't realize you've been holding. Your throat immediately gets tight at the realization that you just felt peace when your life these past several months has been anything but. Guilt breeds in your gut, and you replay the accident over again in your mind, closing your eyes.
You startle as Bucky walks into the nursery, rag over one shoulder, hoof nipper in hand. His gaze bounces from you to your breast and then back again. "Sorry," he mutters, swallowing. "Didn't mean to interrupt ya."
You pull down your shirt with a shrug. "It's okay. He's done anyway," you say, rocking the little babe in your arms.
"I was just letting ya know I'm done," he says, eyes shifting to the wood slats of the floor.
You examine the face of the man that looks so much like your husband - the same piercing blue eyes, dark hair, and cleft in his chin. But where your husband was more polished and soft and always talking, Bucky is all unkempt and broad and doesn't say more than is necessary - a man of few, yet impactful words.
"Thanks Buck," you say, offering him a soft smile. "I appreciate all your help since… everything, especially lately now that this one is crawling."
"Anytime, Junebug," he says with a nod.
Your chest clenches at the nickname you haven't heard in decades. It was actually mean, the way the moniker fell into your lap. Bucky was a few years younger than you and his brother, but you guys always spent the summers together running wild around the ranch anyway. One night the boys collected junebugs in a mason jar when you were "camping" in the backyard and opened the jar in the tent, zipping you inside. You still shiver when you think about all those little guys flying around the tent and landing on your suntanned skin. It was Bucky that eventually unzipped you and helped you shake off the creepy crawlies. You thanked him by the creek later that night with your first kiss. It was mostly teeth and a couple of matching blushes, just something kids do when they're bored. You'd sworn him to secrecy, and you never did tell another soul, even when his big brother asked you to junior Prom. And then senior Prom. And then gave you a promise ring a few years before getting down on one knee. You were married to his brother the summer after Bucky graduated high school, and Bucky smiled through a lump in his throat as he watched the two of you kiss at the altar. Maybe if he'd been born first…
"Buck?" You say, trying to get his attention. His eyes had glazed over as he stared at the floor again.
"Sorry," he says, looking back to you. "I'll get outta your hair."
You stand up with your son in your arms. His fingers grip a strand of your hair and pull. You wince. "Why don't you stay? I'll make supper. I was going to bake a peach pie."
His stomach growls as if on command, betraying him, and you sigh out a laugh. "Okay, sure," he agrees with a soft grin. "Let me clean myself up a bit. I can take him while you cook. I'll show him how to fix the broken hinge on the front door. He's old enough to start pulling his weight around here," he jokes.
You smile and look down at your son. "You hear that, Henry? Your Uncle Buck is going to teach you how to be a man. You're nine months old now, big guy."
You listen to Bucky talking to Henry from the kitchen as you put the pie in the oven. It's nice to hear someone's voice other than your own, especially one so warm and familiar. After you set the table for two - another thing you haven't down in months - you lean in the doorway and watch the two of them together. Bucky makes a funny face at Henry, and the baby belly laughs, causing you to laugh in response. Bucky turns to you and smiles.
"It's nice to hear you laugh, Bug," he says before turning to his nephew. "Doesn't your mama have the best laugh?"
The baby beams up at his uncle, and Bucky picks him up and walks to you. The sight of him holding your son sends an unfamiliar jolt to your stomach. As he gets closer, Henry starts to grab at the neckline of your shirt, and Bucky takes the hint, handing him to you. Your hands brush and the jolt turns into a shimmery kind of feeling - like butterflies. Or junebugs.
After dinner, Bucky does the dishes while you give Henry a bath and rock him for bed. He falls asleep quickly, and you're relieved. As every mother knows, you'd do anything for your children and you love them more than you ever knew possible, but damn does it feel good when they finally fall asleep. You close the nursery door and pad into the living room, surprised to see Bucky sprawled across the couch with a baseball game on low volume. His faded t-shirt has ridden up, leaving a strip of skin bare above his belt. Your cheeks heat as he looks up at you, and you meet his gaze.
"Just wanted to make sure you guys were good. I'll get goi-"
"You could stay," you say quickly, cutting him off.
Bucky sits up and runs a hand through his hair. "I could."
"You should stay."
"I should?"
You nod, swallowing down your fear.
"Come here, Junebug," he says, waving you over. Your feet carry you to him before your brain can stop you. His hand traces up your arm slowly before pulling you down onto his lap. "He told me to take care of you if anything ever happened."
"I don't want you to feel obligated-"
"Honey, you've never made me feel obligated to do anything a day in my life. Besides…" he trails off.
"Besides what?" You ask, leaning into him.
"You were mine first," he says definitively, looking into your eyes.
"I feel awful for the way I feel right now," you whisper. "I miss him, Bucky. I loved him."
"No one would ever doubt that," he says, smoothing a hand over your hair. "He was my big brother. I miss him too. It was a freak accident. I think he'd forgive you for your feelings right now."
"You don't even know what what my feelings are right now," you say, laying your head on his shoulder.
"I'm not an idiot, Junebug."
Your eyes flash to his, and he looks from yours to your lips and back again.
"I'm not an idiot," he repeats in a whisper, leaning into you. "Say the word, and I'll stop."
"Don't stop," you whisper back, nose brushing against his, sending another parade of junebugs fluttering in your tummy.
His facial hair brushes against your upper lip, and your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. It's been too long since you've been kissed… held… touched. And before you can recover, his lips are on yours and you feel guilt creeping back in at how good it feels to kiss him. The windowpane behind his head makes a soft sound, and you open your eyes to see that a junebug has landed on the glass. It crawls up the pane for a second before flying away.
"I loved him, too," Bucky says as he pulls away, running his knuckles across your cheek. "But I also love you. I've loved you since we were kids. Let me take care of you. Both of you."
You don't reply with words, but by letting him maneuver your body so that you're straddling his lap. Your arms come up around his neck, and you tug on the hair at the nape of his neck where he could use a trim. His hands run down your back and rest on your hips. Your entire body aches with want, the skin hot under your shirt where his hands are touching you. You put your hands over his and move them under the fabric so his calloused fingers are trailing up your stomach to your chest. His lips find the hollow of your throat, and he kisses you delicately. A moan escapes your lips, and your nipples harden in response. Your entire body is alight, not just because you haven't been touched like this in months, but because it's Bucky. Your Bucky. If anyone can take care of you, it's him.
"Touch me," you beg, moving his hands under your bra.
He groans as his hands find the soft, full, tight flesh of your breasts. Each hand encompasses one, but he doesn't squeeze, like he knows they are sensitive. "Can I?" He asks, starting to move your shirt to take it off completely. You nod, and unhook your bra, wanting to be bare before him. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he takes in the sight of you.
"You're perfect," he mutters before kissing your neck again. "Absolutely perfect."
He trails his mouth down your neck as his own arousal grows more prominent in his jeans. You can't help but grind your hips into the stiff denim as you run your fingers through his hair. His tongue and teeth and the glorious heat of his delicious mouth find a nipple and he bites it gently before sucking. You hiss at the feeling - familiar, yet foreign all at once. He massages the other between a thumb and pointer finger, and you feel the air grow colder around your bare breasts where it's now wet. You pull back, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, I-"
He shakes his head and pulls you into him. "Don't be."
He pushes your breasts together and bends down slightly to press his face into your chest.
"Oh," you sigh as he takes the other nipple into his mouth and sucks before pulling away and licking at his lower lip.
"It's so sweet," he murmurs before kissing your lips. "But I bet I know what's sweeter."
"Ohhh," you say, biting your lip.
Bucky moves you so you're lying down on the couch and starts kissing down your body, but as he settles back on his haunches, he knocks a book from the coffee table with a loud thump. You wince and hold up a finger, waiting for the cry. It comes a few seconds later, and you sigh, defeated.
"It's okay, honey. I got him," Bucky says, smoothing down your hair. "Why don't you go get ready for bed?"
"I'm so sorry," you respond, looking up at him as he stands up and straightens his shirt.
"I'm not," he replies. "I'm not going anywhere, Junebug. I'll be your first and your last."
The End
Do you like Bucky Barnes? Check out more stories here!
summary: Your sweet neighbour harbours a crush on you and painfully watches you stay in a toxic relationship, he wishes he could be yours. He would treat you so well.
warnings: angst, hurt (not by bucky), comfort, toxic relationship, reader's favourite flowers are tulips, a horrible toxic man who puts you down, some suggestive content so mdni 18+, happy ending don't worry :)
word count: 4.9k
a/n: this is a self indulgent fic for me :) (also my first angst fic) based off my last relationship, pretty accurate in terms of actions and dialogues (ofc i changed the name hehe). Slightly rushed at the end.. sorry huhu, i hope you all enjoy this and relate if you had once been in a toxic relationship. You all deserve the best, and this metal armed man is here waiting for you. Let me know if there are any errors!
bonus drabble here
From the moment you stepped into Bucky’s life as his new neighbour across the hallway of the apartment building he knew deep down, even if he didn’t want to admit it, that he would fall for you. It came naturally, you cracked through his wall without even meaning to and Bucky allowed it because it was you.
Those feelings bloomed quietly, Bucky didn’t know how to express them out loud so he tried through actions, walking with you to the grocery store with the excuse of needing to buy another can of tuna. He’s done this so many times to the point that the cans filled up his cabinets, and of course he would carry all your grocery bags with ease while the two of you chatted on the way home.
Bucky had easily become one of your close friends within a short amount of time, you appreciated him just as much as he appreciated you– well at least that was what you thought.
You would decide to try out a new hobby, or maybe a fun activity, and Bucky always agreed to tag along whenever you invited him just because he wanted to be near you.
Flower arranging class? Pottery class? Done! You both walked home with two uneven lopsided mugs, Bucky was disappointed that he didn’t do that good of a job, however you told him it was unique and one of a kind. Bucky ended up using that wonky mug every morning for his coffee, it was his favourite drinkware.
Moments where the two of you spend time together were ones Bucky cherished deeply, replaying the conversations in his head when he’s alone. Thinking how he could’ve replied with something better, cooler, then he’d recall how sometimes he'd catch you checking your phone.
There was no sound of your notifications going off, but he’d catch sight of how your eyes would dim just a little, and how it seems like the smile feels tighter when you’d finally look back up. Like you were waiting for something or someone specific to pop up on your phone screen. If only Bucky had the courage to ask, he doesn’t want to push and seem nosy, what if that’ll chase you away? So he’d stay silent, observing as the conversation continued on like he didn’t notice a thing.
Everything clicked the moment he heard you and an unfamiliar voice arguing behind closed doors, from his living room he could hear the yelling clearly despite the walls between you, maybe due to his augmented hearting. The words being thrown around basically proved one of his fears to be true, you were taken.
“I just want you to understand my feelings, why is that so hard? I’m sad because of your actions–”
Then Bucky hears the voice of a man he did not recognise cut you off, “You’re always sad! Everyday all you do is cry, it’s really annoying.”
A few more insults were tossed around before the man exhaled a frustrated sigh, opening the door and slamming it shut, heavy footsteps stomping down the stairs until they faded. Bucky could pick up the soft sobs that belonged to you, what should he do? Would he be intruding if he suddenly went over and knocked?– no. You were hurting, no time to spiral and overthink, you were more important.
He quickly puts on the fluffy slippers that you had gifted him one day and went over to you, standing in front of your door awkwardly as a few knocks could be heard.
Before hesitation had time to cross his mind, the door swung open revealing you standing there with puffy eyes. You were a bit surprised to find Bucky, honestly a small part of you had hoped it would’ve been Noah crawling back. But of course it isn’t, Why do you keep having such high hopes,the man standing before you was instead your sweet worried looking neighbour. Oddly enough it was a nice change of scenery, and Bucky was relieved to see you fine– well physically at least.
“Are you okay?– I mean you don’t seem okay.. Can I come in? Do you need anything?”
You couldn’t help but let out a weak chuckle at hearing Bucky’s questions and soft ramble. It was such a nice change of pace for someone to be worried over you, at first you hesitated, but it was Bucky, so you stepped aside and let him in before closing the door.
For a few moments the awkward silence settled while the two of you sat on the couch, then you broke it with a soft apology. “I’m sorry that you had to hear the whole thing, I hope I didn’t bother you too much–” in which he was quick to reassure you, “Nono! I came here because I was worried about you.. it didn’t sound good and I heard you uh cry. I’m not here to complain about the noise... I swear.”
You sighed softly, feeling both relieved and slightly embarrassed that Bucky had indeed heard everything. Swallowing the lump in your throat,you forced the words out of your mouth. “I’m..okay, this happens a lot. That was just a normal argument with uh Noah, it was my fault anyways for being emotional.” fiddling with your fingers to keep them busy, your stomach was swirling with everything that was happening.
One of the things Bucky wasn’t great at was words, talking and being vulnerable like this, so all he could do right now was pat your back awkwardly and lend an ear if you wanted to continue talking.
After a few gentle pats all the bottled up emotions just spilled out , you’ve never explained your relationship to anyone before so everything came out in one big mess. The things that made your heart feel heavy were now being poured out in rambles and broken sobs, your vision was blurry as a stream of hot tears just kept coming down your face.
How you were called ‘a sad person’ even though you couldn’t help but cry over his actions when they hurt you, how you’ve tried everything to work on yourself to be better for him but apparently it never seemed to be enough for him, how painful your chest has been feeling lately. It hurt to confess everything to Bucky, you felt pathetic and you didn’t even know why.
Bucky wondered if he even had the right to tell you what to do regarding the relationship you have with your boyfriend when all he really wanted to do was express how unhealthy and toxic the situation seemed, perhaps even have a chat with Noah on how he was treating you. However in the moment it seems like what you needed was comfort more than anything, so he held his tongue. “Would you like a hug? Or some space.. I can do whichever you need me to, anything you need.” The gentle tone he used was barely above a whisper, like he was scared any louder would scare you. The small nod you gave was all he needed, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around you, engulfing your whole body with such warmth that you didn’t know what to do with it.
After a while your sobs reduced to soft sniffling. The puffiness in your eyes had gotten worse by now, your throat was dry and you were definitely feeling dehydrated, which of course Bucky noticed. Since it seems you had somewhat calmed down, he softly spoke up. “Give me a few minutes..stay right here okay?” he lets go of you, standing up as he walks into your small kitchen.
You could only stare from the couch while Bucky began filling up your favourite green mug with hot water and placed a teabag inside, lemon gingermint.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky had kept you company just to distract you from the stress of the argument. Even the tiniest smile he could get out of you was enough for him, he was willing to do anything for you.
A routine soon formed between the two of you, whenever an argument would happen it resulted in Bucky coming over and comforting you with whatever you’d like. You’d Binge a whole marathon of Brooklyn 99 or maybe deciding to bake even though you both were bad at it.
This would go on for a month or so as he kept the words that were swimming in his head to himself. God he terribly wants to tell you about how unhealthy your relationship seemed, how you deserve someone better, and how he wishes he could be that someone.
You were slowly losing yourself. The light in your eyes had dimmed, you felt like a hollow shell of the person you once were and you couldn’t even recognise the reflection you saw in the mirror. You disguised this well, seeing as Noah didn’t ask why you were acting differently, or maybe he didn’t care enough– no of course he does, he’s your boyfriend so he loves you, right?
The slam of the front door was all that processed in your head. You felt numb, exhausted as your body remained still, seated on the couch. Another ‘argument’ had just blown up in your face, profanities were thrown, making your heart squeeze in your chest as if it wanted to protect itself from it all.
The silence in the apartment was a rare occurrence at this point, which only lasted for a few minutes before Bucky walked in holding a box of donuts, because of course he’s here to be the shoulder you could lean on.
“I thought you might like these.. we can even watch that movie you’ve been wanting to see, what was it, flesh?”
You accepted a donut, shaking your head, “It’s fresh.. but no thanks, not the best time for that kind of movie.” Your throat was sore from the crying and yelling, taking a bite of the donut.
“Bucky, I’m..I’m tired.”
You choked out the words, staring down at the half eaten donut not knowing why you even said them as more spilled out before you could stop yourself. “I’m so so tired..please, what am I doing wrong?”. The way you’re breaking has caused Bucky to finally open his mouth, releasing all the thoughts he had all this time.
“Please look at me” He places a hand over yours and says your name, and the moment you finally do he had a single tear rolling down his cheek. Your eyes widened as you immediately panicked, did you make him cry? Oh god this is bad, Bucky doesn’t cry! what should you– but before you could overthink and potentially apologise he shakes his head to reassure you. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I hate this.”
You stared at him, confused with what he meant until he continued further. “I’ve kept this to myself for the longest time because I didn’t think I had a right to say anything, but seeing you continue to hurt yourself.. I can’t stand it.”
Bucky took a deep breath, preparing for the heavy words that were to follow. “This relationship is destroying you, he is destroying you and I know you see it too. There's no saving this.. and we both know what you need to do. It hurts but it has to be done. Please, I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself by staying with a jerk like him.”
“He says he loves me, maybe he’ll change? Noah got me flowers for our anniversary, isn’t that something?” As those words came out of your mouth you could see how Bucky’s shoulders slumped “He.. got you flowers after you had asked for them because he forgot and an argument happened then too, when he finally did show up with a bouquet.. they were roses. You don’t like roses, you like tulips. Why couldn’t he bring you the flowers you deserved?” he sighed before continuing, “Noah was capable of bringing you flowers in the first place, why did you have to get hurt first for him to act?”
You had no words, no excuse to defend your pathetic boyfriend and deep down you knew what Bucky said was true. Maybe you’ve known for a long time but refused to acknowledge the nagging thought in your head, and why is that?
The beginning of the relationship was a dream come true before it all went downhill, and then it just kept crashing. Perhaps that was what you kept trying to hold onto. A sliver of hope that Noah would return to the man you once knew back then, a man that was gone. Longing for the gentle love you had received a long time ago.
All you could give in response was a small nod, and he hoped his words had given you the push you needed to take a step forward.
It happened on a random tuesday, you were cuddling with Noah on the couch while a movie played on the TV. What was even happening in the movie? You couldn’t say, as the noise blurs into background noise slowly turns to look at your boyfriend.
Bucky’s words replayed in your head like a broken record when you looked at him, your thoughts and emotions started to mix together. The more you looked at him the more anger started to boil over and a hint of disappointment towards yourself.
Why the fuck are you still with this man? You started to think back to the very beginning when he first asked you out,it was romantic, wasn’t it?? Or are those memories wishful thinking to protect yourself from the truth which was him doing the bare minimum. A coping mechanism to block the idea that you hadn’t just wasted your time being in a relationship with him.
You sat up and kind of just stared at him, recontextualising your whole entire relationship for the first time without rose tinted glasses and it was like a splash of cold water. You were so stupidly in love,you loved so much and ended up settling for less. To you, he was your everything even though you were just a second thought in his eyes.
As the pain started to build up heavy in your chest, the words left your lips before you could take them back. “I think we need to break up.”
You held your breath, preparing for an explosive reaction as always. You were so used to arguments and fights over the smallest things regarding your feelings that finally you knew what was coming.
Nothing, no yell or even the irritated click of the tongue he used to do whenever you would annoy him. Then your boyfriend turned his body fully to face you. “Okay, if that’s what you want.” he had replied in such a calm tone, as he turned the TV off.
Wait what? The room fell into an awkward silence for a few moments, you were waiting. Waiting for what? a sign that he was upset, or even just sad?. Your stomach started to have that nauseating and gnawing sensation, feeling uncomfortable at his composed expression.
As the seconds passed your initial shock had slowly turned into anger, how could he look so relaxed with the conversation that they were having? He’s supposed to be upset and distraught! You were here dropping a bomb, suddenly breaking up with him and he’s okay with it??
Every disagreement, bicker and clash had always ended in raised voices and cruel words, why was this different? Why were you even upset? Isn’t it fantastic that he was taking it well, there was no need for an exhausting conversation.
Well.. Maybe a part of you wanted to see that anger in Noah, all the cuts he had done to your poor heart.. you wanted to hurt him too, get back at him and for once see something else in his face other than anger.
Instead you got nothing, it wasn't the satisfying moment of finally standing up for yourself that you had wanted, expected even, it just rang hollow. Of course you understood this was just you being petty, but was it wrong to want some sort of revenge? Getting the last laugh kind of thing, in this situation however, you felt as if Noah had won once again.
Words were exchanged, it felt like you were on autopilot answering and talking with Noah. Soon he had stood up and began putting on shoes, as he grabbed the door handle you couldn’t help but blurt out the only thing you could at the time.
“Thank you for everything, please take care of yourself.”
He nodded, a smile on his face as you two took a good look at each other for the last time. And just like that, Noah had left.
As your now ex boyfriend left the apartment building you couldn’t help but walk towards the windows to catch his figure walking down the street. You were tempted to open the window and call for him, just to see his face one more time, but you didn’t.
Forcing your gaze up to focus on the scenery instead, the sun was painting the sky, bathing the clouds in an orange and slight purple hue. The sight was peaceful and melancholic, you stood there unmoving, no matter how beautiful the view was you knew it had hurt you one too many times.
Noah had been a constant person in your life, and the sudden absence had left your heart feeling oddly empty. You knew moving on would take some time and that’s okay, the road to heal was a bumpy one which you were never going to be prepared for.
Thankfully, your metal armed neighbour had decided long ago he would be by your side with whatever you would be going through.
Bucky was extremely patient, he’d knock on your door every morning with food wanting to make sure you weren’t starving yourself. Some days he’d bring ingredients instead and cook breakfast for you, well to the best of his abilities. He wasn’t much of a cook before he met you, usually he’d eat takeout or instant meals as long as it did their job.
For you though, he’d try. Sam had shown him a youtube channel that had simple cooking recipes and Bucky was confident he could execute pancakes with cut up fruits right? Right.
Wrong. While you were deep in your feelings on the bed something was definitely dying in the kitchen.
You were hugging your pillow, sniffling as tears had unwelcomingly escaped your eyes and that was when the smell of burnt batter had sneaked into your bedroom. The crying paused, and your feet touched the floor immediately booking it out of your bedroom to check what happened.
There Bucky was, in the middle of the kitchen with his eyebrows furrowed, holding a pancake in his hands trying to figure out why one side was a perfect golden while the other was charcoal black, fully burnt. You could get a whiff of the smoke, the kitchen was a mess.
There were uneven fruit chunks cut into odd shapes on a cutting board, a stack of pancakes that were either burnt or uncooked and some were thick while the others were as thin as Swedish pancakes.
Seeing the absurdity that was in front of you, the laughter bubbled out before you could contain it. Your shoulders were shaking and your stomach began to hurt at how hard you were cackling.
The noise startled Bucky, breaking his focus as he stared at you with wide eyes. He watched you slumping forward giggling, a warm fuzzy feeling bloomed in his chest. Because he did that! He made you laugh! God had he missed hearing that sound, taking in your scrunched up nose and that carefree smile was so worth it even though it was at his poor attempt at making you pancakes.
The pancakes.. weren’t the best, still you finished everything on your plate. It was the first time someone had made you homemade pancakes in a long time,your chest to tighten at the kind gesture.
Huh.. Noah never cooked you anything now that you thought about it and before you could register the tears, they were already streaming down your cheeks.
Immediately Bucky was up and at your sides, rubbing your back in gentle motions to try and soothe your shaking form. “Hey, cry it out if you need to. It’s better than bottling it all up.” You wanted to give him an explanation regarding the tears but no words could come out at the time.
“Was it my pancakes? I know they were bad.. sorry you had to eat em.” he apologised not knowing what else to say.
Your eyes widened, staring at Bucky who had an apologetic look on his face and you were in the middle of sniffling when a snort suddenly escaped your lips.
You croaked out a reply while wiping your tears, the sadness dimming down. “What? Of course not, I mean yes they were.. kinda bad but it’s not the pancakes.” You tried to reassure him, and not wanting to ruin the mood further, you picked up your fork stabbing a peach chunk that was shaped like a lopsided heart. Hovering the fruit close to his mouth you offered the fruit as a half joke. “Bucky, open Aaaa” That definitely caught him off guard, and there was no way he was going to decline as he accepted the sweet treat, eating it.
Now it was your turn to be surprised, expecting a rejection that never showed up. “Oh.. I honestly thought you’d say no” You shrugged, setting the fork back down.
Bucky tilts his head fully confused, why would someone ever say no to you? “ I thought it was a cute little gesture.. made me feel taken care of in a way.” He had no idea why he was admitting this out loud, the tips of his ears were red,embarrassed at his admission.
A brief moment of silence settled between them which was cut off by Bucky clearing his throat, he hesitantly picked up his fork and mimicked your gesture waiting to see if you’d accept his offer.
You stared at the piece of fruit then at him, seeing his hopeful expression you slowly leaned forward and bit into it.
Bucky’s lips twitched upwards into a slight smile, “See, doesn’t it feel good?” he teased lightly. You reciprocated his smile and nodded while chewing, it made you feel looked out for and damn did it feel great.
He took the empty plates and had his back facing you as he began doing the dishes, your eyes lingered on him for a while. There was a strange feeling that had spread through her chest that day, struggling to place the emotion you finally looked away while labeling it as nothing more than appreciation.
Time passes.. around two months, and wow have things changed. The healing process wasn’t the smoothest, certain days where you felt on top of the world and you cussed Noah out in your mind whereas the rest it ended with you making Bucky sit through a whole sad movie marathon so you could cry your eyes out without restraint.
He was already preparing your living room while you took a shower, popcorn with extra butter and the specific pink blanket on the left side of the couch. Bucky stood resting his hands on his hips while checking if everything was perfect, once satisfied he smiled to himself before sitting on the right end of the couch.
Walking out to the smell of popcorn, you see Bucky sitting politely with his hands folded on his lap. You’ve told him before– many times actually that he didn’t need to be so guest-like since he’s at your place basically all the time,but it hasn't quite gotten through to him yet.
“You seem to sit on the right side a lot” you give him a half smile telling him your observation as you settle down onto the opposite side of him. Bucky turns to you and rubs the back of his neck, “I sit here because I know you like the left side, so I always leave it free for you.” He said it like a fun fact, causing you to scrunch your face in confusion. Huh.. you don’t even realise you had a favourite side, you watch him take the remote and play the movie.
Bucky had said those words with such ease, it made you think of how much he notices you and that you don’t know more things about him. Throughout the movie you would steal glances at him, that tenderness in your chest just swell slightly.
You couldn’t sleep that night, a certain metal armed man’s face was being replayed over and over in your head. Taking in his features, those steel blue eyes, the slope of his nose, how the stubble was resting on his sharp jawline. Oh god what's happening, you need to get a grip.
That feeling had bloomed into a full blown crush and you never ended up getting ahold of yourself. To be fair, how could you? Bucky had somehow slid into your heart without a challenge, he was a sweetheart from the very start.
You’ve never felt so seen and cared for, Bucky would remember the small details about yourself. “I brought some coffee, well for me. I know you prefer tea so I got you that instead.” Your heart was squeezing when you accepted that cup, yeah you’re in this deep. Maybe too deep, if only you knew someone wanted to be balls deep inside of you–
Flour was dusting your cheeks and Bucky’s black shirt, deciding to bake at 3 am was a great idea. The cookies were now baking in the oven and the silence had dropped by settling in for a few moments, the two of you were cleaning up the mess until he spoke your name softly.
“Yes?–” “I uhm–” The two of you cut each off mid sentence, which ended in awkward laughter. You gestured for him to go first while chuckling and he shook his head wanting you to start. Eventually you did get him to talk, Bucky took a deep breath setting the kitchen wipe down.
“I don’t know if now's exactly the right time, but I just.. just wanted you to know that you mean a lot to me.” He started, looking directly into your eyes with an expression that made your heart flutter. The warm lighting in the kitchen did nothing to hide the red that was spreading on Bucky’s cheeks.
Before you could respond, he kept going. “I’m sure you know where I’m going with this.. Uhm– I care about you more.. more than a neighbour should.” Bucky clears his throat, “I feel like I’m fucking this up– just uh, I’d like to take you out for dinner sometime?”
You were over the moon as the confession spilled into the room, your poor heart beating erratically. You opened your mouth to respond, ready to accept and confess back when your thoughts were interrupted with Noah’s words echoing insults causing your excitement to falter. No longer confident to express your feelings, all you could say was “That’s really sweet of you.. I just don’t know if I’m good..for you I’m too much–”
“that's not how I see you at all-” a slip of a tongue, he didn't mean to say it but he continued, needing you to understand “you say 'being emotional' like it's a bad thing but in my eyes that just means you feel a lot and want to share that and I... I think that's beautiful” a moment of hesitation as he sees the look on your face before Bucky decides to say what's been stuck in his head “You deserve someone who knows that that's a gift, you deserve the utmost softest of love, He couldn't give you that- maybe... maybe I can't either.... but I'm willing to try? if you'll have me?”
Tears welled up in your eyes and no words could’ve expressed how you felt at that moment, automatically you opened your arms and walked towards him in which Bucky gladly pulled you into a hug. He murmured soft words like ‘it’s okay’ ‘let it all out’ and ‘I’m right here’ while you cried it out, the words of affirmation and gentle back rubs helped settle you down.
That night was one of the memories you would cherish the most, cuddled up on the couch with irregular shaped cookies and someone who truly treasures you.
Weeks later and you’re waiting for Bucky to pick you up for a weekly date night. You’re all dolled up wearing a simple dress looking out your window and seem to catch the perfect timing. The familiar hue of the sky caught your attention, it looked identical to that day.. and it was just as beautiful. Do you regret it? No. You’ve thought about it and there were good memories even if it was outweighed by the negative ones, if not for him maybe you’d never be in this apartment and cross paths with Bucky. You whisper a soft ‘thank you’ out the window before closing it. Just in time as the doorbell rang signalling your dearest boyfriend has arrived.
Opening the door, Bucky stood there with a bouquet of flowers and your favourite candy. You’ve been craving it, how did he know? You leaned in to peck his cheek, ready for a lovely night out and knowing full well the two of you wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.
taglist : @superbassbuck let me know if you would like to be added :)
Winter Soldier!Bucky x fem!Reader, 9 chapters plus prologue & epilogue. Explicit for sexual contact in later chapters, which considering it’s the Winter Soldier should be considered vaguely dub!con within an established relationship. Updates will be Tuesdays & Thursdays until complete.
Summary:
Hydra attacks the Tower, fully intending to regain control of their Asset.
But Bucky Barnes has a plan.
Bucky Barnes has you.
A/N: Inspired by this Tumblr post by @calzone-d, but then it took a life of its own. The working title for this was “Hostage to the Winter Soldier!” (complete with exclamation point, because it’s funnier that way, and if you don’t imagine that title in one of those 1950s B-movie fonts, you’re doing it wrong), but by the time I finished writing, I had Pink’s song stuck in my head, and it’s probably a better fit.
Full notes on AO3, but please note the Trigger Warning for Dub!con above.
“Oh come on, they’ll never hire me,” you protest, laughing. You have to shout it to be heard over the noise of the bar. “And anyway, I’m happy in the ER.”
“But it’s Avengers Tower,” groans your best friend Steph, her slightly tipsy head dropping onto the bar. “You have to—ow. Who made bars so hard? That hurt.”
You pat her shoulder. “I like the ER. It’s fast-paced, it’s exciting, I’m doing exactly what I always wanted.”
“Two words. Super. Heroes.”
“That’s one word, Steph. And come on, superheroes aren’t that interesting. They probably do their own stitches and skip their regular check-ups.”
“Is she still bothering you about the Avengers job?” asks the bartender, Chet, as he hands Steph a towel full of ice from behind the bar.
“Yes,” you groan as Steph mumbles a thank you and plops the iced towel on her head, still lying on the bar. “And it’s not an Avengers job. It’s just a job at the Tower. I probably wouldn’t even see them. I bet I’d be giving SI employees their immunizations and checking for fevers in the on-site daycare.”
“Or working with Bruce Banner?”
“There’s no guarantee of that!”
“Oh yeah? Is there a security clearance involved?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Working with Bruce Banner,” says Chet sagely. “And you know, wiping snotty noses in the daycare and chasing down superheroes for their yearly check-ups.”
“I like the ER,” you insist.
“We know you do,” says Chet. “But we like seeing you, and this is the first time you’ve been out since you got the job two years ago.”
“I miss you,” moans Steph to the bar. Well, in the direction of the bar, but presumably to you. “You’re my best friend and the only way I see you is by breaking my ankle.”
“Oh my God, Steph, tell me you didn’t do that on purpose.”
“Just apply,” says Chet. “If nothing else, it’ll give you bargaining power when your contract comes up again.”
“It does have better hours. And dental.”
“Dental,” sighs Steph longingly.
*
“I got the job!”
“What?” Steph yells back. Clearly, hunting down Steph while she’s on the dance floor was a bad idea.
“I. GOT. THE. JOB!!!”
“Oh my God!” shrieks Steph, encasing you in a huge hug. “My best friend’s gonna be an Avenger!”
You burst into laughter, glad no one else can hear you over the music. “Not an Avenger, Steph. Just a nurse working in the medical bay in the Tower. I probably won’t even see them.”
Steph holds your shoulders firmly. “You are not allowed to replace me with Black Widow.”
“As if!”
Chet gives you a free drink, as do a few others nearby who overheard the part about “new job.” Only one of them actually asks where the job is.
“Stark Industries,” you say, because it’s basically true. “Probably not as exciting as the ER was, but the hours are way better and so’s the pay and benefits.”
“I hope you enjoy it,” says the man, lifting his glass in a toast. He’s got a really pleasant accent, wire-rimmed glasses, the scar on the side of his face barely noticeable in the dim light. You’d like to keep talking to him, but Steph distracts you for a moment, and when you turn back around, he’s gone.
*
Okay, so you hadn’t really lied to Steph. You don’t see the Avengers very often, but that’s only because you don’t work nights and they only ever show up in the med bay when it’s dark outside. Or seem to, anyway.
But you’ve met just about all of them for one reason or another, and so far, every encounter has shown them to be pleasant and friendly as can be.
Until one afternoon, about six months after you started working, when you overhear two very loud, very shouty voices, in the hall outside the nurse’s station.
“I DO NOT NEED STITCHES.”
“You’re worse than Clint! Get in there!”
“Come on, Stevie, they’re gonna heal up on their own in ten minutes.”
“Not if you don’t get the broken glass out first.”
Broken glass? You immediately reach for the kit with the tweezers and a pair of nitrile gloves.
“So you do it.”
“I can’t do it, I have to go brief Hill.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Yeah. For the nurse.”
“Stevie,” groans the guy. “Is this what it all comes to? Saving me from the clutches of Hydra only to make me relive my worst nightmares? You’ve seen the nurses here, Stevie, they all look like my Uncle Maurice.”
“Not true, Buck.”
“They’re cold, heartless bitches, Stevie, the lot of them.”
“Hello,” you say cheerfully, entering the room where Captain America straddles a second man, face-down on the floor and long past fighting. “I’m the attending cold heartless bitch who looks like your Uncle Maurice, I hear you’ve got some glass embedded somewhere?”
“A plate glass window attacked him,” Captain America tells you. “It was brutal.”
“You should’ve seen the window,” grumbles the man to the floor.
“I’ll be sure to send a sympathy card,” you say, setting up your tools on the tray table. “I can do this on the floor, but it’d probably be more sanitary up here.”
“Right,” says Captain America, and he gets off the floor.
The man immediately makes a break for it.
“Nope,” you say, and grab one of the conveniently-placed straps on his leather coat. He spins and stares at you in shock.
He’s cute, you think, or would be if it weren’t for the gaping wound in his forehead. It sparkles, though that’s probably the glass catching in the light.
“So that’s what the straps are for,” says Captain America, impressed, right before he grabs the guy by the ear and hauls him up on the examining table.
“OW.” The man glares at Captain America, who doesn’t seem the least bit concerned. Even though that glare’s probably the scariest thing you’ve ever seen.
“Hold still,” you tell the glare, and start removing the glass from his forehead.
It’s a nasty wound, too. You work as fast as you can, fully aware of how the man you’re treating is—despite all outward appearances—scared to death.
Not that he’d admit it, or even realize you know it. But you worked in an ER for a while. You’ve seen everything, from spaced-out junkies to suicidal octogenarians to homeless vets.
You know which this guy is most like. The way he’s not shaking or trembling, the way he’s so tense and unable to breathe. Not just not breathing, but actually, physically, unable to take a breath because he’s working so hard to keep from screaming.
“The only way out is through,” you murmur as you pull another shard of glass from his forehead.
“Hmm?” asks Captain America, but the guy watches you: wary, assessing every move, even as you telegraph them as plainly as you can.
Calm, almost, despite the now-shallow breaths.
“Nothing,” you say. “One more piece.”
You pull it out, cleaning the area again. “Now, unless I miss my guess, you’re both thinking he’s going to self-heal fairly quickly?”
“By suppertime, probably.”
You nod. “I’d still recommend a steri-stitch or two. Just to keep it clean until the healing’s done. You don’t have to return to remove them, either.”
“Perfect,” says Captain America gratefully, and after a few more minutes, they’re both gone.
But the next morning, when you come in, there’s a bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter with your name on it, and a note written in perfect copperplate handwriting.
I’m sorry I said you looked like Uncle Maurice. You’re much prettier. –JBB
The smile on your face is so big, it stays the rest of the day.
Series Summary: After a last hurrah to graduating college with a future to be a family practitioner, a little slip up happens… Seven years down the road, just when things just now seem to be going smoothly, Y/N approaches that slip up from all those years ago. She’s not looking for anything right now. She is just where she wants to be in life. It seems the universe has a different idea though. One called James Barnes.
Word Count: 2400+
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (Single mom) Reader
Warnings: Language, adulting, mentions of sexual past.
A/N: Here we go ladies and gentleman. Buckle up for another crazy series with Bucky Barnes. I thought of this in the shower about 4 months ago, and I am finally getting down to writing it! This series will probably be taking a lot of twist and turns as well as giving you all the angst you need in your life!! Let me know what you think!!
Series Summary: After a last hurrah to graduating college with a future to be a family practitioner, a little slip up happens… Seven years down the road, just when things just now seem to be going smoothly, Y/N approaches that slip up from all those years ago. She’s not looking for anything right now. She is just where she wants to be in life. It seems the universe has a different idea though. One called James Barnes.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (Single mom) Reader
Warnings: Language, adulting, mentions of sexual past. (You wanna talk about a slow burn…)
Hi its me again lol. I loved your last Bucky one and was hoping you could do a new fic this time where Winter Soldier Bucky trained reader many years ago, like Natasha in the comics, and reader tries to go rogue, sort of as a vigilante, and Bucky goes to find her?
My Target|Winter Soldier!Bucky x Reader
(A/N: Welcome back Anon! I'm so glad you liked it. I see the Bucky train has been taking off and I'm more than happy to indulge. Thank you for the request and enjoy!)
WARNINGS: mentions of torture, graphic descriptions of torture, angst, brainwashing, stalking, Bucky typical angst, violence, etc.
What's Playing: RUNRUNRUN ~Dutch Melrose
"Again." The command was sharp, no room for argument. It didn't matter that you'd been doing this for an hour. It didn't matter that there was no possible way you could win. Who did your handlers think you were? You didn't have super soldier serum running through your veins, much less a bionic arm, much less the track record of Russia's most feared killer.
The Winter Soldier stood before you, an emotionless mask. You were one of the lucky ones you supposed, after all, how many could say that they were personally being mentored by the greatest killing machine in history?
It didn't put your nerves at ease. The least he could do is speak. It freaked you out that no matter what you did, all he could offer back was a grunt or two. This man had been sent to turn you into a brutal weapon like him, there was no room for pleasantries. You didn't even know his name.
"Yes sir." You comply, just like the Soldier.
Once again in fighting positions you do the moves that you'd been taught. Precision, practiced perfection to be the best. It looked like the Soldier was tiring, this time. This time you would take him down, this time you would win. You got the jump on him, wrapping your legs around his neck, trying to use your weight to throw him off balance.
It worked and he faltered to the ground on top of you. Using the position you put him in a headlock, squeezing until he submitted. You could do this, victory was at hand.
Until his torso rose, taking you with it. With his strength even some of the biggest and strongest men were nothing to him. The Soldier swiftly slammed his torso back onto the ground, knocking the wind out of you.
With the momentary stun he rolled quickly, hand on your neck, squeezing. His bionic arm raised in a fist over your face, a deadly calm in his features. Like he was contemplating sending the metal fist into your face and bashing it in.
"Enough Soldier."
The command brings the Soldier out of his murderous thoughts, instead the metal arm landing on the floorboards beside your head as he pushed himself up.
"We're supposed to be pulling our punches." You say as you stand, rubbing your neck.
"This is why you always lose. If you want to win against me, you have to want to kill me." That was the most you'd heard him say. His voice lacking a typical Russian accent.
"And what if I mess up and actually kill you?"
The Winter Soldier stops, turning and meeting your gaze, his eyes cold as the icy blue colour they were. He doesn't say anything, as if the idea doesn't disturb him. That alone sends a chill through you.
Just what the hell was this man capable of?
You'd thought of those moments often. Those moments with The Soldier, one day looking like you were making a breakthrough into understanding who he was, the next a lifeless shell. A blank slate. You'd been told not to question it in the beginning of your training. As you grew in both kill counts and confidentiality the higher ups trusted you with more. Once it had been an honor, a sign that you were a model assassin. You were someone all those trainees looked up to. Your missions paired you up with The Soldier more and more, finding that you worked well together. To be brought in to such a secret program, to work with a living legend...Once it had been something you were proud of.
Now as you watch The Soldier beg for his life to be taken. Beg to not forget again. All that honor sat like bile in your throat.
You hadn't known his story at first, but now you knew exactly the tragedy that was The Winter Soldier Program. This was a real person a man who'd had friends, people who cared about him, HYDRA was stealing that from him.
And you were part of it. How many times had you been ordered to be an extra set of hands to hold him down? How many times had you complied?
"Blank slate protocol in progress. Stand by." A doctor commented once the nurse jammed the sedative in The Soldier's neck, taking the last of the fight out of him.
When the procedure finished, you couldn't bare to look at his blank expression any longer. You couldn't do this anymore. You had to get out.
"Confirmed death in seventy-two hours. Understand?"
"Ready to comply."
Those were The Soldier's orders. After you'd disappeared he'd been sent to take care of the problem. The last thing HYDRA needed was someone like you spilling all of its secrets. If you told the world about his existence, they would come and kill him, all the good work he'd done for HYDRA would be worth nothing. All those people he killed would have died for nothing.
At least that's what Karpov had told him.
Finding you was the easy part, all high level personnel like you had a tracker secret placed in a secret location on your body. It was changed every time so one would bleed out before finding the right place.
The Soldier reached up to gingerly touch his earlobe, to anyone watching it looked like he was adjusting his earpiece. But his metallic fingers felt the bump in the lobe he'd discovered weeks ago.
You kept this feeling like you were seeing things. Going from place to place, trying to get out of the city, you kept catching glimpses of something in the shadows. A nameless figure that was haunting your steps. Perhaps it was the dead, all those you'd snuffed out coming back to trail after you, to never give you a moment's peace. Not that you blamed them.
But the unease never left. It was like you were being watched, but no matter how many times you looked over your shoulder, there was nothing there. It was just your mind playing tricks on you. You were just being paranoid. The long dark hairs you would find here and there around the places you stay a coincidence from squatters who had come before most likely. The disarray of your survival bag done by yourself in a moment of hurried packing.
The streetlights glowed in the wintery night. You were almost out of the city, tomorrow you would hit open country, then you could make a break for it.
Sleep wasn't coming so you looked out the window. The street was quiet as it was dark, the wee hours of the morning a time where everyone including you should be asleep. And yet here you were.
You observed the gentle snowfall around the streetlight, and it was there you could've sworn you saw the shadows move. That in itself wouldn't be too alarming, there was undoubtedly a squirrel or even racoon. But what you saw next put you on edge, thick fear enveloping you.
A glint of metal reflecting off the light. And on the metal painted a red star.
For someone on the run, you weren't highly imaginative. An abandoned house in the middle of the country? Even with the blowing snow, the visibility of the lights from within was clear. He thought he taught you better than that.
Quietly he crept through to the backdoor, the wood had rotted, allowing him to slowly peel away the wood with his metal arm, the wind covering the sound. It was frustrating moving this slow, but the last thing he wanted was to alert you that he was here and find a bullet to the head. Slow and steady.
With the wood peeled he could reach in and unlock the door, entrance able to be achieved.
Slowly, The Soldier stalked through the house, taking note of the non-permanent surroundings. It was clear you were just staying to lay low for a little, hoping to be overlooked and then flee the country. He really had taught you better. What a waste of effort.
"Soldier."
He snapped to attention, how hadn't he heard you approach? His eyes land on the pistol pointed at him. "Shoot. You won't."
You hate how much your hand shakes, you didn't blame him. Not really. He was just as much a victim of HYDRA as you were, if not more so. He was just following orders.
However you weren't going to end up a body like the countless others he'd stacked up.
You fired the bullet into his thigh, making him stumble into a sitting position and apply pressure, dropping his gun. He hadn't expected that, just like he didn't expect you to take his gun from him.
"Well played."
"I don't want to hurt you. You're just as much a victim as I am. I want you to come with me. We can get out of this together."
"I'm.." He hisses in pain. "Not a traitor."
"Listen to me, they're using you, wiping away your memories. What's your name Soldier?"
"Shut up." He spat. He didn't want to think about how he couldn't answer that.
"What is your name? Look, you can't even remember. Why is that? Who doesn't know their own name? They're wiping your memories, taking away who you are. Please Soldier, come with me, we can find your memories, and get away from all of this."
The Soldier is quiet for a long moment, something like uncertainty and hesitancy in his eyes. He was conflicted.
"We're partners. When have I ever not have your back? You trust me, why would I steer you wrong? I only have ever had your best interests in mind." You step forward, gun lowering finally. "You can be more than a weapon."
The Soldier hangs his head, almost like he's defeated. You take that as the sign to take the final step until you're right in front of him, crouching down to his level.
"Alright. I'll..I'll come with you." He says at last, making your heart soar.
"We don't have much time then, we should get moving." You turn from him to pack. "I knew there was more man than monster in there. You're not completely heartless."
You turn just as he grabs your throat, slamming you into the wall. Your eyes widen in betrayal and fear.
"You're my mission."
Tears welled in your eyes, you didn't want to die. Not like this, not when you were so close and not by the hands of your former partner.
"Please..." You manage to beg.
His hand starts to tighten, the pressure increasing slowly. The edges of your vision going black. You were losing focus on his masked face, but you were still determined to look into the blobs that his eyes had become as he killed you. If he was going to do this, then he would have to look you in the eyes as he did it.
Just when your consciousness slips, The Soldier stops. Why was he hesitating? All the fuzzy memories of your missions together were jumbling through his head like a mess. Nothing was clear and it was pissing him off, nothing coming into focus.
"Soldier. Don't. Please." You'd held the scalpel away from his neck with all of your strength, hand shaking from the effort.
His tearful eyes had met yours. He'd wanted to tell you his name, what was his name? He couldn't remember.
"You have so much more to do Soldier. You can't leave me by myself." Your other hand was on his shoulder, trying to soothe.
"I don't want to do this anymore.." He'd confessed.
"I know, but this isn't the way to get out. One day, you and I will retire and go see all of Russia. What do you say?"
You could be lying, but he was so desperate to hold onto something. To believe in something. He'd agreed, lowering the scalpel, keeping his eyes on you as he'd lost consciousness.
The Soldier gasps, where had that come from? He hadn't remembered until now. He looks down at your limp body and makes a decision.
Resolutely, he picks up his gun and leaves the abandoned house.
"Go see Russia for me." He mutters as he leaves you there on the floor.
The market in Bucharest was less crowded than usual today. Bucky took the opportunity to do his shopping. He never liked it when it was busy, more chance of him being recognized. Besides, all those people...bothered him. It was better like this. He'd always been meant to be alone.
He sifted through the produce, looking for the slightly bruised ones to get a better price. One day he would actually live and not just survive, but that future was still far off.
As Bucky reached for the plums, his hand brushed another.
"Sorry." He muttered, keeping his head down.
"Soldier."
Through the fog of his still hazy memories Bucky could still recognize that name and voice. His head snapped up, taking you in. You looked different, but he still remembered you. How you'd tried to save him.
"It's good to see you." You said. Your face had the same weariness that his did, a life on the run. To him however, you looked the best you ever had.
"Did you ever go and see Russia?" He blurted the question, remembering it.
You shake your head. "You forgot the rest of the conversation. I promised that we wouldn't go and see Russia before you told me your real name."
He smiles, the first time in a while before embarrassment takes over and he looks down. "That's right, I forgot. It's uhm..it's Bucky."
Summary: Sitting at a bar one night, long after you'd abandoned your friends and even Bucky at the tower, you'd finally gained the courage to explain to him why you'd left months ago. The results weren't at all what you were expecting. The reunion had all but been a terrible feat....until.
Warnings: accidental pregnancy, angst, fluff, reader's struggling, bucky's a douche canoe, accusations of cheating (only in part one),
Word Count: TBA
A/N: i WAS NOT planning on having this be a series... but you heathens inspired me. So i have a few more parts written but im willing to continue this IF y'all reblog & leave comments.
Castiel's Version here (only has two parts, will not be getting more, sorry)
summary: 5.2k. you drunk-dial your ex-situationship
cw: pov switching, thunderbolts era, fluffy caretaking, mild angst, day-drinking, hurt/comfort, mild brat-taming, Bucky has the patience of a saint, mentions of sex/hooking up
an: inspired by “Go Go Juice" by Sabrina Carpenter. this turned out so much mushier than I expected and with no explicit smut, who am i
| masterlist
Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.
You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.
Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.
You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.
The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.
Do not pass go. Do not think about B—
You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.
And therapy, probably.
Omelette first.
You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.
Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.
A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.
The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.
You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.
Shawn? No.
Jake? Married now.
Harry? Hell no.
Dylan? Too soon.
Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.
You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.
It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.
It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.
The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.
Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.
“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”
Beeeeeeep.
—
Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.
Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.
Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.
He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.
Thwack.
It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.
Thwack.
That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.
It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.
Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.
The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.
Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.
He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.
1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.
His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.
“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.
“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”
The call ended with an abrupt click.
Oh, you poor thing.
Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.
He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.
You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.
It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.
With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.
“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.
God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.
He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"
“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.
You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.
“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.
“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.
“Can I come in anyway?"
You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.
“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"
“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.
He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.
It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.
The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.
“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.
“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”
“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.
“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.
“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.
He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.
“Bucky! Stop it—"
“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”
“Can you not—"
“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."
“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.
He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.
Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.
“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"
“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”
You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.
There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.
“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"
“I hate you.”
“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.
“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"
“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.
Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."
He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.
“I haven't decided."
“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.
Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.
He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.
He was here to take care of you, nothing else.
You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.
Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.
“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.
Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."
But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"
Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"
You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“You want me to kill him?"
The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.
“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”
“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”
“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.
“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.
“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”
Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.
He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"
“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."
It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.
“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.
“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”
“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.
“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.
You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.
“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.
He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"
You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.
“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."
“Bet your ass I will…”
“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.
He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.
Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?
He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.
But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.
But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.
And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.
And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.
By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.
It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.
And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.
With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.
He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.
But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.
—
You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?
Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.
Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.
Someone was cooking in your apartment.
Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.
You couldn't believe what awaited you.
Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.
“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”
“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”
He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.
“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”
“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.
“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”
“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.
“So why did you?"
“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"
The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.
His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.
You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.
“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.
“I’m sorry."
“What?" You turned back towards him.
“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.
Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.
You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.
With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.
“Thank you, B," you murmured.
“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.
The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.
“Your veggies are burning.”
“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."
You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."
His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.
“How's your head?" He asked.
You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.
“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"
“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.
His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."
“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”
“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."
“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.
He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.
“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"
He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.
“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.
His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.
You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.
But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"
You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."
He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."
You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"
“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.
The first trailer for ‘A RIVER’S GAZE’ has been released.
Directed by Andreea Borțun and produced by Sebastian Stan, the film follows the bond of a single mother and her son from a rural Romanian village as they face separation.
‘A River’s Gaze’ will have its World Premiere at the Vilnius International Film Festival Kino Pavasaris in Lithuania on March 13. 🎟️ Tickets are now on sale: kinopavasaris.lt/en/films/a-riv…
